Chapter One The bedeviling notion that his new roommates would be in any position to mock him was instantly dispelled when Matt pushed open the door of Room 403. There at the end of a dim corridor, two figures stood silhouetted against a bright white wall: one large and broad-chested, his crossed arms fanning open now for a grand fool's wave, the other lumpish, painfully hunched, even from this distance visibly a noncontender. Matt moved closer, tennis sneakers smacking on the waxed wooden floor, eyes adjusting from the fluorescence of the dorm's outer hall. The big guy was actually wearing--dear God!--that purple freebie WELCOME NYU CLASS OF 1999 T-shirt they were giving away downstairs, a pair of khakis, puffy running sneakers, and a sublimely cheerful hick's grin. The smaller one, idol-still, was dressed in a brown button-down that hung over graying black jeans, his feet encased in orthopedicky black shoes, his pale head protruding like a mushroom. From the vector of his glasses, he seemed to be staring at the back of the first guy's head, an embarrassing, dreamy smile on his soft lips. For a moment--ah, blessed moment, like hanging upside down on a swing while the whole blue-sky world spins, dizzyingly far below--Matt's stomach somersaulted, and everything warm and kind in him went gushing toward these two strangers. To think that as late as an hour ago, skimming above the steel-blue Hudson on the George Washington Bridge, he'd still been earnestly praying for a reprieve from this Dwight Smeethman of Somewhere, Minnesota, and Joshua Cohn of Brooklyn, that some miracle could blind them from whatever chink there might be in his untried social armor. Please! These two? How innocent, helpless, like puppies trying to lick your hand from the gurney, where in minutes someone would come put them to sleep--or at least so the big hick seemed, waving manically, irrepressibly happy. Well. Clearly, fate was throwing the first pitch here underhand, a giant, innocuous softball. Shifting the cardboard box pressed to his chest and surreptitiously wiping a hand free of clamminess for his practiced high-five, Matt stepped up. Then, without warning, a series of small accidents happened. Really, Matt had timed it expertly--just at the right moment raising his hand to meet that of the sandy-haired guy lunging forward--yet what he came crashing down on was the kid's forearm. A short struggle ensued as Matt's hand darted about, wildly seeking to strike palm. "Whoa," said the guy, rueful. "It's okay, buddy--just trying to shake your hand." The guy looked over to the right: no! Here were four other guys, two standing, two sitting in wooden chairs pulled from desks, shades of sly amusement on their faces. Now Matt dropped the box. Now he gasped. Now the box was cracking, bits of his notes' yellow legal paper showing through the tape. "Oh my God," he said, "I'm so sorry." Instantly, he knew: saying this was precisely as stupid as that time in fourth-grade science when he had clapped his hands ecstatically on seeing the green of a seedling peeking from his Dixie cup and gasped, Oh my goodness , so that Mrs. Markham the teacher, ashamed for him, had actually had to look away from those rows of kids clapping, mock-gasping, Oh my goodness! all over the room. "It's okay, buddy!" The guy had slapped a broad, reassuring hand to Matt's back. "It's your room--you can put that anywhere!" He laughed convivially at Matt, at the four kids gathered together, at the powder-pale kid standing still by the back wall. "So, welcome, Matthew! It's excellent to meet you finally, face to face!" "Thanks. You too, I mean. Totally excellent. Oh, um, but, actually, it's M Excerpted from The Answer Is Always Yes by Monica Ferrell All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
