This Is Not A Slumber Party

Our dinners sit, finished, on little trays by the floor. Meals came “complementary” with the tickets, but I hadn’t been expecting the Amtrak sleeper car tickets to come with room service, too.

Everything lines up, Erin writes in the group chat. Unless they really went back and had this all set up since that rinky-dink middle school theatre production bringing in the new millennium, Ella Sue Sergeant’s as real as it gets.

No unexplained absences, no strange cellphone movements since the beginning of my record, and the social media checks out too, Genevieve reports.

Thanks, I reply. I’ll keep on my toes, but that takes a burden off my mind.

Yes, so feel free to yammer on with her, Erin writes. I’m more concerned about the lack of anything coming out from Father. I would have expected some reaction by now.

I haven’t been talking with Ella Sue this entire time, not exactly. There was the bit where she pulled out a looseleaf copy of Dear Evan Hansen and annotated the entirety of the second act, imitating all the different voices under her breath while I reviewed my notes on Claude Ashworth. There was also the bit where she scrolled through her Instagram feed for half an hour or so, giggling quietly to herself, occasionally peeking up at me when she thought I wasn’t looking. That was when I took the opportunity to ask Erin and Genevieve to take a deep dive into Ella Sue’s history.

But for the most part, we have been talking.

I’ve learned that Ella Sue has watched every film that Tiffany Najbreit has ever starred in at least thrice. So have I, for that matter, but I can’t admit that, because Claude would never have given in to his inner teenage girl to watch “Maine Jane: The Movie.” I’ve learned that Ella Sue was once part of a three-piece all-female pop punk band—apparently, they broke up in the middle of their first anniversary gig, when the other two girls decided they wanted to take the same boy home for the night. I've learned that she has 15k followers on Instagram, a number that makes me doubly glad for having refused her selfie earlier.

She, on the other hand, hasn’t managed to find out all that much about the elusive Claude Ashworth.

“So,” Ella Sue says, sitting in her armchair with her knees tucked up. “Why are you so paranoid about answering any of the questions I ask you?”

I consider giving her a snarky answer that would tell her nothing, but I decide on telling the truth instead. Or rather, what passes as the truth for Claude Ashworth.

“I’m an artist that prefers anonymity. I think my art should speak for itself. I believe in the **** of the artist. I keep to the shadows. The less the world knows about me, the better,” I say, the lie passing smoothly from my lips.

Ella Sue takes a moment to take in my words.

“Whoa, so you’re like Banksy!” she says, sounding super impressed. “Can I find any of your stuff online? What should I look up? ‘Claude the Mystery Artist?’”

I snort at her last line. “Just Claude Ashworth should do the trick.”

She’s off then, looking me up on her phone, finding all the little things Mr. Samuel left out there on the internet over the years.

“Wow, you’ve been all over the world. That’s so cool!” Ella Sue says, thumbing through an image gallery that somebody’s compiled of my works. “And this collection of white socks, how long did that take to put together?”

“The better part of a year,” I say, feeling fairly confident in my answer. “I was inspired by my earlier ‘Sock Unthreaded’ project. I would say more about it, but you know… **** of the artist.”

“That’s a convenient excuse,” she laughs, tilting her head to the side and resting it on the chair’s cushy arm.

She looks at me expectantly, and I shrug. It’s true, and there’s no good response to her comment that doesn’t make me sound like a pretentious ass. Instead, I smile back at her. Ella Sue smiles lazily, putting her phone down. She stretches her arms in the air, and then she yawns wide.

“I was so excited about finally moving out that I didn’t get much sleep last night,” she mumbles. “So um… do you mind if I head to bed soon?”

“I could hit the sack soon,” I say. I feel the early traces of exhaustion tinging my thoughts—I didn’t get much sleep last night either. “You want the top bed?”

“Sure!” she says. She scampers into the bathroom and emerges a few minutes later, make-up free and dressed in cute baby-blue pyjamas.

A few minutes later, when I emerge from the bathroom, I come across my sofa-bed. It’s already fully made, the sheets neatly tucked and folded by the pillow.

“That’s for the good company you’ve been today,” Ella Sue says, smiling down at me from her place in the top bunk.

“That’s awful nice of you,” I say, feeling a little touched.

“Good night!” she chirps, and then she shuts out the lights.

I take the dark and quiet as a chance to reflect.

It’s strange to think that I didn’t know Genevieve a couple days ago, much less that Erin would be dating her, or that I would fuck her… All things considered, reconnecting with Erin went about as well as it could have.

Even though Father somehow knew that I was in Boston, I’m pretty sure my latest stunt has got me out safely. Or, at least, bought me enough time to get what I need to do, done.

Content with that thought, I stifle a yawn, when I notice that there’s been a steady rustling above me for some time. It sounds to me like Ella Sue rolling about the narrow confines of her bed, and I wonder what she could be doing. Surely, not masturbating?

“Claude?” I hear her voice softly call out above me. It doesn’t sound like the breathless voice of someone getting themselves off.

“Yes?” I reply, wondering what’s up.

“I… um…” Ella Sue pauses, and I can hear the embarrassment in her voice. “I’m having some trouble falling asleep.”

“Was I being too loud?” I ask, knowing fully well that that wasn’t the case.

“No, it’s just… I’ve always gone to sleep cuddling with my massive teddy, and uh…”

“You had to leave him behind at home?” I ask gently, speaking into the air. Though I can’t see her, I swear I can feel her nodding back at me, grateful at my understanding.

“Yeah, and I… I was wondering if it would be okay for me to come down, and um… for you to hold me while I go to sleep?” She pauses. “Oh god, I’m so sorry, that’s so awkward to ask of—”

“I don’t mind,” I say. “It’s okay.”

I hear her scurrying down the ladder a second later, and then I see her blue eyes, strangely reflective in the darkness, peering at me. She bites her lip, looking down at me, and I shift over in the bed, giving her some space. She slips in between the wall and me, and I suddenly feel her slim figure pressed against my body.

She smells nice, like flowers and bubblegum.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, as I put an arm around her waist.

At first, I’m careful to keep her away from my crotch—getting accused of sexual **** would be a major obstacle to accomplishing my goals—but then she spoons against me, seemingly oblivious to the erection she might induce.

We snuggle together, and within the minute, she’s softly snoring in my bed.

I fall asleep soon after, listening to the warm hum of her body.