It was Fallon Iva Novette-Naim that acquired a roommate.

Her name was Kaatje Rosalie van der Weydin, but she much preferred to be called Kaatje. Katie would do if the pronounciation of cat-yah proved too much, and if you had to give her a nickname she would prefer to be called Cat. She painted (with oils), played tennis (poorly), and her cell phone should have been attached to her by an umbilical cord. Her best friend in the world was Cassia Katsaros, whom she was regrettably parted from due to the interference of some kind of disgusting monster; they had been roommates for four months, and it was now on the cusp of the end of Kaatje’s senior year that she was bringing a new comforter into her new room.

Moving in while one roommate was unconscious, an administrator was saying, was highly irregular. But what are we going to do with her, said the other, gesturing wildly as Kaatje hauled in a bright yellow and fireproof cabinet; it was low to the ground, about the size of two stacked shoeboxes. Inside, on the top shelf, was a pint of turpenoid and a small jam jar, similarly filled. The bottom shelf was given to a jumble of oil rags and half-used paint tubes. It had the look of something often dumped out on the floor, the polar opposite of organized.

When the irregular administrator had gone, Kaatje hooked a lock of hair behind one ear, popped her cinnamon-flavored gum, and asked in her best most vapid tone, Where’s Fallon?

In another life, she might have attempted to intimidate and interrogate the administrator. In another life, she was possibly a six-foot-tall burly lumberjack with jet-black hair just beginning to silver, a full beard, mutton chops, and arms as big around as mailboxes. However, Kaatje was not so fortunate in this life, where she was stuck in a quarantined city: The top of her head just barely cleared five feet, seven inches of height in her school loafers; her hair was fire red, kinkier than the Marquis de Sade if she didn’t straighten it, and reached the middle of her back. Its volume was maintained merely by the fact that she knew exactly what she was doing with her head when she woke up every morning and did it by rote. She had brilliant blue eyes, the sort of blue that anyone would swear was just contacts; but, like most of her appearance, they were completely natural. Her mother often clucked and petted her hair: You’ve won the genetic lottery, my dear, you’re a real beauty, sweetie, Mommy has to go to work now, darling.

In this life, where her father came home smelling like engine oil and diesel, and her mother with ink-stained fingers, she listened to the administrator hem and haw for five minutes, saying nothing. Kaatje watched her hover for a moment, too, and then threw the comforter over the bed. It was haphazard, it was careless, it was striped with blue and green and white and brown and then splattered along the top side with ultramarine blue paint.

“Oughtn’t you straighten it,” asked the administrator, glancing at the other half of the room while Kaatje kicked out what appeared to be a small, cheap rug over the floor. There was no use in taking care of her dorm furniture, or even making sure it was nice, except for the black easel the redhead set against the corner.

She knew why the administrator was asking. It was a minor piece of gossip that Fallon was crazy. Kind of a**l, in fact. She put all her cooking class projects in tupperware, Kaatje had heard. The purple-haired girl, Kaatje had heard, measured the location of the buns on her head with a ruler. It seemed ridiculous. Kaatje’s hair was always rather haphazardly done. Just about the only real care she took with it on a normal school day was after she showered. One hundred strokes from the root of her hair to the ends. It gave her time to think, and also assured she wouldn’t shed bright red hair all over her powder blue uniform.

Maybe rooming with Fallon wouldn’t be so bad. There wasn’t a huge difference between the appearance of Kaatje’s side of the room and Fallon’s. Of course, Kaatje knew without a doubt her side of the room would get worse. She wanted to finish up that painting of the beach she’d started, and that would require spreading out her tarp and some creative ventilation practices. There were things lined up along the window; they’d have to be moved, so as not to interfere with the light. She tapped her fingers against her lips, then sighed and stretched her hands over her head. Still a box of clothes and then her school things to bring in and put away, after all. Couldn’t afford to be lazy.

When she was done setting out her possessions, the administrator gave her her key and left, saying something about a crisis in room three-oh-three. Kaatje, her loafers still on, flopped down on her bed and sighed. She still had to replace all her posters. How was she supposed to sleep without V, or Adrian Veidt, or Batman on her walls? The production poster of Pan’s Labyrinth couldn’t be replaced, either...

It was downright depressing. Less depressing than the total lack of a roommate, but still pretty bad. Kaatje rolled onto her stomach, pillowed her chin on her fists. Surely Fallon would get better soon.