Derek is our RA. I’ve mentioned Derek. Derek is built like a vending machine, takes his job very seriously, and has underlined things twice on a notice before.
Derek also, as it turns out, has a clipboard.
And on that clipboard — I would later discover — was a list.
A list of incidents.
It started with the chair squeaking. Then the thin walls. Then the group chat. Then Tyler finding out. Then Devon. By this point, the entire third floor knew about me and Marcus. Probably the second floor too. Possibly the fourth.
What I did not know was that Derek knew. And had known. For weeks.
The reckoning came on a Wednesday.
I was in the hallway, heading to the laundry room, wearing my soccer jersey and shorts and socks (as always), when Derek stepped out of his room.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey, Derek.”
He was holding the clipboard. I didn’t think anything of it at first — Derek always had the clipboard. It was his thing. His security blanket. His RA uniform accessory.
But then he looked at me. And the clipboard was open. And I could see, from where I was standing, that it had words on it.
Words that included my name.
“Can we talk,” Derek said.
Oh.
Oh.
We sat in the common room. Derek at the table with his clipboard. Me on the couch, legs tucked under me, trying to look like I hadn’t just been caught.
“So,” Derek said.
“So,” I said.
“I’m not here to get you in trouble.”
“Okay.”
“I’m here because this has been going on for two months and nobody has said anything and I need to establish some ground rules.”
I blinked. “Ground rules.”
Derek opened the clipboard fully. And I could see it now — a handwritten list, in Derek’s very neat very serious handwriting, with bullet points and sub-bullets and what appeared to be timestamps.
“First of all,” Derek said, adjusting his glasses (he wore glasses — I had never noticed his glasses before, but now they felt very significant), “I need you to understand that I am not judgmental.”
“Okay.”
“I am not here to moralize.”
“Okay.”
“I am here because the walls are thin and my room is directly above yours and I have not slept through the night in six weeks.”
I felt my face get warm.
“I have a spreadsheet,” Derek continued.
“You have a WHAT.”
“A spreadsheet. Of incidents. Date, time, duration, decibel level.”
“DECIBEL LEVEL.”
“I bought a decibel meter.”
“Derek.”
“It was either that or earplugs and I already tried earplugs.”
I put my face in my hands. This was it. This was how I died. Not in battle. Not in glory. Killed by an RA with a spreadsheet.
“Look,” Derek said, and his voice softened. Just a little. Just enough. “I’m not trying to embarrass you. I’m not trying to get you in trouble. You’re both adults. You’re allowed to do whatever you want in your room.”
I looked up. “Then what’s the problem.”
“The problem is that my ceiling vibrates.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.” He sighed. Ran a hand over his face. “I like you guys. You’re good residents. You’re quiet during quiet hours — mostly. You keep your room clean — mostly. Marcus is polite. You’re—” he paused, “—enthusiastic.”
I covered my face again.
“But I need sleep. I have a 4.0 GPA and a pre-med track and I cannot keep losing sleep because Marcus’s chair squeaks.”
“His chair really does squeak.”
“I know his chair squeaks. I’ve investigated the chair. The chair is not the only problem.”
“What’s the other problem.”
Derek looked at me. Looked at his clipboard. Looked back at me.
“You laugh,” he said.
“I laugh.”
“After. You laugh. It’s— it’s very cute. But it’s also at 1 AM. And the walls.”
Oh my god.
“I’m going to die,” I whispered.
“You’re not going to die.”
“I’m going to die.”
“You’re going to live. You’re going to live and you’re going to buy Marcus a new chair and you’re going to keep it down after midnight.”
“I can do that.”
“Good.” Derek closed the clipboard. Stood up. Looked at me one more time.
And then — and I will remember this for the rest of my life — Derek smiled.
Not an RA smile. Not a I’m an authority figure smile. A real smile. A I’m a twenty-one-year-old guy who is also on the third floor and also has heard everything smile.
“For what it’s worth,” Derek said quietly, “Marcus is a good dude. He’s lucky.”
My eyes went wide.
Derek turned and walked away.
I sat in the common room for a full minute processing what had just happened.
Our RA — our RA — had just told me that Marcus was lucky. Our RA had a spreadsheet. Our RA had investigated the chair.
This was the best and worst day of my life.
I told Marcus at dinner.
“You’re LUCKY,” Marcus repeated, his voice hollow.
“Derek said you’re lucky.”
“Derek said I’m LUCKY.”
“Yes.”
“Derek. Our RA. Derek. With the clipboard. Said I’m LUCKY.”
“Also he has a spreadsheet.”
Marcus put his head on the table. “I’m moving out.”
“You can’t move out.”
“I’m moving out. I’m transferring. I’m going to community college.”
“You’re a pre-med.”
“NOT ANYMORE.”
I was laughing so hard I was crying. Marcus was mortified. It was the best dinner of my life.
When we got back to the room, there was a package on our door.
It was a new chair.
With a note from Derek that said: “This one doesn’t squeak. You’re welcome. - D”
Marcus looked at the chair. Looked at the note. Looked at me.
“He bought us a chair,” Marcus whispered.
“He bought you a chair.”
“He bought US a chair. Because it’s OUR problem.”
“Technically it’s your chair.”
“IT’S OUR CHAIR NOW.”
I put my arm around him. He leaned into me. We stood in the hallway looking at the new chair that our RA had bought us because we were too loud.
“Hey,” Marcus said.
“Yeah.”
“Does this mean Derek is… rooting for us.”
I thought about it. Thought about Derek’s smile. His “Marcus is lucky.” His investment in our chair situation.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think it does.”
Marcus smiled. Small. Warm. The kind of smile that made my chest feel tight.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. That’s… actually really nice.”
“It is.”
We carried the chair inside. Marcus sat in it. It didn’t squeak.
“Huh,” Marcus said.
“Huh,” I agreed.
I sat on his lap. He put his arms around me. We sat there in the new chair that Derek had bought us, in the room that Derek could hear everything from, in the dorm where the entire floor knew about us, and we were happy.
Not relationship-happy. Not forever-happy. Just… right-now-happy. The kind of happy that comes from being wanted, being known, being seen — even by an RA with a clipboard and a spreadsheet.
“Thank you,” Marcus said quietly.
“For what.”
“For making me feel like this.”
“Like what.”
“Like someone wants me.”
I kissed his forehead.
“Someone does,” I said. “Several someones, actually. But that’s a story for another time.”
Marcus laughed. I laughed. The new chair didn’t squeak.
And somewhere above us, Derek was getting a full night’s sleep for the first time in six weeks.
Marcus sat in the new chair. It didn’t squeak.
“Huh,” Marcus said.
“Huh,” I agreed.
I sat on his lap. He put his arms around me. The chair held. We were happy.
But that night, at 11:30 PM, there was a knock at our door.
Not Derek’s knock. Different rhythm. Lighter. Two quick taps and a pause.
I opened it.
Nobody was there.
But on the floor was a folded piece of paper.
I picked it up. It was a printout. From Derek’s spreadsheet. But someone had added a note at the bottom. In handwriting I didn’t recognize.
It said: “Entry #18 — Tuesday, 11:47 PM. New record. The floor felt it. — P”
P.
Priya.
Priya was rating us now too.
I looked down the hallway. At the end of it, Derek’s door was closed. But the light under it was on. And I could see a shadow moving. Watching. Waiting.
I closed our door. I locked it.
I showed Marcus the note.
He read it. He looked at the new chair. He looked at me.
“We need a new chair,” he said.
“We just got a new chair.”
“A NEWER chair. One that doesn’t— that the floor doesn’t—”
“Marcus.”
“WHAT.”
“Priya gave us a ten.”
Marcus stopped.
“She did?”
“She did.”
Marcus looked at the note again. Read Priya’s handwriting. The “new record.” The “the floor felt it.”
Slowly — very slowly — the horror on his face began to recede. And something else took its place.
Pride.
“I’m a ten,” he whispered.
“You’re a ten.”
“I’m a TEN.”
He sat up straighter in the new chair. The chair that Derek bought. The chair that doesn’t squeak. The chair that Priya rated a ten out of ten.
“Tyler’s gonna lose it when he finds out,” Marcus said.
“Tyler already knows.”
“Tyler knows I’M A TEN?”
“Tyler knows everything.”
Marcus leaned back in the chair. Put his hands behind his head. Smiled at the ceiling like it owed him an apology for every bad day it had ever given him.
“I’m a ten,” he said again.
“You’re a ten.”
And somewhere above us, Derek was getting a full night’s sleep. And somewhere next door, Priya was updating her spreadsheet. And somewhere down the hall, Tyler was probably adding his own rating.
And I sat on Marcus’s lap in the chair that didn’t squeak, and I thought:
This is what being known feels like.
This is what being wanted feels like.
This is what being a ten out of ten feels like.
And I wouldn’t change a thing.
Caption: “Our RA bought us a chair. That should’ve been the first clue.”