The First Ordinary Argument

The first argument in the flat was about a towel.

Not money, not school transport, not whether moving somewhere new meant they were allowed to miss the old street. A towel. Toby had used Leila's clean one because his was still in a box, then left it on her bed where it made a damp patch on the sheet.

She found it after helping Mum unpack the kitchen. The pleasure of having a bed that was only hers lasted long enough to become a reason to be furious about someone else's water on it.

“Toby.”

He appeared in the doorway holding a packet of biscuits.

“What?”

“Why is this on my bed?”

“It's a towel.”

“I know what it is.”

“Then why ask?”

She threw it towards him. It landed short, partly on the floor and partly against the door. The movement was childish, satisfying for half a second and immediately regrettable.

“Don't come in here and use my things,” she said.

“I couldn't find mine.”

“Ask.”

“You were busy.”

“So wait.”

He looked at her with a hurt that made her feel cruel and more defensive at the same time.

“You didn't mind sharing everything in the hotel.”

“Yes, I did.”

The words came out louder than intended. Mum called from the kitchen, asking what was happening. Toby went to tell her a version involving Leila throwing things. Leila remained in the bedroom, staring at the damp patch as though it justified every word.

Mum came in a minute later.

“I've told him to ask before taking your things,” she said. “You can tell him not to do something without throwing it.”

“I know.”

“He didn't do it to ruin the room.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Leila sat on the edge of the bed, avoiding the damp place. The room was full of boxes. Her desk held the thyme, the name badge, two unopened folders and the brass handle she had not decided what to do with. This was her room, and she was guarding it as though someone might take it away if she failed to defend each object.

“I wanted it to stay nice,” she said.

“It can be nice and have a wet towel happen in it.”

Mum leaned against the door frame.

“We've all got habits from the room. Toby asks the nearest person before thinking. You expect every interruption to mean losing your space. I keep putting everything in one cupboard because I forget there are three.”

Leila looked up.

“You do?”

“I found the tea towels behind the cereal this morning. It was entirely my own work.”

Leila laughed reluctantly.

Mum left her to change the damp section of bedding. There was no speech about gratitude. Leila was grateful for the flat. She was also tired, possessive, embarrassed and seventeen. None of those facts stopped being true because the door shut properly.

She found Toby in the sitting room building a tower from empty boxes.

“Sorry I threw the towel.”

“It didn't hit me.”

“I wasn't trying to hit you.”

“I know.”

“Still. Sorry.”

He balanced another box on the tower.

“I'll ask next time.”

“Thanks.”

“Can I use the big empty box from your room?”

“Yes.”

“See? Asking.”

She smiled and went to fetch it.

In the afternoon, they put up Toby's shelf with help from Dad, who had returned with the appropriate fittings and no expectation of being thanked as though he had built the whole flat. The old screw sat in a tiny jar on the shelf beside the medals. Toby liked being able to see it rather than hide it in the wall.

Leila hung the exhibition panels in her room temporarily, resting the third on the desk because she had not decided where it belonged. With the work removed from the college wall, she could see it differently again. The room it showed was no longer where she slept. It was already becoming a place she remembered, and she wanted to resist making it simpler in memory than it had been.

That evening, she found the towel neatly folded outside her door. It was still slightly damp, which suggested Toby had understood the boundary more clearly than the laundry requirement.

She hung it over the back of her chair and left the door open while she worked.