The tension eases in my temples, until I hear the unmistakable sound of the door swinging open and slamming into the wall. What the hell?
“Just drop your stuff on her bed. It’s fine. I don’t know where she is, but it won’t take us long to get ready.”
Mandi’s voice cuts through my brain fog as I slowly force my eyes to open. I’m about to peel the covers away from my face and announce my presence when—oof!—someone unceremoniously dumps a hundred-pound laundry bag on top of me.
“The fuck?” I call out, scrambling to unearth myself from my cocoon and pulling my sleep mask off my face. “What did you just?—”
“Oh, shit, you’re here,” Mandi says, sounding disappointed, and not the least bit sorry.
“Yeah, I’m here,” I reply. “It’s my room, too. And why the hell did you—” My words trail off as I realize it wasn’t a laundry bag that landed smack-dab on top of me. It was a person. And not just any person. Kinsey or Kissy or whatever the fuck her name is. The tanning koala. “Get off my bed,” I tell her. When she blinks her wide, lash-fringed eyes at me, I repeat my command. “Get. Off. My. Bed.”
“You don’t have to be a bitch about it,” Mandi muttersas the koala scurries to the other side of the room. I read somewhere that koalas were vicious when provoked—not that I blame them—and all I can think about when I look at the clingy little rodent who had her claws all over Pete Santos on the beach today is that she isn’t vicious at all. She’s cowardly. And a disgrace to her kind.
Mandi’s on her own bed, applying a thick layer of gloss to her already pouty lips. Koala girl is riffling through Mandi’s makeup stash, pausing every few seconds to stare at me, as though she’s both fascinated and appalled. I stare back, all too happy to confirm what I know is bouncing around her brain right now: Claire Fowler really is as much of a bitch as everyone says she is.
And maybe she’s right. I am being a bitch to her. But let’s not forget that she deserves it. She’s the reason my day went to shit, not to mention the fact that she literally leapt on me while I was trying to catch a fucking nap.
But yeah. I’m the bitch. Okay, Kissy the Koala. Whatever you say.
Mandi interrupts the glaring contest I’m having with her pint-sized friend. “Are you going to be here all night?” she asks.
“Am I going to be in my bed all night? Yes. Yes, I am.”
Mandi huffs. “Fine. I’ll crash somewhere else tonight.”
I don’t respond because it’s not like she’s doing me a favor. She’s not vacating the room to give me a break or let me sleep without interruption. She’s pissed because if I’m here, she knows she can’t bring some rando home like she did last night.
I mean, she can, of course. But then we’ll have a repeat of last night’s festivities, and no one wants that.
And no, I didn’t do anything terrible.
When they woke me up with their weird sex noises thefirst three times, I just rolled over and willed myself back to dreamland. But the fourth time Mandi faked an orgasm and did her impression of a whistling teakettle, I’d had enough.
When I was little, my nana had a cat named Mr. Bonks. He used to jump on the counter, even though he wasn’t supposed to. Every time he did, Nana would grab her trusty spray bottle and squirt him with a stream of water. He’d hiss and hop down.
I’d simply applied that same principle last night. In this case, the unruly cat was the bro-dude groping my roommate and the water was a can of diet cola I grabbed from the minifridge. I guess being doused with ice cold sugary soda wasn’t on his kink list, because he darted out of our room faster than Mr. Bonks had ever jumped off the counter.
Satisfied that I’ll have some peace and quiet tonight, I pull the covers back over my head and close my eyes. Unsurprisingly, my headache has returned. But these two should be leaving shortly, and that means sleep is within my grasp.
I can still hear bits of their conversation, and because I don’t actually care that some guy on the baseball team likes to get his dick sucked with an ice cube, I bury my head under my pillow and think good thoughts.
I think about how delicious a cup of coffee from Drip will taste once I get back on campus. The coffee in the dining hall is weak and watered down and I miss the liquid fuel that Theo brews daily back at school.
I think about seeing Holland and catching up on the last few weeks of our lives. Granted, Holland’s stories are guaranteed to be better than mine. She finally admitted her feelings for the guy she’s been in love with since they were kids. As for me? Well, explored the medical propertiesof plankton. And that’s basically as awesome as falling madly in love.
I think about swimming with actual dolphins tomorrow. That alone is worth putting up with Mandi and her bullshit.
I do not think about Pete Santos. Or how his gray BU Hockey tee stretched across his broad chest. I don’t think about his dark brown eyes or the way he’s always sporting a genuine smile. And I don’t think about what it must feel like to be wrapped up in his warm, solid embrace.
Nope. I don’t think about that at all. And I definitely don’t drift off to sleep wondering if his full bottom lip tastes as good as it looks.
Nope. Not me.
The blare of heavy metal music jolts me from my restful slumber. The fuck is Mandi doing now? It’s got to be my rotten luck that she brought home a drummer—and his drum kit. Peering out of my nest of blankets, my sleepy eyes scan the room. It’s still blessedly dark in here and even though I would swear there’s a live concert raging in some corner of this room, I can see for myself that my dorm is empty.
Maybe I should feel bad for maligning Mandi. Nah. I’m sure she’s done something annoying that I just haven’t discovered yet.
I’m about to descend back into my sleep cave, half-convinced that I dreamt the thrash metal concert, but then it starts up again, impossibly louder this time.
