Читать книгу Dreamland City - Larina Lavergne - Страница 9

It doesn’t take me that long to move rooms since I barely have anything. My new roommate isn’t in, so she doesn’t see the face I make when I enter. Everything in there is surreal, from the Fortitude posters to the pictures of a blond girl with big boobs in a cheerleading outfit—I guess that’s her—hugging her friends in a fancy high school. The same perfect blond girl with her perfect parents in front of a perfect big mansion.

Fuck.

She’s even put up college photos already, and I recognize David in a tight group photo where he’s standing with his arm around her as she leans into him amidst other tall blond laughing people. Great. Maybe she’s the famous girlfriend. I sigh.

I dump the contents of my duffel bag and backpack on the rollaway they’ve hastily brought in and squeezed against the opposite wall to her bed.

The room smells of some kind of citrus shampoo and a light perfume, and yet I hate it more than the constant smell of sweat and booze of my old dorm, or even Dreamland on a bad night.

I look at the “Paris, J’adore!” clock on the wall. I have to get to class.

+++

I’m starting an advanced senior-level thermodynamics lab section today. When I walk in late, everyone turns to stare. I scrunch into the last table in the row by myself, but the Professor in the front points to an empty seat in the middle. I sit without a word. Already there are little high-school type cliques forming. The black kids are at a table by the side, with the one enlightened white guy who will no doubt be able to quote Public Enemy and do slam rap poetry. The Asians are grouped in the front, typing away furiously at their laptops even though class hasn’t even started yet. Three jock-types are near the back, talking about some kind of training session and game stats.

And then there’s me.

Grad-level, Senior, Freshman or otherwise, college isn’t that different from high school, I don’t think. I was bused to one of the richest schools in North Carolina because of the state’s diversity initiative, and I spent half my time in school being called into the principal’s office because they always wanted to talk to me about “realizing my potential” or “showing more effort,” or some other crap like that. Tommy said at the school he went to, they forgot he was enrolled, and when he told them he was dropping out, they couldn’t even find his records.

I can feel the girl next to me staring, and I finally turn to meet her gaze. With shock, I realize it’s my roommate. She’s much prettier in person, and her eyes aren’t blue like I’d thought—they’re more greenish hazel than anything.

“Hi,” she says, giving me the non-committal half-smile that girls like her give girls like me when forced into close proximity.

Her voice doesn’t match her face. It’s soft, husky, and almost gravelly, like Aretha Franklin.

I ignore her and turn to the teacher, who’s outlining the lab syllabus. It’s an accelerated course (half the semester’s already gone) but even so, the workload seems minimal. Roommate has whipped out her laptop now and is making notes. I doodle and my attention drifts.

I remember the day last year, around this exact same time or maybe a couple of months earlier, when my high school principal called me into his office.

“How are you doing, Lily? How are things?”

“Very well, Sir,” I say. “Things are going well.”

“They just gave us the results of the national aptitude tests from last month,” he said. The look he gave me was studied and careful.

I remember thinking I must have skipped out on those, and that he wanted me to retake them.

“Yes Sir, I’m sorry I wasn’t in school during the tests. I was sick.”

“No, no, Lily. You took them. That’s why we want to talk to your mother,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said again automatically, as he took off his glasses and began to polish them on his shirt. “I’ll try and do better.”

That’s when he made a weird screeching exclamation, “Oh no, there’s nothing to be sorry about, Lily!” There was a warm, unfamiliar glint in his eye, and I suddenly realized then that this look, plus the screeching exclamation must be his version of encouragement.

“OK. Can I go now?”

“Lily, you scored the highest scores in the state,” he said as I got up.

That’s when I froze. Well, good for me, I guess. “Thank you.” I nodded and turn to leave. He was up in a flash then, coming around the table.

I had my hand on the doorknob but he held his hand against the frame, blocking my way. “Wait. Do you know what this means, Lily?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Sir,” I told him tightly.

“Well,” he said after a short pause. “I know you have many things on your mind. But Lily, you need to start thinking about college applications. I’ve talked to your teachers, and they don’t think you’ve applied to any?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“It’s not too late. In fact, we’ll help you with your applications.”

“I can’t afford college.”

“There are scholarships, Lily. Look, I’m going to make you a mandatory appointment with the guidance counselor, and she’s going to steer you through this whole process, OK?”

“So can I go now?”

“Yes, but I do want you to think about your future. It’s not often that someone can score the highest scores in the state just like that. Your teachers are planning to speak to you about it too.”

I nodded and raced out of his office, the first thought reverberating: Highest scores in the state?

And then: Damn, we must be a real stupid state.

So here I am now, at Duke University, sitting next to my pretty blond roommate in a thermodynamics lab. Unlike me, girls like her have never expected to be anywhere else.

I doodle some more.

+++

Lab isn’t over quickly enough. What I got out of it was that 1) The coursework is a joke, 2) we have to do a lab project that will essentially be super time consuming and 3) Our Professor is a weirdo.

I’m sitting alone outside eating more bread and Nutella (I swear they must make a fortune off me) when a shadow falls over me. It’s between classes and the walkway is packed with kids rushing to and fro, like little ants when you disturb their neat slow line.

Suddenly, people walking by are pausing in mid-step to gape. I lick my fingers clean. Of course. Besides the God-anointed basketball team, only one person at Duke causes this much excitement. It’s my library bud, David Morgan.

Instinctively, I stand up, my mouth still full.

“Wait,” he protests, a charming grin giving him dimples. “You don’t have to go.”

“Done eating,” I say, chewing furiously. I mean, I like David—I genuinely do, and besides how good he looks, he’s more interesting than anyone else I’ve met so far here. But the anonymity I’d worked so hard to achieve is disappearing fast. If anyone digs, they’ll find out where I’m from. And they’ll want to dig if David Morgan continues talking to me.

David nods, a little sadly. Then he notices the Nutella stain on the aluminum foil I used to wrap my sandwich in.

“Wow you really like Nutella,” he observes.

“Yeah, I stole a bottle once when I was nine and ever since I don’t think I actually need to eat anything else.”

He looks momentarily taken aback. Then he says, “So…you sure about the chocolate festival? I mean, we’ll just be hanging out. Friends, you know?”

I shake my head. “Sorry.” And then I’m walking away and dumping the foil in a trashcan. As I leave, he catches my eye and smiles, a little uncertainly, but almost sweetly.

I think he wants to wave, but he doesn’t.

+++

I wander for hours all around campus grounds delaying my return to my new room. Finally, the library kicks me out at midnight.

It is dark when I enter and I fumble with the light and stub my toe against something. “Ow!”

The room is still silent. She isn’t here.

Relieved beyond words, I change in record time into an old T-shirt and shorts, and then dive into the lumpy rollout bed, pulling the covers over me. Through the thin walls and door, I can hear the last remnants of conversation in the hallway—whispers of ‘good night’ and ‘see you in the morning.’ From outside, the strains of music from a party at one of the frats. I lay awake, until that too, fades away.

I’m still awake when I hear drunken laughter and stage whispers of returning partygoers.

All of the sudden, there’s a scratching sound at the door. Light floods in as someone flings the door open and comes in. I wrap the covers even tighter and turn over to face the side. And then, I realize, it’s not just someone in my room, it’s two someones, and they smell of liquor and cigarettes.

“Shhhh…you’ll wake my new roommate,” says my blond roommate. Her husky voice is now thick and slurred.

“I thought you had a single.” His voice isn’t as slurred, and it sounds familiar.

David?

“She’s temporary.”

Aren’t I always?

“They shut down Randolph because of the bedbugs, remember?”

The guy who might be David grunts. There’s a wet slurping sound. I guess they’re kissing, or more, if her little sounds are any indication.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to go to sleep.

Just as I’m about to resign myself to the inevitable sounds of them fucking in the bed next to me, my roommate lets out a tiny scream that doesn’t sound like it’s meant to be a turn-on.

There’s the sound of a minor scuffle, and then, the David voice asking, “What’s wrong, Reagan?”

“Nothing,” she replies hastily. “You know…I’m just really tired…”

He must be reaching for her again but she slaps him away. “Come on,” he pleads. But she’s adamant, and soon has him out the door after promises of another date this week. When the door shuts, she locks it and sighs heavily. There’s a sudden brief silence, and I know suddenly without a doubt that she’s looking at me in the dark. Then, there’s the sound of her bed creaking, and eventually, deep, even breathing, and she’s out.

+++

The sound of the creak of the bed is the first thing I remember when I wake up to bright sun flooding in through the window. My roommate’s bed.

My roommate.

I whip my head over. It’s empty.

She’s gone already, and the bed is neatly made up. She’s even left a note on it.

Sorry we haven’t really met. I’ll see you at lab today. Reagan.

So she recognized me then. How, I don’t know, seeing as I normally sleep on my stomach and all she must have seen this morning was a mess of hair.

I crumple the paper up, and throw it on the floor. I think it looks better like that.

+++

Later that day, I slink to the seat at the back of the lab but the pointed look from the instructor makes me slink right back to where I was the last time. I ignore Reagan’s ‘hi’ again and am staring into space as the instructor does more announcements. Seriously, these university teachers always have a hundred announcements to make—what’s the fucking point of email, professors? Reagan, as usual, is taking copious notes on her laptop. She’s wearing glasses today—her sexy librarian look no doubt—and they make me more annoyed. I deliberately jostle her; the movement almost knocks her laptop off the table.

The TA’s talking about the mandatory lab project and I yawn as she says, “I’ll be pairing people up randomly. If your project is particularly ambitious, come see me and we’ll talk about joining two groups together.”

She drones on and on, and I literally fall asleep with my eyes still open—it’s a trick I’ve mastered with lots of practice.

It’s only when I hear my name being called that I snap out of it.

“Reagan Van Stieg, you’ll be partnered with Lily Anderson.”

I overheard a couple of girls talking about Reagan at lunch: They were wondering if she was one of the Van Stiegs from New York, or perhaps some other Southern branch. Then they were positing theories on why she was named after a dead president, or if there was some other reason. Whether it’s famous New York, dead president, southern Baptist or otherwise, I’m sure she’s going to love being paired with Trailer Park Anderson.

I look over: Reagan’s been frowning at me since I jostled her. She’s probably realizing I’m going to be a terrible partner, not to mention roommate from hell—temporary or otherwise.

Who said life was fair? Our eyes meet, and I wink.

To her credit, she doesn’t blink.

The TA gives us a half hour to split into our groups so we can discuss what we’ll be doing for the project. Reagan and I sit motionless, not looking at each other.

“So,” she says finally.

I stare at her. She really is extremely pretty. I’m all hair and eyes, but she’s a perfect blond study in symmetry, from the evenness of the color of her hazel eyes, to the curvature of her delicate ears. Even her eyebrows look equally arched down to the last, submissive hair. She’s almost begging to be messed with.

She shifts uncomfortably at my blank gaze and lack of response.

“So we need to discuss what we’ll be doing,” she says weakly, when I go back to doodling on my notepad.

“And what exactly are we doing?” I ask, curious to see how this will play out.

She perks up. “I have a few ideas. It’s flow dynamics and engine construction. We can show the principles of engine combustion and flow, so maybe we could build something?

In answer, I go back to my kickass drawing of our TA having sex with a unicorn, but I’m still watching Reagan out of the corner of my eye. The girl’s biting her lip, her brow furrowed, and she’s twisting her fingers nervously, round and round in endless misshapen circles.

“Do you have any ideas on what we should do?” she asks, her voice a little shaky.

I almost feel bad for her. Reagan Van Stieg with her perfect face, hair and grades is now faced with a huge obstacle obtaining those perfect grades for her perfect Ivy League transcripts: Me.

“Whatever,” I tell her.

She’s sitting very still and I know she’s staring at my ragged unpainted and un-manicured nails curved around the stubby pencil as I’m drawing, at my face unblemished by the heavy make-up that is war paint for her kind.

She has no idea what to do with me.

After staring at my left ear for a long moment, she finally clears her throat. “OK. Should I sketch out a plan, and then we can talk about it?”

I shrug, eloquently.

She nods slowly and looks around at the other huddled groups talking animatedly amongst themselves. She clears her throat, and then she glances down at my doodle, a slight frown on her face. It wasn’t funny enough earlier, so I’ve added on humongous boobs to the TA as she lies on her back with the unicorn on top of her.

I can’t read what’s in Reagan’s eyes. I can’t imagine what a classy, perfect girl like her must be feeling about my drawing: Dislike? Distaste? Disgust?

Unexpectedly, a tiny smile appears on her face.