by Nicci Harris
I can usually lose myself in the music enough to forget about the audience. What differs greatly in this situation is that I will see my audience in class, at the coffee shop, in my dorm, everywhere—I can’t pretend they don’t exist.
“Whoa, you have officially lost all the colour in your face,” Erik mocks. He cups my cheeks and directs my nervous gaze to him. “Pretend it’s just me out there.”
“What are you two talking about?” Jaxon asks, moving closer to us.
Erik lowers his hands and wraps one protectively around my shoulder, squeezing gently. “Blesk’s gonna sing at The Grill a few nights a week.” He sounds eager and filled with pride. All I feel is nausea.
Jaxon chuckles at my forced smile. “You look shit scared.”
I clear my throat. “No, I’ll be fine. I just, I ummm, I’m really thirsty,” I stammer. I whirl away from his scrutiny and stumble. Erik catches me by the elbow, and holds me firmly in place while Jaxon cracks up.
“I’m fine.” I rub my face, trying to hide my discomfort to no avail. “Seriously I’m fine.” Jaxon has positioned himself to my side and is looking at me with what I believe to be pity.
“Are you going to do it?” Erik asks. “I can call Marcus right now and tell him no. I can make something up, like, you’re a big Bebe and don’t want to sing in public.” He and Jaxon both chuckle.
Why does he insist on making me feel small, purposely using his pet name for me when he knows I can’t stand it?
“No, don’t. I’ll do it,” I say, presenting a more believable smile.
“What do you play?” Jaxon asks, folding his arms across his chest and purposely accentuating his bulging biceps.
Yes, Jaxon, I can see your muscles.
I slide the strap of my bag across my shoulder. “Just an acoustic guitar.”
As the wind increases, my skirt shimmies up in the breeze. I use one hand to hold my skirt down and the other to hold my hair to one side. Jaxon notices my discomfort and grins. My brows furrow and I tilt my head at him as he takes a nice, long, noticeable look at my thighs while my skirt is swishing around.
“Don’t be humble, Blesk. She writes her own stuff, sings and plays. She’s unreal,” Erik boasts.
Jaxon smirks and cocks a brow suggestively. “Can’t wait to see you up there.”
I refuse to acknowledge his double entendre. “Thanks.”
✽✽✽
My building is only a five minute walk from the library, and once you pass the peculiar gargoyles that guard the steps at its entrance, the rest of the building is relatively modern. The hallways are lit around the clock, and it’s a female-only dormitory which sets Erik at ease. The sun is just about to set behind low-lying clouds, and as we walk up the steps carrying the last of my luggage inside, the chill of the hour is apparent at our backs. My arms are weighed down by cases filled with only my most essential possessions. I don’t really do clutter. Or trinkets. Or do-dads. Or pictures.
I approach room seventy-three then freeze at the threshold to my home for the next year.
I’m excited!
I’m crazy scared!
Universities see brilliance, innovation, and creative genius stream through them. This room has probably been the keeper of an incredible mind. I drop my cases to the floor and stand in front of it, mystified by its presence. I wouldn’t be surprised if it needs a secret password.
It’s a part of my life right now but, more importantly, for a little while, I’ll be a part of its.
“You gonna go in?” Erik asks eyeing me questioningly.
I sigh. “Yes, it’s just . . .” I spin to look at him, “this is my home for the next year and I want to really take it all in.”
He snorts. “Weirdo.”
I take an exaggerated deep breath, set my cases down and savour the moment before sliding my key into the hole and twisting it until it clicks. The door swings open, I pick up my cases and step into the room slowly.
“Hi!” A girl yells, jumping up from her seated position on the room’s central rug. “Hi, I’m Elise.”
She yanks a case from my hand, carries it over and drops it on a bed. I like that she doesn’t try to shake my hand.; we’re already passed formalities.
“This is your bed. I’ve been waiting for you all day. Did you go to orientation? How old are you? I’ve been so nervous to meet you. I really hope we can be friends. I really hope we get along. It’ll make this year so much easier. Sorry. I don’t mean to come on so strong.”
I freeze, wide-eyed, and a little overwhelmed by her peppiness. “Umm, hi. I’m Blesk,” I finally manage.
“What kind of name is that? Is it religious or something, like Bless?” She asks straightway with way too much eagerness, jigging in place.
Erik strides in. “Whoa, slow down, kid, she just got here. How much coffee have you had?” He chuckles.
Her beam drops, and she pauses, staring at Erik whose looking smug. “Hi,” she murmurs with a gulp. “Just one coffee.”
He gives her a slightly patronising glance. “I didn’t actually need an answer to that. It was rhetorical. But, no, her name is not religious, it’s just her name. She’s twenty-one and yes, we just left orientation. Calm down, kid.”
My mouth is still open mumbling an answer to one or maybe all of her questions before I realise Erik has now addressed them.
I can answer for myself, Erik.
“Sorry.” I walk over to Elise who looks like she just took a punch. “I’m Blesk Bellamy, and it’s really nice to meet you.”
I glare at Erik, flashing him a firm look of disapproval. She glances around the room as Erik relocates all my bags from the hallway into the empty space on the carpet.
Elise is small, petite in every way. If Pippi Longstocking and Edward Scissorhands had a daughter, she would look like Elise. Beady blue eyes peer through brown, horn-rimmed glasses, and the sweetness of her freckles contradict the attitude of her black eyeliner and mismatched nail polish. She’s quite striking.
The room is smaller than I expected but has nearly everything I could possibly need, so no complaints here; two beds, two desks and two walk-in robes. Elise’s side already has her personal touches influencing the space. She displays in one fashion or another a lot of traditional girl-trends. Katy Perry. Lady Gaga. Ryan Gosling. I sigh and study my undecorated side of the room. I hope she won’t be disappointed by my lack of self-defining accessories. I’m just not that kind of girl.
She leans closer to me and whispers, “Is that your boyfriend?”
“No, that’s my brother.”
“Ah,” she crosses her legs in front of her and watches the movements across her room.
Our room?
Erik carries the last case in. “Right, you okay, beautiful?”
I glance at Elise, unsettled by Erik's endearment. “Yes, yes I am,” I say, and I actually mean it.
Erik flashes Elise a smile and leans in to peck me on the cheek. “First night away from home, are you sure you don’t wanna sleep on a mattress in my dorm? My roommate will be at his girlfriend’s.”
A sickening flutter fills my stomach. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“What if you, ya know,” he lowers his voice to barely a whisper, “have a bad dream?”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, as convincingly as I can.
Will you really, Blesk?
He nods. “Okay, Bebe.” He turns to Elise, and his grin widens with mischief. “Call her Bebe, it drives her cra—”
“Time to leave, Erik,” I cut in, placing both hands on his chest and pushing him until he’s just outside the doorway.
He chuckles at me sweetly. “Alrighty. I have classes all day tomorrow, but I’ll pick you up from here at 6:15 to take you to The Grill.”
“Yep, okay.” I gently shove him again, so he knows I’m ready to close the door.
He stands in place. “Goodnight then."
“Goodnight.”
✽✽✽
Elise can certainly talk, she just
rambles giving information freely without any contemplation for how little she knows me. I begin to unpack some of my more important luggage, toiletries, bedding, clothes—nodding and gesturing appropriately towards her when warranted.
“I didn’t stay for the orientation festival,” she begins.“It was so packed when I went to look, and I was all alone. Everyone already seemed to know each other, and that’s when I came to the conclusion that as room mates we need to stick together. I mean, we are both new and—”
I am going to have trouble keeping up with you, Elise.
Despite my minimalistic existence, I’m starting to feel overwhelmed squeezing my life into the restricted space on the left side of this room. I take a bubble-wrapped parcel out and unwrap it to reveal a precious ornament—a palm-sized, metal unicorn, which holds unparalleled sentimental value.
Okay, so I have one trinket.
I stare at its sharp pointy horn and run my index finger over the right uplifted front hoof, shivering as I remember the day he gave it to me. I consciously take a deep breath in then exhale slowly. I do this repeatedly, in an almost meditation style of calming my nerves. My unicorn goes on my bedside table so that I can see it every morning when I wake up.
Elise continues, “You don’t know many people, and I don’t know many people. Oh wait. . . you don't know many people, right?"
I shake my head. "Only Erik."
She grins wider. "Cool. My mum went here, she said her roommate was like family, and they even requested to stay together second year when they switched rooms and are still friends today. In her first week at uni—”
“I think,” I interrupt, then I pause for a moment while she halts her mouth momentum. “I’d love to listen to some music while I unpack. What do you think?”
She brightens and bounces to her feet. “I’ll put my Spotify mix on!”
“Sounds great,” I agree while watching her move with such strange buoyancy around the room.
Elise is like a cartoon character, bouncing instead of walking, and beaming with joy instead of offering a simple smile.
I think I like this girl.
While she puts some poppy sounding track on, I collect an assortment of products to take to the shower and grab some lounging around clothes. I brush my hair up into a high ponytail and decide on black yoga pants, a mint tee-shirt, and dance flats.
“I’m going to have a shower,” I say, opening the door while clutching my toiletries and clothes. “Where’s the bathroom?”
She bounds toward me, and I take an instinctive step back, allowing her space to join me in the doorway.
“Well, it’s your third left,” she explains, gesturing with her hands. “But the first two showers are gross so use the third or fourth. Also, there are only four showers on this whole floor. So, try to use them off peak. Ya know, so you get hot water. That’s what my mum told me. This was her building, too.” She takes a big breath, “See? Full of useful information.”
I offer her a genuine, gracious look, “Thank you, see you soon... roomy.” She brightens and I return her smile before I wander down the hallway and into the quiet of the bathroom.
TWO: Konnor
I watch as she sucks in little breaths through her pink lips, moaning softly. She is on her stomach, her hair creating a golden crown around the pillow. I like looking at her. Pemberton is a nicer person when she’s asleep. The issues start when she opens those lips and they produce words. Her beauty disappears when that poison spits from her, disarming all in its path. I wish I could love her.
I wish she were more lovable.
I’ve spent the last hour inside her, and I love the way she feels beneath me, or on top of me—anywhere around me, really. I like her name, her brown irises, and her blonde hair. But I don’t love her. How can I when she doesn’t laugh, when she scrutinises everything I do, when she judges everyone around her? I run my fingers through her golden hair that reminds me of both a vanishing memory and a promise forever unfinished. She makes a gentle sound of pleasure in response to my touch. Is this the best it can be between us? Will she always be second best? Second to whom I’d like to know?
You do know who, Konnor.
It’s been at least two hours since I had a drink, and I’m feeling a lot of nervous tension. Everything is brighter, clearer, harder, and I’m thinking about her fucking hair so it must be time to top-up. I roll off the mattress and try not to disturb the mean, hot, beautiful woman who is snoring sweetly at my side. Sliding my boxers up, I wander half-conscious towards the bar fridge in the kitchen.
I’m pleased with the apartment my parents leased for me this year, enough space for Pemberton and me to both exist in relative harmony. Although she has her own dorm room on campus, this apartment has seen more of her than my previous one. It’s pretty swanky. I’d be happy on campus, but my folks thought that adult accommodation meant I'd be just that… adult. This apartment is pretty fucking nice though. Pemberton likes nice things, and I like being inside her, so we both benefit from this arrangement.
My studio is on the top floor, the views of busy suburban life are entertaining and at times beautiful. I have a doorman, Adolf, which makes me feel a little, James Bond.
I make myself a drink and meander into the bathroom, ignoring my reflection as I enter. My clothes come off, the facet comes on and I step over the shower hob and into the steamy enclosure. I swig on my Jacks on the rocks before placing it on the tiled nib-wall to my side. The combination of both the water that is coming down hard and warm on my head, and my beverage, revives my senses. One thing Pemberton and I have in common is our love for daytime naps, or as her Italian family would say, siestas. So, at 6:30 pm on a Tuesday night, I’m just re-joining the waking world, whereas Erik and Jaxon will be at The Grill already waiting for us. I sleep a lot. I drink to feel normal. I sleep a lot because I drink to feel normal, rinse-and-repeat.
“Konnor, you have a letter from the dean!” Pemberton’s harsh voice startles me.
“Okay, just leave it on the table,” I reply, lathering myself up and down. I need to go back to the gym; practice was harder yesterday than it’s been in years. My calves are in agony. I saw my first rugby game at age nine, and although I’d barely kicked a ball by that age, the sport seemed to resonate with me, and I with it. The outdoors, the contact, the team energy, was everything I needed.
I finish off my drink and rinse the suds off my body, hoping Pemberton will surprise me and join in. She won’t. She never does. She can’t wear makeup in the shower. In my humble opinion, she looks like a million bucks without makeup, but that just isn’t her style.
Why is she going through my mail?
I wander into the kitchen while still dripping, lazily drying myself with a towel “Where is it?”
Pemberton sits at the dining room table, her long naked legs poking from beneath it. She’s wearing my favourite jersey and from my angle, I can tell she’s not wearing any underwear Nice.
My stare is quickly redirected when I notice her sitting with the letter open in front of her and is glancing over the type.
"What the fuck? You opened my mail?” I snap. “When did we get there?”
Her eyes narrow into slits and her beauty vanishes. It happens so often. “Don’t talk to me like that!” she hisses. “Do you need another drink or something?”
“Give me that!” I snatch the letter from her hand as she curses at me.
Mr B and Mrs R Slater,
Tuition for Konnor Slater (ID 109678) has been received. Please find enclosed invoice.
We would like to take this opportunity to thank you for your generous contribution to our new sporting complex. Attached for your records are the receipt and official sponsorship certification.
If you have any further queries, please do not hesitate to contact our office, 087654234
Kindest regards,
Dean Kevin Milner
I read the print, contemplating how my parents have afforded to prepay my tuition this year, and someh
ow contribute to the new sporting precinct. Both my parents, Ben and Renee, are entrepreneurs, so to speak. I never could decipher whether they are disgustingly wealthy or strategic fakers. I flick quickly through the sheets but then fold the letter and all associated documentation back into the envelope because I don’t want to see any monetary figures.
“Pem, it isn’t even addressed to me. This is for my parents.”
She stands and grabs a drink from the bar, shoving it in my hand, “Here. This should stop your bitching.”
Why the hell am I with her?
For her hair, and her eyes.
“Yes, Pemberton, I am well aware I drink too much. Thank you for enabling me.” I scowl at her, but despite the manner with which she presented my drink, I take it anyway. I raise it, giving her a cocky smile, “Thank you!”
Sometimes, I search her perfect brown eyes intently, praying for them to expose some kind of gentleness or purity. They never do.
“What are you wearing?” she snipes, motioning to my naked body.
I wiggle my hips teasingly, my cock slapping my thighs as I do. “My birthday suit.”
She rolls her eyes. “No, what are you wearing to the bar?”
I pinch her on the bum as I walk into my room. “This.”
Pemberton huffs. “Seriously, I want to match!”
“It isn’t a wedding, Pem. It’s The Grill,” I call back to her as I ruffle through my clothes, searching for a pair of jeans or, at the very least, a clean pair of tracky-pants.
“Do you care about me at all? I want us to look like a couple.”
“We are a couple,” I yell to her, and then mutter under my breath, “a couple of what I dunno.”
I can just faintly make out her snide mutters. “Arsehole,” I think. “Alcoholic,” perhaps. “Jerk.”
I find a clean shirt. “White!”
Now shut up!
✽✽✽
It only took me five minutes to get dressed in semi-clean jeans and a white shirt; bloody perfect combo. I then had the mundane task of waiting for Pemberton to make an appearance, knowing she would utilise the situation to strut her sexy body around in front of me. And she did. Not that I mind. Teasing little minx. She’s wearing a skin-tight white halter dress that shows off her exceptional thighs and grips her amazing arse. She looked beautiful, and, of course, I told her as much.
