by Tom Ellen
“That’s way too deep for me, mate,” Connor said, and took a sip of tea. “Sounds like some Lord of the Rings shit.”
I peered over the bread as Josh poured the icing on top of it and then covered it in sprinkles. “Fairy bread!” he declared proudly.
“Egg-fairy-bread, more like it.” I ran over to my cupboard and took out the cookie cutters I had made my mum buy even though I have never baked a cookie before, ever.
I got a duck one and plunged it into the bread.
“Did you really bring cookie cutters to college?” Josh smirked.
“Do you really make egg-fairy-bread served with poetic life mantras?”
Negin and Becky wandered in. They had both gotten fully dressed.
“None of us died overnight,” I said, smiling.
“I almost did,” Negin said. “My room is freezing.”
Becky lingered by the microwave. It was like she didn’t know if she had permission to sit down.
“Becky”—Josh pulled a chair away from the table—“are you prepared to have your life changed?”
“Do you want a cup of tea?” I smiled as encouragingly as I could.
“Thanks,” she almost whispered, and sat down next to Liberty.
Josh laid the duck-shaped iced egg sandwich in front of Connor.
Connor sat up and looked at it, then shoved the whole thing in his mouth. He chewed, swallowed and then got up and put his arms around Josh, picked him up and walked him around the kitchen. “That is the most beautiful thing I have ever eaten. That is all I am gonna eat for the next three years. I love you.”
“Negin, look, there’s a rocket one. It matches the rocket on your door.” I pushed the cookie cutter into the sandwich and presented it to her on a plate.
“I don’t think we should use plates unless we absolutely have to. Or knives and forks,” Connor said. “If you can eat it with your hands I think you absolutely should. D Dorm policy.”
Negin didn’t look convinced by the policy or the iced egg sandwich. She smelled it and then took a tiny bite.
Josh cut Becky a dinosaur and I took a picture to show my mum that the cookie cutters had actually been a good investment.
Then Josh downed the last of his tea and stood up. “OK, I have to go to work. And you guys have to go to Freshmen Orientation Fair.”
“Do you wanna borrow my sweater so you don’t freeze?” I said, and then looked down. It was white with a purply glitter outline of a rabbit’s face. “Or…I can lend you another one.”
“Don’t worry.” He smiled. “I reckon I can pull that off.”
It looked like a cross between a garage sale and a circus. Hundreds of tables strewn messily across the huge hall, all surrounded by brightly colored, hand-drawn posters advertising every kind of sport, hobby or club you could think of, and presided over by wackily dressed, wide-grinning, way-too-hyperactive-for-this-time-of-the-morning people. Everywhere you turned, someone was yelling at you, or waving you over, or shoving a leaflet or a pen or a cookie in your hand.
Me and Arthur weaved our way through the madness, binge-eating cookies, both still heavy with last night’s hangovers.
It had been beyond weird to plug in my phone this morning and see no new messages, no missed calls. All summer, I’d thought I’d feel relieved by that sight, but if anything, it made me more ill at ease. Like the guilt and the worry had suddenly been amplified.
I just wanted, so badly, for her to be OK. To be happy again. I’d sat on the edge of my bed, trying to actually, properly process what had happened, but then Arthur had pounded my door down, and the idea of missing Orientation Fair to sit alone in my room suddenly didn’t seem like an acceptable option.
Arthur pocketed yet another novelty ballpoint pen offered by a psychotically jolly random person and glanced around the hall, anxiously. “I should be keeping my head down, really,” he muttered. “After last year’s fair.”
“Why?”
“When I turned up, I was still drunk from the night before. I signed up for all sorts of random shit and I haven’t been to a single meeting since.”
Right on cue, a figure stepped into our path wearing baggy white overalls, with a black mesh mask totally covering its face. It was carrying a fistful of flyers that proclaimed: YORK MET BEEKEEPING SOCIETY: A GREAT WAY TO MAKE FRIENDS…AND HONEY!
“Hello, Arthur,” said the figure in a stern northern accent. “Haven’t seen you at any of the meetings. You seemed so keen last year.”
Arthur looked at his feet. “Yeah, sorry about that, man. I just, erm…I prefer to beekeep by myself, to be honest. Just me and the bees. It’s more of a private, personal thing for me, beekeeping.”
The figure didn’t move. “You’ve got your own hive, then?”
Arthur nodded. “Yep. Keep it in the bath.”
The figure snapped. “You shouldn’t keep hives in damp places, Arthur! Bees cannot cope with damp. That’s the first thing we would have taught you at Beekeeping if you’d ever bothered to show up to a meeting.”
Arthur flapped his hands apologetically. “Yeah, no, sorry. What I meant is I keep it in the oven. Or the microwave. I rotate it between the two.” Then he added, “I don’t know why you’re so worked up about me, anyway, Martin. I’m sure you’ve got tons of recruits. Where’s the rest of the Beekeeping Society?”
“He’s over there,” said the figure.
“Right, well, we should be off,” Arthur replied, dragging me away by the arm. “I’m just showing Luke here around.”
We moved away, and Arthur shook his head. “This is a fucking nightmare,” he said darkly. “The bloke from the Fencing Club will probably stab me in the face if he spots me. Trust me, man, you should only sign up to shit that you’re actually, genuinely interested in. Once they’ve got your email, they own your soul. They’ll never let you go.” He kicked at a bit of loose carpet. “I’ll still be getting the minutes from those fucking beekeeping meetings on my deathbed.”
Across the room, we noticed Rosie, Tom, Beth and Nishant from our hall signing up for Chemistry Club.
“They’re already majoring in chemistry,” groaned Arthur. “Why the hell do they have to sign up for Chemistry Club as well?”
A bloke on stilts wobbled by, yelling, “COME JOIN STILT WALKING CLUB!” and Arthur reached up to fist-bump him. “Yes, Danilo!” He turned to me. “That’s Danilo. He’s in my program. He’s really into stilt walking.”
And then, from a speaker somewhere in the hall, a girl’s voice boomed out in a low monotone, like an airport announcement: “Arthur Watling, report to the karaoke stand immediately to perform ‘Someday My Prince Will Come.’ Once again, Arthur Watling, to the karaoke stand, please.”
Arthur’s face split into a grin, and he looked around wildly in search of the voice’s owner.
“Arthur Watling, you should be wearing your glasses,” the voice deadpanned. “Arthur Watling, I’m quite clearly in the corner, next to the Warhammer stand.”
We walked over to the corner, past the shaggy-haired Vikings of Warhammer Club, where a good-looking girl in a red woolly sweater was sitting by herself at the Karaoke Club desk. She was waving a glitter-covered microphone at us, which was hooked up to a speaker on a rickety-looking stage.
“Yes, Reets!” Arthur said. “Since when are you heading the York Met karaoke squad?”
“I’m not,” said the girl, undoing her topknot and letting her curly black hair explode out in all directions. “Never done karaoke in my life. I’m just minding the table for Liz while she gets some fries.” She tied her hair back up again, then waved the mic at us. “I’m supposed to be trying to get people to sing.”
“No chance,” Arthur grimaced. “I know people in here.”
“You sang last year,” said the girl, arching
an eyebrow.
“Shit. Did I?”
The girl laughed. “Yeah. ‘Single Ladies,’ if I remember rightly. Then you went and signed up for Warhammer.”
“Fuck’s sake. No wonder they all look so pissed off.”
“No, I think that’s just how they look generally.” She turned to me and smiled. “I’m Rita, by the way. Me and Arthur were neighbors in our dorm last year.”
“I’m his new neighbor, Luke. Nice to meet you.”
She frowned. “Oh dear, poor you. Has he enlightened you on the virtues of sink-pissing yet?”
“He’s outlined the basic argument for it, yeah.”
“Yes, I got that spiel on the first day, too. Thing is, peeing in a sink’s not quite as easy when you’re a girl. Oh, thank god, here’s Liz.”
Liz—who was wearing a bright-green KARAOKE CLUB hoodie—reclaimed her microphone, and Arthur and Rita went off to get a coffee. They didn’t ask if I wanted to come with them, which sucked a little, and I didn’t ask if I could, so I ended up wandering around by myself for a bit, feeling my hangover start to dissolve slowly into a ravenous hunger and trying to put off thinking about Abbey.
I went and signed up for the soccer team, which was by far the busiest and noisiest booth in the hall. The guys at the table seemed to recognize me right away as one of their own; they all nodded and smiled, and one guy called Will shook my hand and said, “Nice to meet you, man. See you at tryouts, yeah?”
I suppose I am one of their own, really. Obviously, the whole point of college is to broaden your mind and try new things or whatever, but surely there’s no harm in also sticking to what you know. And I know soccer. It’s the one thing I really like that I’m actually, definitely good at. That’s got to count for something.
I was starting to feel self-conscious about walking around on my own, so I went to join the line for free fries at the Nando’s booth. But then I finally saw a face I recognized. Across the packed hall, Phoebe was standing at one of the tables, signing a form, while a pigtailed girl jabbered away excitedly at her.
Feeling lighter suddenly, I waved and walked over. “How you doing?”
“Hey! Luke. How’s it going?” Her cheeks flushed a bit. She seemed genuinely pleased to see me. “I’ve been on the lookout for our old friend Stephanie Stevens, but no sign of her yet.”
“I know, I feel quite protective of her now. Though she definitely won’t remember us. What are you up to, anyway?”
“Just signing up for Feminist Club.” She flicked the big bunch of purple balloons that was attached to the table. “They’ve got balloons and everything, so they must be legit. Have you put your name down for anything?”
“Erm…soccer, and that’s about it so far.”
“Ah yeah, of course, soccer.” She snorted a laugh and then covered her mouth. “Sorry, that’s my main memory of Monday assemblies—Mr. Weale’s game reports.” She adopted a surprisingly convincing Mr. Weale voice. “ ‘…And Luke Taylor scored an exceptional hat trick on Saturday. Well done, Luke.’ ”
“I’m going to sign up for other stuff, too,” I said, probably a bit too defensively. “I’m just not sure what yet.”
“Yeah, me too.” She nodded.
“So come on, then. What shall we do? We could sign up for something together.”
She went quiet for a second. “Erm, yeah, OK…What?”
We both looked around us. “Maybe Caribbean Club?” she suggested, pointing at a table with a huge Jamaican flag behind it, where a small white guy with matted blond dreadlocks was nodding his head to a Bob Marley track.
“Do you think that guy is actually Caribbean?” I asked.
“I’ve spoken to him already,” she said. “His name is Jeremy; he’s from Guernsey. He told me that coming from a small island gives him a ‘Caribbean mentality.’ ”
“Right,” I said. “Well, I think we’ll pass on Jeremy. What else is there?”
“I dunno….”
I picked a balloon out of the Feminist Club bunch. “OK, tell you what: I’ll flick this balloon and whichever table it lands nearest, that’s what we’ll sign up for.”
She smiled. “OK.”
I sent the balloon spiraling up into the air, way above the forest of heads and hands. We followed it and watched it descend slowly onto a table surrounded by broomsticks and cheerful-looking people wearing long, flowing black robes.
Phoebe raised her eyebrows. “Whoa. That looks quite…intense.”
“No, come on!” I said, mock-sternly. “We said whichever one it landed on, we had to sign up for.” It was weird. I suddenly felt this massive urge to prove to her that I wasn’t just some boring, one-dimensional soccer player. That there was more to me than that. Even though, to be honest, I’m not entirely sure there is.
“Yeah, I know we said that.” She nodded. “But…quidditch?”
“The balloon has spoken, Phoebe.”
“Balloons can’t speak, Luke. Not even in Harry Potter.”
“The whole point of college is to try new things, you know.”
“You sound like my mum,” she scoffed.
“Well, your mum’s clearly a legend. Let’s do this.”
We wandered over to the quidditch table and I scribbled our names down on the form. A guy with a Ron Weasley wig on told us there would be an “informal meet-and-greet” this afternoon.
“We’ve got to go,” I told Phoebe. “We can’t just sign up and then wuss out.”
“Well, technically, we could do that…,” she whispered.
“No, we’ve put our names down now. We’ve got to go at least once.” I stuck out my hand. “Shake on it?”
She grinned. “OK, OK. I’ll be there.”
We shook hands. Then we swapped numbers, but as I put my phone back in my pocket, I felt it buzzing again. I took it out and, with a little flutter of relief, saw that it wasn’t Abbey. It was a landline.
I answered it. “Hello?” said a woman’s voice. “Luke? Luke, this is Sally.” There was a pause. “Abbey’s mum.”
It wasn’t a date. That’s what I kept telling myself. We were just randomly joining the Quidditch Club for a laugh.
But then it also sort of was a date. We had made an arrangement to see each other. And that led to lots of questions and mass internal hysteria. From “Should I wear my hair up?” right through to “If it came to it, would I actually screw over Abbey Baker and hook up with him?”
Obviously, yes. Although I would feel bad about it, because in ninth grade she let me join her group in dance when Flora was away and stuck up for me when Maud Evans tried to give me the role of a toothbrush in “Shake It Off.” Plus, she cried when Mrs. Renchanova left. So I know she’s nice, even though she is so good-looking that she really doesn’t have to be.
In my head, she had made Luke cry by cheating on him with her hot hall mate at her college. Flora had kind of tossed that idea out when I spoke to her, and it had taken root in my mind and become the only logical chain of events.
The fact Luke had even suggested doing this whole quidditch thing had changed him in my eyes. In seven years of observing Luke Taylor, it never occurred to me or Flora that he might have a sense of humor. He cried and was funny. He actually might be my perfect man.
I readjusted my track pants. I had tried to channel cool as a cucumber Bowl-Cut Girl, but without the actual bowl cut it hadn’t quite worked.
“It’s here.” Negin looked up. We were standing a few feet away from a very long, low shed-like building. There was a small clump of people standing near the door, all talking to each other. Luke wasn’t there yet.
“OK,” Negin said. “See you later.” She put both hands on her backpack straps like a hiker and turned. I didn’t want her to leave me alone, awkwardly waiting for someone i
n the quidditch clump to talk to me.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
She looked into the distance like she was having extreme contemplative thoughts. “Yes.” She nodded slowly. “I’m one hundred percent sure I do not want to join the Quidditch Club.”
“I’m not actually joining it, either.” I lowered my voice midsentence. “And you really like Harry Potter.”
“Yes, but I am Ravenclaw and I don’t think anyone in Ravenclaw is actually into physical exercise.” She rolled her eyes. “OK, I’ll wait until he gets here.”
“Are you guys waiting for Quidditch Club?” A really, really tall girl with a really, really posh voice was standing in front of us. “Can I walk in with you so I don’t look like an actual weirdo?”
She didn’t wait for us to say yes, just smiled really broadly. “Then again, that building is so small I probably won’t even fit in it.” She walked over to the shed building and stood with her back against it like she was being measured in elementary school. Her head almost reached the roof. “No, but literally, look.”
She lolloped back over. “I’m Frankie.”
“Phoebe.”
“Negin. I’m not actually joining.”
“Oh my god, why not?” Frankie said. “You literally have to come for, like, ten minutes because this is going to be massively funny.” She reached her arms out as she said “massively” to physically show us how hilarious it was going to be. Without waiting for Negin to respond, she took her arm and started walking her to the shed door.
“Are you both in the same dorm?” she asked.
Negin and I nodded. Negin had kind of been swept up by Frankie against her will. I looked for Luke but I couldn’t see him. “So, where’re you from?”
Frankie made a really loud groaning noise and the other people waiting all looked at her. She spoke to them as well as to us. “No, don’t. Genuinely. I actually might cry if I start talking about it.” She didn’t look like she was about to cry at all. “Basically, it’s all my own fault.” She laughed to herself. “Right now, I’m actually supposed to be in Costa Rica at a sloth sanctuary. But then when my exam results and acceptance letters came back, I just really wanted to go to college. Also, I found out that in Costa Rica they have spiders the size of schnauzers. Miniature, but still.”
