by Kitty Parker
"I think she's waking up," I said hopefully. He nodded.
Brigid began to move some more, then suddenly pulled herself up and vomited on the carpet. I felt bad for whoever's room it was.
"Let's try to get her to the toilet over there," said Kurt, jerking his head toward the adjoining bathroom.
I put one of Brigid's arms around my shoulders, and Kurt did the same with her other arm. Although she was awake, her head lolled unpleasantly as we carried her and set her down gently upon the tiled floor in front of the toilet. Kurt lifted the toilet seat for her.
"I'm going to call down to the front desk to see if I can get someone to help clean the carpet," he said. I nodded in response, and he left the room.
Suddenly, Brigid's body shook violently, and she heaved again into the toilet bowl. I held her fiery red hair back for her and made slow, soothing circles on her back with my other hand.
"It's okay, Brigid," I said softly. "Just get it all out of your system."
She heeded my request by puking again.
Kurt reentered the room, followed by a woman with cleaning materials, who began to take care of the vomit on the carpet. Kurt made his way into the bathroom.
"How's she doing?" he asked.
"She's just getting it out of her system," I answered as more of the contents of Brigid's stomach came out into the toilet.
Kurt nodded gravely, running a hand through his light brown hair.
Brigid's breathing had slowed and deepened, and it appeared that the vomiting had stopped. She moaned.
I reached over to the stack of cups next to the sink and filled one with water for her. She tried to drink from it, but ended up pouring it down her front instead. I refilled the cup and brought it to her lips myself. She sipped gratefully.
"She's going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning," said Kurt, shaking his head.
"Mmm," I agreed, helping Brigid to down the last of the water. "Will you help me get her back to the room?" I asked.
He nodded. Coming over to where Brigid and I sat, Kurt put one of her arms around his neck for support. I took the other, and we carefully stood her up. Slowly, we made our way back to my room and deposited Brigid on her bed along with the blanket we had taken. Brigid was still conscious, but looking very drunk and drowsy.
"She'll be all right in the morning," said Kurt, looking her over.
"Yeah, I hope so," I responded.
There was a moment of awkward silence. Neither of us quite knew what to say to the other.
"You can go back to the party, if you want," Kurt offered. "I can stay here and keep an eye on her."
"No, that's alright," I replied. "I think I've had enough partying for one night." I paused. "Thank you, though."
Kurt nodded. "In that case, I'm going to bed. I'll…er…see you in the morning…I guess," he said awkwardly.
"'Night," I answered as he went out the door, closing it quietly behind him.
I had to admit to myself that over the course of the evening, my respect for Kurt had risen a bit. Just a bit.
The next morning, however, Kurt insisted upon making fun of the skirt I had chosen to wear. Yup, normal Kurt had returned from his little vacation. Some things are just too good to last.
Chapter 4: Werewolves of London
Luckily for everyone, there was no wake-up call on the morning of July 5. We were all fairly zonked from the night before, Brigid in particular for reasons that should be obvious. My entire room ended up sleeping in until about noon.
Since we had our concert the next day, we took the afternoon to rehearse. As a result of connections with higher-ups and some significant ass-kissing, Mr. Faulkner had managed to book us for the concert in St. Paul's Cathedral. Yes, that's right. St. Paul's, the second largest church in the world after the Vatican. We were all pretty floored.
Because of all the tourists that flocked to St. Paul's on a daily basis, we had our rehearsal in the hotel's ballroom instead. Eden, Jane, Brigid (who still felt a bit under the weather), and I went down at two in the afternoon for warm-ups, led by the ever-enthusiastic Nate Waugh, president of the choir. I stopped briefly in the bathroom as the others went in, then joined them at about 2:02. Nate gave me a death glare as I came in.
"You're late, Lotte," he said, trying to sound intimidating but failing miserably. "We started at two."
I glanced at the ornate clock on the wall of the large, gilded ballroom, then raised one eyebrow.
"It's 2:02, Nate," I said. "I know that the stereotype for Germans is that we're anal about punctuality, but seriously, what's two minutes between friends?" I batted my eyelashes and tried to look innocent.
Mr. Faulkner snorted with quiet laughter from where he was taking attendance. Like me, he thought that Nate was a bit too uptight. On the other hand, he loved me. I could get away with virtually anything if I wanted to (not that I'd ever tried; I do have some sense of decency).
Leaving Nate more or less at a loss for words, I slipped into my place in the soprano section and smoothed down my favorite black and white polka-dot skirt. It was very Audrey Hepburn-ish, and I absolutely loved it.
"Hey, nice skirt, Lotte," hissed a sarcastic voice from the bass section. "It looks like the 1960's threw up on you. Very attractive."
"Stuff it, Kurt," I growled.
Although he hadn't heard Kurt, of course, Nate caught my retort. "Lotte," he scolded, glaring at me once again. "I'm trying to lead warm-ups, here. You mind?"
"Sorry," I mumbled, glaring at Kurt, who was laughing quietly to himself. Stupid prick.
After the warm-ups were over, Mr. Faulkner took his place at his stand, fumbling around with his music. He had a rather large copy of Felix Mendelssohn's Elijah, the oratorio we were performing, and struggled to get it open to the right page.
"Alright guys," he began once he had found the spot he was looking for. "The last time you sang this thing through, it sounded pretty good. There are a few areas that we can improve on, though. This has the potential of being a masterpiece, and with all of your hard work this year, you don't deserve anything less than that."
There was some assorted grinning and blushing from among the choir.
"Today, I want to run over number twenty-nine, 'He, Watching Over Israel.' Keep in mind that this is sacred music. Mendelssohn didn't write Elijah for it to be just any old oratorio. He meant it to be special. Let's treat it with respect."
I had to smile. Mr. Faulkner had an everlasting love affair with music and often referred to it as though it was a person.
"Alright, everyone. Page 141, please. I'll give you one measure, then right in."
The members of the orchestra, who had joined us in London two days late, picked up their bows and horns and readied themselves for Mr. Faulkner's signal. He counted off four beats, then the orchestra began to play. After a measure, the sopranos came in:
"He, watching over Israel, slumbers not…"
Mr. Faulkner cut us off. "Sopranos," he began, annoyed. "You're punching 'watching!' Don't swell! Pretend that you're singing the little baby Jesus a lullaby."
"But this is the Old Testament," complained Steven Schumann, the infamous know-it-all tenor. I rolled my eyes.
Mr. Faulkner was slightly taken aback and hesitated for a moment. "Well, just pretend that the baby Jesus is there anyway. Or baby Moses, or Mohammed, or Buddha, or whatever. From the beginning."
We started again and made it all the way to the twentieth measure before he stopped us again:
"…Shouldst thou, walking in grief…"
"Tenors," he interrupted. "Please crescendo up to 'grief.' I actually want you to swell on it. It's GREIF! It's emotional!"
I could hear the tenors mumbling behind me about how weird it was that Mr. Faulkner was telling them to swell on a note instead of asking them to knock it off. It was definitely a first.
We started again from measure nineteen. This time we actually managed to finish the movement.
"Alright, sounds good," said Mr.
Faulkner, satisfied. "Now orchestra, I want to go over number twenty-one. There are some kinks we need to work out. Lotte, do you mind?"
"Of course not," I said, smiling and coming forward. Number twenty-one, 'Hear Ye, Israel!' was my solo aria. There were a number of solos in the piece - arias, recitatives, chorales, and whatnot - and all had been given to the seniors. It was the same sort of thing every year, and I'd been looking forward to my opportunity since I was a freshman. I'd never expected a whole aria, though, so I was totally thrilled.
As the orchestra began the movement, the second clarinetist came in horribly flat. Wincing, Mr. Faulkner stopped and patiently informed her of this. She adjusted her instrument, and we continued.
As I sang, I could feel a pair of eyes boring into the back of my head. I stole a glance and noted that it was Kurt. What the hell was he staring at? My confusion and indignation must have caught his attention, because he grinned evilly and promptly pretended to block his ears with his hands. This was an immense blow to my singer's ego. Did I sound bad?
Bryce, sitting next to Kurt in the bass section, noticed Kurt's rudeness and my worried face, then smacked the former upside the head, causing him to drop his hands. I grinned. Good old Bryce.
After the movement was over and Mr. Faulkner decided to take a bathroom break, I went over to the bass section to give Bryce a hug. I also shot a rather nasty glare at Kurt while I was there.
"Did I sound bad?" I asked Bryce.
"No, Kurt is just an idiot," he assured me, wrapping me in a big bear-hug. "You sang like an angel, as per usual."
"I'm surprised the windows didn't shatter," muttered Kurt loudly enough that I was sure to hear. "Damn sopranos."
"I heard that," I snapped.
"Good," he answered. "You probably have all the dogs in London running to the hotel."
"Dick."
"Dog-whistle."
"Feel the love," said Bryce, starting to hum "Why Can't We Be Friends?".
"Shut up," Kurt and I snapped at him in unison, but with obviously different emotions. Whereas I was annoyed that my insult-throwing had been interrupted, Kurt seemed almost embarrassed. Perhaps he had come to the realization that he was a moron?
"I think I hear a dog barking outside now. He's calling for you, Lotte. He heard your signal."
Then again, maybe not.
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"Perfect," I muttered to myself as I snapped the shutter of my camera, catching a bird just as it spread its wings. Behind it was the elegant dome of St. Paul's, completing the picture. Now if only I could find some werewolves like in that song by Warren Zevon… just kidding.
I'd been out on a photographic expedition for an hour now, since rehearsal had let out around five-thirty. I loved taking pictures whenever I went anywhere interesting, and London definitely qualified as a prime photographic subject. However, it was beginning to get dark, and I hated using the flash. I always preferred natural light that would show the subject exactly as it was. Yeah, so I'm a bit of an art snob. Shut up.
Sighing in resignation at the setting sun, I hopped on the "tube" to get back to the hotel. I thankfully only ran into one sketchy purse salesman, but I fended him off by yelling at him to leave me alone in German. That was my usual tactic and it worked every time, either because most random people on the street didn't speak German or because it sounded intimidating when you used an angry sort of voice. It doesn't really matter. The point is that he went away and I wasn't pushed into buying a Gucci knockoff.
When I arrived back at the hotel, the sun had set and it was quite dark. I headed straight up for my room, fumbling with the key in my purse. When I reached my destination, however, I heard voices talking animatedly from inside. One of those voices was a male voice, a voice, in fact, that I was not particularly fond of. I pushed open the door and stood there with my hands on my hips, wordlessly asking for an explanation as to why they, my supposed friends, had let him into my room.
"Oh hi, Lotte!" chirped Brigid cheerfully, rolling over on her bed to look at me. "Where've you been, pal?"
I glanced at Kurt, who seemed to be waiting for my answer.
"Out," I said.
"What are you, that chick from the shoes video? 'Out!'" mocked Jane, chuckling. "Details, woman!"
Raising an eyebrow, I lifted up my camera. "Been taking pictures," I said.
"Neat!" said Brigid. "Here, come sit with us."
I crossed over to my bed and sat down on the edge. "Kurt, just out of a vague curiosity, what are you doing in my room?" I asked.
"Just hanging out," he explained as though it was the most obvious and innocent thing in the world. "Your roommates are pretty awesome."
Eden giggled.
Eden giggled?
Eden giggled?
What the hell? She was supposed to be on my side!
"Right back atcha, Kurt," said Jane.
My jaw was now more or less on the floor. This was a freaking conspiracy! Everyone was ganging up on me to make my life miserable! Then again, no one had ever hated Kurt like I had. None of my friends had ever seemed to have anything against him…
But still! They were supposed to back me up! Didn't anyone besides me value loyalty at all?
Eden caught and correctly interpreted the look in my eyes and shot one back that said clearly "We'll talk about this later."
"So Kurt, what was that joke you were going to tell us when Lotte came in?" asked Jane.
Kurt grinned. "Alright," he said, taking a sip of the bottle of water that he held in his hand. "Knock-knock."
"Who's there?" we all asked. Well, I sort of grumbled it, but that's beside the point.
"John." He was looking directly at me now.
"John who?" I asked.
"John the Baptist!" he laughed, throwing his water in my face.
Shrieking, I leapt to my feet. "That was NOT funny!"
My friends seemed to think otherwise. They were literally rolling on the beds and the floor laughing their asses off.
"Priceless! Should… have seen… your face!" gasped Kurt, holding his sides.
"Argh!" I let out a loud cry of frustration, then stormed to the bathroom for a towel. That was so not funny. And yes, I do have a sense of humor. I just don't enjoy being the butt of cruel pranks. No one does.
I dried off my face, checked my reflection in the mirror, then went back into the room. My roommates and Kurt lay sprawled on the floor and beds, panting heavily and catching their breath. I threw my used towel at Kurt.
"Hey!" he shouted as it hit him in the head. He stood up and grabbed a pillow off Jane's bed, then swung it back.
"What the-" I began but was cut off when the pillow collided with my face. I let out a loud "Oomph!" before grabbing a pillow from my own bed and retaliating.
"PILLOW FIGHT!" shouted Brigid, and before I knew it, everyone had joined the fray.
Eden whacked me in the behind with her pillow. I whirled around and bopped her on the head. Brigid and Jane hit Kurt from both sides at the same time as he attempted to get Eden in the stomach. I whacked him in the legs, causing him to pitch forward face down onto Eden's bed. I let out an evil chuckle. The fight was only just beginning.
The epic battle continued for half an hour. Somewhere along the line, I had stopped being angry and started having fun. After all, who didn't love a good pillow fight? Of course, getting to whack Kurt Matthews with household objects was a definite plus…
By the end of our little war, Eden, Jane, and Brigid all lay sprawled across beds and chairs, trying to recuperate. Only Kurt and I remained, standing on top of my bed and weakly smacking each other with exhausted swings of our abused pillows. Thankfully, they weren't the feather kind, otherwise we'd need a fairly powerful vacuum cleaner.
"Lotte," panted Kurt, his resolve breaking. "I'm done… no more…" He sunk down onto my bed and lay back against the remaining pillows, his hazel eyes shutting as he breathed heavily.
Smiling exhaustedly at my triumph, I flopped dow
n onto the mattress as well, too tired to really care who the other occupant of said mattress was and momentarily forgetting that I was supposed to hate his guts.
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After a group dinner of traditional English "bubble and squeak" (which no one but a rather adventurous sophomore ate), "toad in the hole" (which was slightly more popular), and vegetarian lasagna (which wasn't exactly English but was by far the most appetizing dish of the night), my roommates and I retired to our room. Jane got there first, opened the door, and flopped down on Brigid's bed.
"Damn, that bubble and squeak stuff looked nasty," she said. "It looked like they just threw whatever they found in the fridge in a pan and fried it."
"That's basically what they do," said Brigid, shoving Jane over and lying down on the bed herself.
"What a way to cook," mused Eden, shaking her head thoughtfully. "The toad in the hole wasn't bad, though."
I shrugged and sat down on my own bed. Something from earlier that night was still on my mind, but I hesitated before voicing it.
"So… what were you guys talking about with Kurt while I was out?" I harbored a secret fear that they had been talking about me. The last thing I needed was for Kurt to know about all the crazy things I've done over the years in the company of my friends. He'd never let me forget any of it if he knew.
"Oh, we just told him about the time that you ate all those habanero chili peppers on a dare and ended up having to go to the emergency room," said Eden nonchalantly.
"You WHAT?" I screeched, jumping up. "You told him that?" Oh shit I was monumentally screwed!
Everyone burst out laughing.
"No, Lotte, of course not!" chuckled Jane. "Eden was just messing with you."
Relieved, I sat back down and laughed a bit myself. "God, it would have sucked if you'd told him that," I said. "He'd never let me live it down."
"No worries pal," laughed Eden. "We'd never put you through so much torment."
"I know," I said, grinning. "But seriously, guys, what were you talking about?"
"Nothing really important," said Brigid, thinking back. "Just chit-chat. Movies, music, anecdotes… you know, that kind of thing."
