I’m still feeling a bit jumpy. Someone’s phone goes off halfway through the lecture, and the professor goes apeshit, yelling at them to get the hell out of his lecture hall. At one point, I wonder if he’s going to storm out, or grab the phone and throw it away, or both. I kind of like how these professors operate. Unlike school—which was all please and thank you and don’t damage their fragile little egos even if they are bullying little shitheads who give other kids nightmares—university is much more brutal. You step out of line? You get bawled out, simple as that. Forget safe spaces. You’re here to learn.
Amy gives me a fake worried look, and I dare to smile before the professor carries on. Today’s lecture is about Jung—not one of my favorites, but interesting nonetheless. Some people might complain about lectures, but I like them. I like the focus. Concentrate on this. No need to interact with the rest of the world. It’s good.
Afterward, I wait until nearly everyone has filed out before I scuttle toward the door, my head down, my arms full of folders. I’m still not used to being this visible, and I wonder if I ever will be. Maybe I should speak to Amy about it—ask her if we can sit at the back, where I feel safer? Or would she totally, like, laugh at that?
Whatever she’d do, she has followed me out and is looking at me expectantly. I have no idea what to say to her.
“Uh, good lecture?”
“Oh, yeah!” she replies. “Listen, do you want to come back to mine for some lunch? We could look at those references together. Are you in digs or halls? Oh, no, you live at home, right? I remember, your mum’s sick. Is she okay? Do you need to get home, or can you come round? I mean, if your mum needs you, then of course, go do that, but if not, you could come back to mine. I know there’s another lecture at one, and I’m not that far away, I mean, we could go to the library, of course, but then we can’t eat, and if I don’t eat I go all weird and wobbly, like properly hangry, so, uh, yeah?”
Oh God. This is good, right? This is what I wanted? Uni was a new start, a new opportunity, and here I am being offered that opportunity—the opportunity to make a real friend and not one that is just strings of zeros and ones, one made of flesh, not of data. I was just planning to hang around the library, but okay, this is something else, something new, something . . . good?
“Uh, okay,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t crack. “Whatever you want. Are you in halls?”
“Yeah, I am. The nice ones, not like, you know, Bateson. Do you know they still have shared rooms there? It’s like the fucking stone age! Luckily I got into Watson. It’s a bit more expensive, but I get my own room and bathroom. Nothing worse than having to pull someone else’s hair out of the plughole, right? It’s just disgusting. So when I applied, Mum and Dad said that they’d help me pay for the nicer halls as long as I kept my grades up, God, you’d think that was all that mattered, fucking grades, don’t they realize the experience of uni is the important thing?”
She seems to expect a response so I say, “Uh, yeah, absolutely. Get out there, in the real world. Try to figure out who you are.” Not that I have a clue.
“I know, right? I tried to tell them, but they think everything has to be tied to what job you can get, how much you can earn, like money is everything . . .”
I try not to gawp as she carries on talking. It’s a gift. Or a curse. She can witter on about anything. No need to worry about uncomfortable silences with Amy around. It’s kind of adorable. And annoying.
“Oh, look! Squirrels!” she squeals as we walk past the park. “Oh, I love the way they scamper about, holding things in their little paws. They are so cute!”
I don’t have the heart to tell her I saw three of them mug a couple of old ladies of their sandwiches not that long ago.
We grab the bus, and from there it doesn’t take us long to reach her residence halls, but I’m still breathing pretty hard when we get there. I’m trying to disguise it, which is only making matters worse, but I can’t let on that a simple stroll has knackered me quite this much.
She lives on the third floor, and I suffer a moment of panic when I think I might have to climb three flights of stairs, but it’s okay—there’s a lift. Thank the Lord for small mercies, I suppose.
Her halls aren’t quite like I’d imagined university accommodations to be. In my head, it’s all very much filthy bathrooms and greasy kitchens, cigarette butts, and pyramids of beer cans all over the place. This looks more like a Travelodge. Okay, so there’s washing-up piled in the sink and about a million takeaway menus covering the table, but on the whole, it’s pretty civilized. Nicer than home, anyway. At least someone vacuums here. They probably have a cleaner who comes in, or something.
Amy bounces off and opens one of the doors.
“This is my room!” she says, and wow, yes it is. It looks like there was an explosion in a glitter factory. Fairy lights twinkle around the mirror, and there are posters for various anime movies on the wall. And, Jesus, is that tinsel? It’s not Christmas! But it does sparkle, and Amy’s obviously a magpie, so why not?
I sit on the edge of her bed and she throws herself down next to me.
“So, this is my home at the moment,” she says. “I mean, it’s small, I know, but it’s homey, isn’t it?”
I glance around myself, trying not to be blinded by all the sparkling. Is she . . . seeking my approval?
“Uh, yeah. It’s really nice. Really . . . glittery.”
“Yeah, I like glitter. It’s really important to make your living space yours, otherwise I don’t think you could ever really relax there. Mum didn’t like me having the lights up, said they were a fire hazard, and she thought that sparkly things made the room look cheap, but fuck it, she’s not here, is she?”
The sudden viciousness in her voice shocks me.
“Anyway, I decided I was going to craft my dream room when I was at uni.” And just like that, the viciousness is gone. “So I did! I love it. It’s my haven. My sanctuary. Shall we go and get something to eat?”
And she’s up again, bouncing to the door. If this is such a sanctuary, then why does she seem so keen to get out of it? But then again, that’s not really my business, is it? I eat family meal deals’ worth of pizza to escape my issues. We all have our quirks.
The kitchen is the only shared space, but there’s no one else in at the moment, so I don’t feel too uncomfortable. Amy puts the kettle on and goes to the fridge, where she rummages for a bit and then surfaces, empty-handed.
“Those jokers,” she says. “No milk. Again. We’re supposed to get all our own stuff, but they keep borrowing mine.” She rolls her eyes in a dramatic way, as if it’s all just a big joke, but I can see it bothers her. “Good thing I’ve got some Coffee-Mate. Are you okay with coffee?”
“I’m fine with coffee,” I say.
“Sugar?”
Three.
“No, thanks. I’m trying to avoid added sugar as much as possible at the moment.”
“Oh, you’re so good! Not like me, I’m hopelessly addicted.” She adds two teaspoons of the white stuff into a mug.
Look, I know. I know, okay? You don’t need to say anything. I have to pretend I’m avoiding. It makes it look like I’m trying, and I’ve learned that people are more willing to give the overweight the benefit of the doubt if we piously restrict ourselves in public. It’s an unwritten law: never add sugar, always stick to the salad option even if the lasagna looks reeeally good, and never, never, NEVER order a dessert, no matter what. People will then tell you you’re so good, oh, it’s so unfair for you, you try so hard, and for a fleeting moment, you are allowed to believe them and it’s okay to feel, if not good about yourself, then maybe a smidgen less self-loathing.
Anyway, you can always stop off at Tesco on the way home, buy a family-sized chocolate trifle for a fraction of the price of the tiny slice of cake you’ve just refused to eat, and trough the lot, preferably while lying on your bed in your underwear. It’s a win-win situation. Well worth suffering a cup of bitter coffee.
“Oh, I don’t know where I’d be without coffee,” Amy says. “Half asleep, propped up in the library somewhere, I expect. I reckon the whole university industry is probably run on coffee. I must go through a good jar of it a week.” She lowers her voice a bit. “Then again, I do think some of the jokers here might help themselves sometimes, I mean, I know I’m a coffee addict, but I don’t think my habit is that bad.”
“Maybe you should just keep it in your room?” I say. “Lock it up so nobody else could get it. You could get a mini-fridge, too, stop people from nicking your milk.”
“Uh, wow, yeah. That’s such a good idea.” She beams at me, but I can hear the doubt in her voice, and I wonder why she doesn’t want to protect her stuff.
“How many people live on this floor, anyway?” I ask, hoping to change the subject just subtly enough so she doesn’t realize that’s what I’m doing. I don’t know what it is about her, but she stokes my maternal instinct; she has this wobbly-legged-fawn-born-next-to-a-motorway quality to her, and I can’t help but want to protect her, even if it’s just from herself.
“There’s five, including me. Indigo, Dizzy, Patrick, and Richard. They’re great. Really great. I really like all of them. Really.”
Really?
“That’s good,” I say, and take a sip of my coffee. It’s not a bad brand, not like the cheap shit we get at home, but it still takes everything I’ve got to not pucker my mouth and reach for the sugar bowl. “I can’t imagine how bad it would be if you didn’t get along.”
For a second, Amy stares out the window, sipping on her coffee. “Yeah. I know. Some people are having a really tough time, you know, homesick, not really getting on with anyone, just struggling in general. I’m so lucky.” She gives me a brittle smile.
Okay, so this isn’t one of the most awkward conversations I’ve ever had . . .
“Where are you from?” I ask, hoping it’s innocent enough and isn’t the thing that finally breaks her.
“Buckinghamshire. I know, ooh arr, I sound like a farmer. Mum and Dad wanted me to go to Oxford, like my brother Rob, but I wasn’t having that. So much pressure, you know? So I, like, decided I was going to a real university. Experience real, proper life, not the weird stuff Rob does. He’s a member of a really bizarre society, and quite frankly, I didn’t want anything to do with that, so I said ‘Fuck no, I’m going to forge my own destiny,’ you know what I mean? And so I’m here now, and it’s sooo much better than I expected, it’s sooo real, so nice to be with authentic people, not the fakes I had to put up with at home, because I think it’s far more important to be authentic, don’t you? So many people are just, like, so fake nowadays, it’s all ‘what car do you drive’ and ‘who does your dad work for,’ but there’s more to life than that, isn’t there?”
“Uh, yeah. Of course there is,” I say, wondering what the name of her childhood pony was and how much longer her membership to the local tennis club has before it runs out. Then I feel a bit bad, because that’s MidnightBanshee kind of thinking. So Amy’s trying to reinvent herself. I can’t judge her for that. I’m doing exactly the same thing. Let her do whatever she has to do to make herself feel better. Live and let live, and all that jazz.
The main door bangs, and Amy flinches. I frown into my mug. Heavy footfalls echo up the corridor. A handsome, if heavyset, young man strides into the room, and I instinctively lean back, as if I might be able to press myself into the wall and disappear. He grins at both of us.
“All right, chicks? Hey, Tinks, mind if I steal some coffee? I’m mucho parched, and I’ve run out.” Before she can answer, he turns to me. “Heyyy, Big Bird! I’m Patrick, but everyone calls me Bear. You know, because of Paddington and everything. It’s a rugger thing. Can’t help it, everyone has to have a nickname. You okay, Tinks? You look a bit tired. Okay with the coffee, yeah?” He doesn’t wait for her to answer, just helps himself to a cup. “Anyway, you seen Diz? She was supposed to meet me for lunch but never showed. Stupid thing, no wonder everyone calls her Dizzy. If you see her, tell her I stayed for a bit, but I’m not hanging around.”
He takes a huge gulp from his mug. “Right then, I’m going to have a shit, a shower, and a shave, smoke a boom batty, and then I’m off. Catch you later, Tinks. You too, Big Bird. Have fun.”
And he leaves.
I don’t quite know what to say.
“That was Patrick,” Amy says. “He’s funny.”
“Yeah, he comes across that way,” I say dryly. “Why does he call you Tinks?”
“Tinkerbell.” She almost whispers it. “He says it’s because I’m away with the fairies. You shouldn’t be offended by his silly nicknames. He plays rugby, went to a posh school.”
Like that makes it somehow okay to be a prick to everyone.
“What’s his surname?” I ask.
“Uh, Dalgleish, I think. Why?”
“No reason,” I say.