Dreamland City. Larina Lavergne
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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: