6
Having access to cooking facilities is great and all, but as I’d told Aslanov earlier, I’m a hopeless cook. I’m the first to admit that cooking takes a certain amount of patience, and I have the attention span of a toddler. Unless it involves murder. I’ve got all the time in the world for that, but we all have hobbies we enjoy.
I’m not sure if any of the dorm rooms have kitchen facilities. Judging by how busy the cafeteria is, I’d say either they didn’t or the students had cooking skills like mine.
The huge building housing the cafeteria looks like something out of a stately home on one of those regal-looking British shows featuring earls and ladies. I half expected it to be like Narnia, in the sense I would step through the threshold and be transported to another place and time.
Alas, that didn’t happen. The inside is just as spectacular as the outside, but that’s where the magic wears off.
All the people I see are mentally still teenagers, even though most are the same age as me. It’s obvious they give exactly zero fucks about the building or the history steeped within its walls.
Hell, I could see one of the girls drawing a heart on one of the windows with bright red fuck-me lipstick, like an ignorant child might draw on the wall with crayons.
That’s what’s wrong with the youth of today, no respect.
“Oh, dear God. I sound like my grandmother.”
“What’s that?”
I turn at the sound of the voice and see a handsome-in-a-geeky-way man behind me wearing black-framed glasses.
He’s tall, easily six foot four or five, with wavy chestnut-brown hair styled in a messy I-run-my-fingers-through-it-a-lot vibe. His body is lean like a swimmer’s, but he’s no runt. He smiles at me. It’s a polite smile you offer someone you hold the door open for. I get it. He doesn’t know me, and he’s trying to figure out where I fit on the social scale of things. I could be like bitch brigade—great white sharks with sharp teeth cleverly disguised with lipstick—or I could be a pariah and instead of predator I’m the prey—easily picked on. Sitting with me could then make him a target, depending on who he is.
“I’m trying to decide if the food is good enough for me to walk into chaos or if I should just walk away.”
He grins wider. “I won’t lie. The food here is killer. It’s why it’s always so busy and well, what can I say? We’re all a little spoiled and like nice things.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that. What do you recommend, and is there anything I should avoid?” I ask, making conversation as I follow him inside.
“Honestly, you can’t go wrong with most things they serve. There is a little bit of everything. Pasta and pizza are made by Gino, who is an Italian chef. He also makes tiramisu. He’s easily bought, so if you slip him some cash, he’ll lace that tiramisu with enough alcohol to keep you drunk for a week.”
“Pizza sounds pretty damn good right now.”
“A woman after my own heart. Come on, I’ll walk you through it.”
I follow him and keep my eyes on the direction we’re heading, but I’m aware of everyone else in the room.
“Here.” He indicates a tablet fixed to the counter in front of us.
“Scan your ID card against it to sign in.”
I watch as he taps his ID card on the screen, and his face, student ID number, and house flash on the tablet with a welcome message.
“At each station is another tablet. All you have to do is type in the selection you make and move on to the next station. Once you’re done, head to the checkout, where you scan your card again. It will total up what you bought and automatically deduct it from your balance. Pick up a little bleep thing, and it will go off when your food is ready.”
I remember reading about this in the pamphlet. Sugar will upload cash to my school account, which I can access for things like food and books by swiping my ID card. Here’s hoping she didn’t forget.
“Ah, simple. Thank you…em…”
“Shit, sorry. I’m Scott.”
“Everly. Nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine.”
We walk through the selections, both of us opting for pizza that’s made-to-order and gelato for dessert.
“Want to join me?” he asks after we’ve both paid.
“I’d love to, thank you.” It’s better than the mean girl’s you-can’t-sit-here scene playing in my head. I may be able to kill everyone in this room with my bare hands, but none of them knows that, and it restricts my vibe when I can’t just choke someone out for pissing me off.
He walks us over to the far corner of the room and a table that’s already occupied by a pretty girl with long baby-pink braids on either side of her head and a guy with short spiky black hair and a letterman jacket arguing with each other.
“Casey and Sarah,” Scott tells me quietly. “Theirs is an epic kind of love. Some days they plot each other’s murder, some days they have make-up sex in public.”
Dear God, I have found my people.
“Guys.” They stop arguing to face Scott before their eyes move to me.
“This is Everly. Everly, this is my best friend, Casey, and his better half, Sarah.”
“Ah, the new girl. I heard all about you before I’d even made it to my first class,” Sarah says with a smirk, snagging a fry from Casey’s plate.
“Goddammit, woman. I asked you if you wanted fries, and you said no. I asked you again, just to make sure, and you said no. So why the fuck do you keep stealing mine?” he snaps.
“I didn’t want any then. I’m sorry if sharing with the love of your life is too much for you. It’s good to know before we get married and have kids.”
“I’m being punished, aren’t I? That’s what this is.”
“If anyone is being punished, it’s me. You’re proof there is no God because nobody would willingly saddle me with you.”
“That’s funny, sweetheart, because you sure as shit were calling God’s name last night when my dick was inside you. ‘Oh God, yes. Please God, harder,’” he mocks.
I have to dip my head to hide my laugh.
“Oh well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore, sweetheart, because you are never fucking me again,” she snaps.
Both of them are breathing heavily, staring at each other before Casey wraps his hand around her neck and yanks her to him, slamming his mouth over hers.
She whimpers and melts into him.
I turn to Scott, who dips his head and bangs it repeatedly on the table.
“I really need new friends,” he grumbles before looking at me apologetically.
I can’t help it. I laugh.
“Hi, I’m the third wheel. Welcome to hell,” he mutters.
“I think they are hilarious.”
“And here I thought you might be a nice, normal girl.” He shakes his head as if he’s disappointed.
“Normal is overrated.”