On a Wednesday (One Week 2)

I also wasn’t sure what it felt like to know what it was like to have a guaranteed career path with everyone just waiting to pay you for your time.

Or having a friend to talk to about it …

In high school, I was homecoming queen, cheerleading captain, and every other superlative from the heroines in the Young Adult romance books.

In college, the exact opposite rang true every year.

I couldn’t buy friends if I wanted to, and no matter how many clubs I joined, I was never welcomed to hang out outside of the scheduled meetup hours.

“Next Stop, Forbes and Atwood!” The bus’s system sounded, and I grabbed my bag and stood to my feet.

Like a zombie, I walked into my dorm and rummaged for my keys. Unable to find them, I knocked on the door and waited for my roommate, Judy-April, to let me in.

Several seconds passed, and there was no answer, but I could hear her playing her typical emo-music.

For some strange reason, she’d had it out for me ever since move-in day. I’d tried so hard to be nice—hoping for a Hail Mary when it came to a last-ditch friendship, but it was no use.

She took one look at me, declared the bedroom on the left hers, and outside of a “Just pretend that she’s not here,” that she uttered when her friends came over, she never spoke to me again.

I knocked again, louder this time. “Judy-April, I just saw you go into our room. Can you please just let me in?”

She still didn’t answer.

“Judy-April?” I tugged on the door handle. “I accidentally locked my key inside, so could you please open the door?”

There was no answer, and before I could bang even harder, I noticed a pink post-it note sliding under the door.

I stooped down to pick it up, squinting at her super curly handwriting.

* * *

You’re a senior.

It’s not my job to be your mother.

If you lost your keys, tough shit.

What would you do if I wasn’t here?

* * *

Think about that.

* * *

ALSO: I’m already doing you a HUGE favor by not telling the R.A.s about your little friend that you’re not supposed to have.

* * *

The moment I finished reading the note, she cracked the door open a bit—just wide enough to let out my grey and white kitten, Julia.

Then she slammed it shut and locked it again.

As if she needed to drive home her point any further, she’d draped a note around Julia’s neck.

* * *

You’re welcome.

* * *

P.S. Panther Central will remake you a key for 20 bucks.

* * *

Ugh!

Ten minutes later, I waited in line at Panther Central, trying not to doze off in between the receptionist flirting with the group of guys ahead of me.

Just as I was about to pass out, everyone’s phones sounded at the same time. A cacophony of buzzing and ringing filled the room.

We all tapped our screens.

* * *

Mass Student Memo: Delete After Reading

* * *

The real fucking bonfire will be held on Oakwood Street to celebrate this year's first season win.

* * *

8:00pm—until

* * *

$8 tickets

$4 shots

$3 discount for girls who show up in wet-T-shirts

* * *

Hail to Pitt!

* * *

P.S. Wear tennis shoes just in case the cops shut it down.

* * *

“Fuck yeah!” The guy ahead of me yelled. Then he turned around.

“Oh whoa.” He looked me up and down. “Will I be seeing you there tonight?”

“No, never.”

“Well, would you like to make a private bonfire with me then?”

I moved past him and his friends and slammed my I.D. onto the counter. “Can you get me a replacement key for my place and then get back to flirting with these guys, please?”

“Is that a kitten in your hand?” The receptionist narrowed her eyes at me. “If it is, you may want to wait patiently until I get done talking to the people ahead of you….”

I held back a groan and stepped back.

I waited for an entire hour before I was able to return home and pass out in my bed.

Kyle: Then

Senior Year

Pittsburgh

“Grayson, I’m giving you five minutes to get to this bonfire, or I’m locking you out of our apartment tonight.” I left a second voicemail on his phone as huge flames hissed and cackled in the middle of Oakwood Street.

Usually, I would be drinking and dancing near the edge of the fire to celebrate our first season win, but all I could think about was the cheerleader I’d tackled at the student union a few days ago.

Not because anything was there—and not because she was sexy as hell, but because that was the most action I’d gotten so far this semester.

Two and half weeks with no sex—not even a blowjob, was a personal record.

I distinctly remembered having a crush on her during my freshman and sophomore years, but I always knew better than to approach her off the field.