I was in the dorm sleeping when Cary came back.
She woke me up. I was not happy.
“Shut off the light, you fucking bitch…I’m trying to sleep,” I said groggily. It was then that I noticed what could have only been Cary’s mother standing just behind Cary. Oops.
She didn’t say anything, but gave me a stern look. This is probably a good time to mention that it was obvious Cary got all her style sense from her mother. I would venture to say that they may have even shared the same clothing. Her mother was petite, with dark hair and looked like a ragged jersey housewife with too much eyeliner on. Her charcoal eyes made her look like she was freshly beaten, and her foundation was so thick you could have probably peeled it off her face in one single sheet. It is without exaggeration that I say it was a sight to behold. When she opened her mouth to speak I expected some kind of cultural accent but instead she spoke quite clearly and asked me how I liked college so far. I lied and told her it was great. What I didn’t tell her was that her daughter was probably going to fuck the whole football team judging by her ghetto fabulous party attire. That opinion I kept to myself.
Cary was getting settled in, putting away her stuff, making lots of noise. Immediately I became annoyed and decided to take a shower and get ready for class. I had no desire to spend any more time with the Jersey whores in my room.
Classes for me were boring, and easy. I rarely decided to go, and lately had been sleeping in, writing more of my book, and staying away from Cary. Today I knew Cary would be in our room most of the day, and her continuous attempts to start a conversation with me would quickly become annoying.
I got to my first class with minimal hassle. I had to think for a minute to remember where it was since I had only gone once this semester. My teacher was a middle aged man, brown hair, fairly slender, and obviously had a penchant for the kind of plaid shirts they sell at Lands End. His unusually high pitched voice reminded me of the castrated Chinese choir boys we learned about in high school, and strongly suggested he was gay. His name was Mr. Edland and thankfully he didn’t care if his students came to class or not, this worked perfectly for me.
I don’t know why I decided to attend but I did. I sat next to this normal looking guy, tall, blonde, wearing a polo shirt and jeans. It wasn’t until he spoke that I realized I may have made a mistake. He had a slightly high pitched voice, like Mr. Edland, and a slight southern drawl.
“My name is Brad,” he said.
“Hi, I’m Kristin,” I responded. I was trying to be polite.
“I’ve never seen you in this class before, are you new?”
“No, I just choose not to come.” This seemed to surprise him.
“So why come today?”
“My roommate is a needy cunt.”
“Wow, why don’t you tell me how you really feel about her?” He joked.
“No need,” I said, “that pretty much sums it up.”
By now I had obviously sparked his interest, and even though my gay radar was screeching a bit I decided to push the boundaries of my new acquaintance and ignore my instincts.
“Do you want to get out of here and get some coffee?” I asked casually.
That was the last time I went to Mr. Edlands class until the final