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Plopping back onto my bed, I turn on my side to face her in the dark. “Just no.”
She groans but doesn’t say anything else, and I lie awake listening to endless strumming and thinking of all the things I’d like to say to that asshole the next time I see him.
And that’s only if I fight the urge to throw something at him.
How am I supposed to live across from someone so . . . inconsiderate and entitled for the rest of the year? My parents already think my major is a joke. If I flunk out of college because the jerk across the hall keeps me up all night, I’ll never live it down.
2
jackson
Matt sits up in bed and pulls out one of his earplugs. “What was that about?”
I make my way to my side of the room and sit on the edge of my bed, strumming chords as I answer. “Noise complaint.”
His face falls. “Dude, we’re stuck living next to these people for the rest of the year.”
My fingers pick at the guitar strings like they’re on autopilot. “I know. I just have to get through tomorrow.”
Matt opens his mouth like he’s about to argue, but clamps it shut a moment later, surrendering with a nod. We’ve known each other since preschool and grew up in the same neighborhood, so he knows more than anyone how important tomorrow’s audition is to me.
When I heard one of my favorite Tampa indie rock bands, American Thieves, was looking for someone to play guitar, I couldn’t believe it. They’re a small, local band, but I’ve seen them perform multiple times, and the idea of standing on stage with them has taken over my every thought for weeks.
So, as much as I know Matt’s right about being nice to the neighbors, he knows I won’t let anything or anyone stand in my way. He knows this might be my golden ticket.
“She was drunk, so she might forget. She almost fell when I opened the door,” I add as my fingers start to play one of American Thieves’ earlier tracks from their EP—in case it comes up.
“Before the first day of classes?”
I shrug. “Seemed like it.”
Matt stares at me. “If she’s worried about getting enough sleep before class, I doubt she’s drinking tonight.”
Matt and his damn logic, always considering every side of the story. His thoughts are organized, encompassing stability. If my brain worked like his, maybe college wouldn’t feel like such a drag. Matt thrives in this kind of environment, and even though the work itself isn’t hard, I’ve never been one for standardized tests and multiple-choice quizzes. It bores me—hell, sitting still for too long without a guitar in my hands bores me. The only reason I’m here is because my dad didn’t exactly give me an option. He’d love having a son like Matt—a son who actually wants to be here.
“She was wearing a Fleetwood Mac shirt.”
He frowns. “You have to be drunk to like Fleetwood Mac?”
I seamlessly switch melodies and go into the start of another song. “You should be.”
He resigns with a shake of his head. “I don’t know, man,” he says as he puts his earplugs back in. “Just try not to piss off too many people.”
I give him a two-finger salute and keep playing.
There’s a good chance I won’t make it to class on time. Matt finally threw a pillow at me when I hit snooze on my alarm again. I’m not technically late . . . yet, but the building is still a fifteen-minute walk, and class starts in five. It doesn’t help that whoever designed USF’s campus built it like a toddler who doesn’t want their food to touch.
As soon as the clock strikes eight, I curse under my breath. At least it’s the first day. Nothing important happens on the first day.
Thankfully, the professor isn’t a dick who likes to make snide comments when her students are late. I sneak in the back and take the first empty seat I find. The auditorium-style room slopes downward to the professor, standing with the syllabus on the projector.
Once I’m in my seat, I take out my notebook even though I have no intention of writing notes. English Comp first thing in the morning probably wasn’t my best idea. I feel more creative at night. That’s when melodies and songs come to me, so I haven’t been a morning person since taking up guitar at the age of thirteen. By the time I got around to registering for classes, this was all that was left—lesson learned.
It’s been less than a minute, and I’m already bored. The girl next to me has been shooting daggers at me since I sat down like I’ve interrupted the secret to life, and the professor is harping on about all the policies we’ll be expected to follow while we’re in her class.
I finally look over, ready to apologize for whatever the hell I did to ruin her day, but as soon as I open my mouth, I stop. It’s the same girl who knocked on my door last night.
She looks rough.
