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Yeah, I’d been wrong.
Wayyyyyywrong.
Since Mandi moved in, I found myself missing Georgia and Dean’s endless bong-fueled sexcapades. Seriously, I’d give anything for the smoky, pot-filled haze that used to greet me when I opened the dorm room door.
These days, I need sunglasses to shield my eyes from the neon-pink explosion that is Mandi’s half of the room. She has a pillowcase with “Mandi'' emblazoned across it in pink, glittery paint, and a row of ten—yes, ten—pink stuffed bunnies she lines up on her comforter every single day.
At night, they spill onto the floor as Mandi tosses, turns, and snores like a buzz saw. I’d sprained my ankle tripping over one of the damned things when I got up to use the bathroom one night. After swearing my face off and punting the pink menace across the floor, I’d felt a bit better. But the next day it was back on the bed, staring at me with big, black eyes—exactly like its nine brothers and sisters.
It’s just so fucking creepy.
Dealing with the rabbit freakshow would be a cakewalk if I weren’t ripped from sleep every morning by Mandi’s obnoxiously loud workout music, which is just as peppy as her.
Every day before dawn, she’s up and raring to go, dressed in full neon workout gear that looks like it’s straight out of the 80s. Her long, brown hair is always pulled up into one of those super high ponytails, and it swings back and forth as she claps and stomps around the room to her favorite cardio workout channel on ZeeTube.
In between all the clapping, stomping, and god-awful music, Mandi demands I wake up and participate in this madness.
At least six times an hour I’ll hear, “Get up, Holland! Shake those hips, move those feet! Woo! Feel the burn!”
Every.Fucking.Day.
Nothing deters Mandi from trying to get me to join in, not even the death threats I utter while half-asleep or a well-aimed pillow. The girl is simply a powerhouse of pep that can’t be stopped.
She’s exactly like the Terminator, but instead of wanting to kill me, she wants to be my friend—and nothing is going to deter her from her mission.
It’s a hell I can’t escape.
“I’m going to grab a drink,” Mandi calls. “Be over in a jif.”
Jif? This time, I don’t bother to hide my groan. Who the hell says jif? My grandmother, maybe.
I grab my now-cold black coffee, slug it back, and grimace at the bitter taste. For the past two hours, I’ve been researching Vikings for my World History paper and haven’t bothered to get a refill. I’m totally obsessed with the series on the History Channel, and I figure it will be a fun tie-in with my paper.
Hmm. I’ve got about five minutes to plan a way to escape Mandi and her babbling. The library will have to be my next stop, because she claims all the “old, dusty books” aggravate her allergies, so she avoids it at all costs.
Leaning back in my chair, I study Mandi as she waits at the counter for her drink. She’s dressed head-to-toe in her signature candy pink: tight pink skirt, pink heels, and a white sweater. Even I have to admit it looks fantastic on her.
Mandi’s just plain gorgeous. She can even get away with the bright-pink, rabbit-ear cell phone case she carries.
I glance down at my own battered black cell phone. The screen is cracked on one side because I never use a case. Though even if I did, I wouldn’t have one with bright pink plastic rabbit ears. That is definitely not my style.
The coffee shop is mostly empty, a rarity at this time of night, and I’ve been enjoying the quiet up to this point. The idea of making small talk with Mandi fills me with dread. Small talk isn’t my thing, especially with my motor-mouth roommate.
The bell on the door dings, signaling a customer. A tall, super hot guy with thick, dark hair walks up to the counter and places his order.
I’ve seen him around campus before. He hangs out with the jocks, and everywhere he goes, he’s usually surrounded by a gaggle of beautiful girls vying for his attention. Frankly, I’m surprised to see that he’s alone tonight.
From what I can recall, I think he might be in one or two of my classes this semester. Though some of my classes have over a hundred students in them and no one ever seems to sit in the same place, so I can’t be sure.
He flashes the female barista a sexy little smile, putting his dimples on display. She blushes and bats her eyelashes at him flirtatiously.
Rolling my eyes, I settle back in my chair. Guys like him aren’t ones that I ever put on my immediate radar. In my opinion, it’s best to admire them from afar.
Besides, they rarely go for girls like me—ones who wear jeans, old band t-shirts, Chucks, and no makeup. They always seem to pair off with the Mandis of the world.
After ordering his drink, Mr. Perfect moves to stand beside my roommate. I don’t miss the obvious once-over he gives her, butshemisses it entirely because she’s glued to her phone.
Snorting, I shake my head. They look like the prom king and queen.
