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I turn left and make my way around the buildings, bypassing the female dorms, followed by the male dorms.
One guy walks out in front, pauses for a second, and gives me a once-over. He nods, but I ignore him and keep walking. I turn right until I see the neon sign and cross the street.
The place is buzzing once I’m inside. Students walk in and out of the exit, laughing with their friends. Others replace the spot they just vacated.
This is a Kenyan hangout. The school’s accolades hang on the walls. The school insignia and past presidents. The numerous swim championships and famous people who have graduated from here.
I scan the rest of the place. It looks like a dive bar. Pool tables are to the left. College kids occupy the four arcade games available.
“Comedown” by Bush is playing from the jukebox. People form a line for drinks on the left side of the bar. The booths are all taken except the one for three to the right in a secluded corner.
A lady walks up with pink hair, a short skirt with holes in her tights, and combat boots. She appears to be the hostess with the way she keeps waiting for me to say something.
“Table for one,” I tell her.
She nods, points at the empty booth, and hands me a menu. “Someone should come by to take your order. In the meantime, you could get yourself a drink at the bar and take it to your table.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the menu.
I don’t want to look stupid and order a soda or a glass of water at the bar. I don’t have a fake ID, and this place is right off-campus. I’m sure they will ask me for one.
I sit at the booth and people watch. I thought it would be a good idea to scope out the campus and see where everyone hangs out. What they’re like and what I should expect. I’m glad I did. The people here are nothing like the normal college students from Ohio or any other college I’ve ever seen.
It’s like watching college students in a time machine. Alternative rock styles—emo, goth, and preppy—from the 1980s and 1990s are evident among the people walking around. The way they wear their clothes. Different hairstyles exist. You can tell the people here are all from different places, but one thing doesn’t go unnoticed: social classes. You can tell who comes from money and who got lucky for the opportunity to go here.
My eyes scan the pool tables when a group of girls walks over, and then I see him. He’s hard to miss from any distance. He’s leaning over the pool table in concentration and taking a shot to the corner pocket.
The muscles of his arms bulge when he pulls the pool stick with his hand, sliding it between two fingers. I can’t make out the color of his eyes because it's dim. My eyes admire how strong his back muscles are and the way they flex when he hits the ball with the pool stick.
“Valen,” someone says. I look over, and a girl with soft pink hair slides on the bench in front of me. “Sorry,” she says with a smile. “I saw you sitting here by yourself and figured you could use a little company. My name is Rose, by the way.”
I don’t, but I don’t want to be rude.
“I’m Melody.”
“You’re new here.” She squints her eyes like she’s figuring me out. “Freshman.”
I don't confirm or deny—it's not hard to guess, especially since I don't have a beer or cocktail in my hand. My gaze swings back to the pool table just as Valen takes another shot. Girls gawk at him from the other side, their cheers echoing the balls smacking together.
His smile lasts only a fraction of a second before a serious expression wipes it away. There's something powerful about watching him without his knowledge as if I'm observing through a looking glass.
“You like him?” she inquires, her smile betraying her interest.
My eyes snap to hers. “No.”
I don’t know him. He’s nice to look at. It’s normal for a girl to appreciate a good-looking guy.
Her smirk deepens. “Oh, come on. Every girl finds him hot. The problem with him is,” she continues, lowering her voice enough that I can hear her over the music, “he doesn’t want anything to do with a girl once he’s done. No girlfriends. No relationships. He’s just a hookup.”
“And you,” I probe, my interest piqued. “Do you think he’s hot?”
She pinches her brows like I’m blind. “Of course, I think he’s hot. Valen is the hottest guy on campus. The last of the sons of the founding fathers. I heard the others married right before graduation." Her gaze flickers briefly toward the group of guys talking to Valen, then back to me with a hint of skepticism. “But Valen. I don’t think he’s the type to settle down.” She leans in. “I heard he’s a good fuck and doesn’t plan to slow down. I mean, he’s fucked all the hot girls on campus. Two, three, sometimes four at the same time.”
“You mean orgies. Did you sleep with him?”
She shrugs, a playful laugh escaping her lips, igniting a flicker of jealousy within me. “If you want to label it that way, sure. And no to your second question. He definitely has a preferred type.”
A wave of relief washed over me when she admitted she didn’t sleep with him. I think about Jess and what Veronica said about her. She was the closest Valen ever came to wanting something serious with someone, but she married his friend instead. That means she fucked them both. Rose says he has a type. Jess was blond, but I don’t want to tell her that because that would mean I pay attention. It would mean I care and I’m interested.
