He finally speaks again. “Three things, Watson. One, your life is going to get so much better once you step away from the people holding you back, because real friends don’t forget friends when things don’t go as planned. Two, I have a very strong suspicion that it’s notyouwho has to catch up with the world, but the world that needs to catch up with you.”
The Cthulhu man has a nice voice. And for some reason he’s making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Suspiciously, I narrow my eyes. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Are you drunk?”
“No,” I lie. That tequila went straight to my head. “What’s the third thing?”
“I’d like to try and catch up with you. Do you want to dance?”
The song playing is “Save Your Tears” by The Weeknd, and maybe it’s an omen. Ishouldbe saving my tears. I could be dancing with this mysterious octopus instead of whining about my friend ditching me for Spider-Man.
I smile, then take a big gulp of my drink. “Sure, but keep your tentacles to yourself, okay?” I peel the mustache off my upper lip, taking all the natural hair I had there off too. Well, at least I don’t need to see my threading aunty this month.
He laughs. “Agreed, my dear Watson. I’ll keep you safe if you promise to keep me safe too.”
I nod. “Deal.”
TWO
My new residence, East House, is on the other side of campus, and walking there with three bags and a box is hellish. Actually, doing anything in Toronto winter is hellish, and this year has been particularly bad. Cold. Icy. Treacherous. I push through blistering wind and blowing snow on the narrow path snaking through campus, cursing past Aleeza for not agreeing with the campus-housing guy who suggested I wait and move out on the weekend because of the snowstorm. But once I made the decision to move, I knew I needed to leave Mia as soon as possible.
When I put in the request for a midyear room change, the guy in the office immediately warned me he probably wouldn’t find me a vacant room, as a month into second term is a weird time to move. But I had a gut feeling that there would be something for me. The room he found wasn’t anything to celebrate, though. East House is the oldest, smallest, and least desirable residence at school, and the room was described as ... modest. But it would be fine. I would deal. This would be my fresh start.
“Do you need help?” a voice behind me asks.
I turn and see a person about my height wearing a gray wool hat, an enormous blue parka with the hood up, and an orange scarf pulled up over her nose. Her voice sounds familiar, but beneath all the winter gear, I can’t see her face.
“Oh, it’s fine. I got it.” I smile, but then remember she can’t see me under my scarf either. I turn down the less-maintained path that leads to East House.
I can barely see thanks to the blowing snow, and I can’t feel my cheeks even with my scarf on by the time I get there. The muddy-brown building is old. Even ... crumbling. It was originally an early 1900s mansion that the university converted into residences in the nineties. I frown as I stand in front of the main entrance. I have no clue how to scan my card to open the door with all this stuff in my hands.
“Now will you accept some help?” I hear from behind me. I turn. It’s the girl in the blue parka from earlier. She sounds friendly and amused.
I nod. “Yeah. My card is around my neck. I’m just moving in.” I don’t want her to think I’m breaking in. With all my possessions. During a snowstorm.
“I got it. I live here too.” She takes her pass from her pocket and taps it on the card reader. After opening the door, she takes the box from me. With my hands now free, I push my scarf off my face as I walk into the residence.
The entrance opens to a lobby common area with a few couches. Very few of the mansion’s original features remain here, only white walls and gray industrial carpet. To the right of the front door is the mailroom, with a bulletin board absolutely packed with small pieces of paper, flyers, and even artwork. I have no idea how it’s still attached to the wall with the weight of all that crap on it.
“Where are you heading?” the girl asks.
“Um . . . second floor?”
She turns back to look at me, and I can see her eyes still look amused. “You’re moving to the second floor? That’s only professor offices.”
“Oh ... it’s supposed to be room 225.”
The expression in the girl’s eyes changes immediately, and all her friendliness drains away. She takes a step backward, as if I just told her I have lice.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She shakes her head and walks toward a set of stairs across from the mailroom. After resting the box on a stair, she pushes her scarf down and looks at me. That’s when I realize I do know this person. It’s Gracie Song from my politics seminar. I think she’s also in my Introduction to Journalism lecture. I’m pretty sure she’s a first-year journalism student like me, but I’ve never spoken to her. “Room 225 is on the third floor,” she says.
I shake my head. “That makes no sense.”
Gracie shrugs and starts climbing the steps with my box.
Ugh. Meeting people is awkward. I don’t know what to say. But I don’t have Mia anymore, so I need to make an effort. “Um, thanks for taking my box,” I say as I climb behind her.
