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He chuckles and points at me. “Hilarious. You know what I mean.”
I don’t, actually.
“The youngest in your class,” he explains. “You just made the cutoff for school?”
“I guess?”
“Were you seventeen when you started college?”
“Technically. I only did one semester, though. Hey, aren’t you tired?”
“Are you kidding? This is my first ever music tour! I doubt I’ll sleep this entire month!”
Well, that’s not good.
With a silent groan, I drop back to my pillow to stare up at the top of my bunk.
“Are you tired?” he asks.
“Yeah. Plus, the others are sleeping, so we should probably be quiet.”
“Oh! Good point. I’ll text you instead.”
He pulls out his phone, and I pull my curtain. Sure enough, my phone buzzes a second later. I glance at the display to see,
Which university did you attend?
Yorkshire, I type back.
No way! My best friend Marcos went there! You might know him!
Me: There were twenty thousand students at Yorkshire. I knew maybe twelve of them.
Chad: One time I found out my masseuse knew my ophthalmologist.
Huh. Okay. Mostly, I’m impressed he knew how to spell ophthalmologist. I wouldn’t have gotten close enough for autocorrect to intervene.
Me: Was he in the music business program?
Chad: Probably masseuse school.
Me: I meant your friend.
Chad: Oh. No.
Me: Was he a first-year student six years ago?
Chad: No.
Me: Does he have any connection to music in any way?
Chad: His roommate is a musician. You wouldn’t like him though. He’s a terrible spy.
Me: *thumbs up emoji* (All I got, sorry.)
Chad again: He has brown hair and blue eyes?
Me: The roommate?
