Chapter 3 Boys Don’t Cry
BOYS DON’T CRY
Icould almost make out the lyrics thumping through the thin wall; something about boys not crying. I didn’t know the song. And even if boys didn’t cry, after the screaming match I’d heard between mother and daughter earlier, a girl was definitely crying on the other side of that wall.
My mum’s kind face smiled out at me from the photo of us I’d stuck by my bed.
As daylight tipped over the horizon, I peered from the window into the square, four floors below.
Scores of fresh-faced students were still lugging boxes and bin bags from cars.
Some shuffled through the throng clutching books to their chests, while others guffawed at the high jinks of their new acquaintances.
Then there were the worried-looking parents being bundled back into their cars and waved off as if their offspring’s newfound freedom couldn’t come quick enough.
Turning away from the window, I smoothed my hand over my fresh bedsheets and picked up my mum’s blanket. Over time, the comforting smell of her had faded and morphed into my own, but I still liked to hold it to my nose, as if breathing her in might bring her back.
I pushed up my glasses and glanced around my new room.
Everything already had its place, including my suitcase, neatly stowed under the bed.
The sinking sun glowed against the off-white walls and all their scars from former occupants.
There was an odd stain on the carpet by the desk, and the brown curtains smelt musty, but I had a room to myself — thanks to the generosity of the Daltons, who’d forked out extra for a single-occupancy dorm.
“Trusty? Are you in there?” Jeremy’s bellow sounded over the thumping bass of a song I assumed was called Gigantic, as that was the main lyric repeated over and over. I opened the door and admitted my lanky friend to my new digs. “I’ve been knocking for ages,” he said.
“Sorry, I can barely hear myself think.” I tilted my head to the wall shared with my noise-offensive neighbour.
“You could always try to drown it out with your Orinoco Flow.”
I playfully hit his arm. “Don’t mock Enya. She helps me concentrate.”
Jeremy laughed and rubbed the patchy stubble on his chin. He’d been trying — and failing — to grow a goatee for months, but his facial hair appeared in clumps and never where he wanted it to.
“Right then, Fresher, are you ready for the big campus tour? We can start with the library, then grab some supper and swing by the Union for a pint of Purple on the way home?”
“What’s Purple?” I asked as I bent to pull on my battered Dunlops.
“Our official campus drink — cider and black.” He waggled his eyebrows. “It’s disgusting, but it only costs 80p a pint!”
“Why drink it when you can afford something you actually like?” I grabbed my denim jacket from the hook behind the door.
“I’m trying to blend in.”
“You’d have far more luck with the girls if they knew you were rich.”
“Two things. One: I want them to like me for more than my wallet.”
“Fair.”
“Two: one of the reasons you’re here is to stop me getting distracted by girls. I don’t want either of us to have to face the wrath of my parents if I don’t graduate with first-class honours.”
I grinned. “Good. That was a test, and you passed!”
In the hallway, my neighbour’s obnoxious music added to the dissonant blend of slamming doors and spirited conversations. I glanced at Jeremy with raised eyebrows.
“Don’t worry, it’ll quieten down once everyone’s settled in. And failing that, there’s the library, or my place — I live with a bunch of computer science geeks and maths nerds. The place reeks of Lynx and desperation, but the liveliest they get is debating the Riemann Hypothesis.”
The next door along opened a crack, and the noisy resident popped her head out. Dark hair spilled from beneath the black hooded sweatshirt she’d drawn up tight. With red-rimmed eyes and smudged makeup, she glanced in both directions, then scowled at us, as if we were the ones making all the racket.
Without a word, she disappeared back inside, and the door slammed shut.
“Nice to meet you, too,” I said to the closed door.
Jeremy laughed, and I looped my arm through his. “Lead the way!”
My eyes fluttered open to the blinking red digits of the alarm clock on the bedside table. 02:16.
I reached for a glass of water that wasn’t there. Disoriented, I swung my legs out of bed, relaxing as my bare feet settled on the frayed carpet of my dorm room.
My pulse spiked as I caught a whiff of smoke. I flicked on the lamp and put on my glasses, squinting in the harsh glare from the cheap bulb. Wearing my faded pink robe, I shuffled out into the long corridor of closed doors.
A faint metallic rattling came from the direction of the floor’s shared kitchenette; a cramped utilitarian space nestled in a nook at the end of the hallway. Hugging my robe around myself, I ventured closer to the source of the smell and peered into the smoky haze.
There she stood — my noisy next-door neighbour.
“Fucking fuck,” she said, shaking one hand and jabbing a butter knife into the smoking toaster with the other.
“Whoa! What are you doing? You’ll electrocute yourself.”
She jumped, and the butter knife dropped into the toaster, which fizzed with sparks.
“Jesus Christ!” She clutched her chest and glared at me. “Why did you creep up on me like that?”
I leaned over her, pulling the toaster’s plug from the socket.
“I didn’t creep up on you. I smelt smoke, so…” I turned the toaster upside down and shook out the charred bread. “A little overdone?” I flashed her a half-smile, which she didn’t return.
I held out the retrieved butter knife, but instead of taking it, she folded her arms and stared at me with such intensity I thought she might burn me.
That’s when I noticed her eyes. Beyond the heavy makeup were the darkest irises I’d ever seen, almost as black as the bread she’d cremated.
I held her cold gaze until it became uncomfortable, then glanced down, shuffling my feet and wishing they were encased in anything other than my scruffy pink bunny slippers.
When I dared to look up again, her eyes were still fixed on me. Even though I wasn’t cold, I shivered and rubbed my arms, gooseflesh prickling under my robe.
“Now that I’ve saved you from electrocuting yourself and burning the halls down, I’ll be getting back to bed.”
As I turned to leave, she spoke in a crisp, refined accent, which seemed at odds with her vampy appearance.
“I suppose I should say thank you. I wasn’t actually trying to burn the miserable place down on the first night. I was hungry.”
She dropped her arms from her chest, and in the dingy yellow light her expression softened.
“Do you want some toast?” A wry smile lifted the corner of her mouth. “I’ve got jam. It’s from Fortnum I cleared my throat. “Do you have more bread?”
I watched as she reached into one of the beige melamine cupboards, her hoodie riding up to reveal her milky-white midriff. She retrieved a loaf of pre-sliced bread. My loaf of pre-sliced bread.
I sighed. “I guess if you’re providing the posh jam, the least I can do is provide the bread.”
She bit her lip. “Do you have any butter?”
I rolled my eyes but smirked despite myself.
“There’s some Flora in the fridge.” I untied the plastic bread bag and pushed two slices into the toaster.
It smoked a little as crumbs from the last round burned off.
Aware of her eyes on me again, without looking up I said, “You better pop the kettle on… and yes, before you ask, I have milk and tea bags.”
The sound of her throaty giggle made my insides glow like the elements in the toaster I was now staring into.
“Gadby, by the way,” she said while filling the kettle.
“Sorry?”
“Francesca Gadby.” She thumbed her chest.
“Oh, right? Hi. Yes… erm, Catherine.”
I’m not sure why, but I held my hand out for her to shake. Francesca looked past it and widened her eyes at the sight of my footwear.
“Nice bunnies,” she scoffed.
Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I let my unshaken hand flop back to my side. “They were a gift… from my mum…”
The toast popped up, and I left the sentence unfinished.
Francesca held out two mismatched plates, and I dropped a slice of toast on each.
We stood side-by-side as I buttered, and she jammed.
She hoisted herself up onto the countertop and crunched down on her toast as I made tea.
Probably for the best that she’d left me to it.
I’d already witnessed her toast-making abilities; I wasn’t prepared to let her ruin a good cuppa, too.
“I couldn’t help overhearing earlier — you seemed upset. Was that your mum dropping you off?”
“Creeping on me earlier too, were you?” Francesca mumbled through her mouthful.
“No, I wasn’t creeping. The walls are thin. I overheard—”
“Kidding.” She swung her feet, and the untied laces of her battered Doc Martens rattled against the cupboard doors.
“University was Richard’s idea — he’s my mum’s latest husband.
He reckons a good degree will help me fend for myself.
Of course, she’s so smitten with the blubbery twat, I just went along with it.
But I didn’t realise everything would be so…
” her lip curled as she glanced around, “communal.”