Chapter 5 #2
He hands it to me: a cake pop. On a stick. Decorated like…a unicorn.
“Wow,” I say. “Um…thanks. I guess I’ll…” I have no interest in eating this, but it seems rude to refuse. “…take it to go.”
He grins. “You got it.”
Coffee procured and cake pop in a tiny brown bag, I find an armchair and I sip my drink as slowly as possible. With nothing else handy, I read my French poetry anthology to kill time, until people have gradually trickled out and the staff is starting to sweep up.
Finally, at 10 p.m., I give in and head back.
Broceliande is mostly quiet, with just the occasional snatch of music and light seeping out from a closed door, a random peal of laughter and chatter as I scale the staircases, one, two, three.
When I reach 326, though, the room seems dark, and I twist my key, eagerly anticipating my faceplant into my bed and the bliss of being alone.
But I’m not alone.
“Christ!”
Morgan’s sitting at her desk, the overhead lights off and just a makeup mirror illuminating the space.
She’s dressed entirely differently than I’ve seen her before: a glittering, one-shouldered black top with a sleeve that billows to her wrist and a miniskirt that’s dark and viscous-looking as an oil slick. Not a quiet night in, I suppose.
She presses a hand to her chest. “God, you scared me.”
“Sorry,” I say. Just…living here , I think. As I’ve been assigned . I shrug my bag onto the bed and slowly settle next to it, gritting my teeth against the frustration of not being alone.
A flick of an apologetic smile and Morgan resumes her mascara-swiping.
I preoccupy myself with taking everything out of my bag: textbooks, notebook, scarf, the paper bag with the stupid little cake pop.
With that accomplished, there’s nothing really for me to do but study my hands and avoid staring at Morgan.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I couldn’t help but notice. Do you have beef with Elena Shalott?”
I blink, give my head a little shake.
“What?” I frown. “I mean…no. I don’t even know her.”
“But she doesn’t like you, ” Morgan presses. She’s turned around in her seat now, makeup abandoned, her eyes trained on me like she’s working something out.
“I…guess not,” I say. “We had French together this morning.” I consider, for a half-second, going into more depth, the group discussion and Lanz and her glaringly obvious crush on the guy, but I think better of it.
Veering too near to gossip that I don’t want to get myself entangled in.
The whole point of college is to focus on school, not popularity contests. I don’t need that here.
“Hmm.” Morgan presses her lips together. “Interesting.” But she nods, like she’s approving of the state of things.
The back of my neck prickles. “How so?”
“Oh, just…” She gives a dismissive wave. “Kind of an…enemy of my enemy thing, let’s just say.” She tips her head, and flicks her gaze just briefly over my sad little collection of bag contents, before going back to her mirror .
An impulse takes over me. My hand grabs the folded paper bag, holds it out to her. “Do you want this?”
Morgan turns, and seeing my offer, wrinkles her nose, suspicious. “What…is it?”
God, I’m an absolute genius at making friends, I think.
“A…cake pop,” I say. “Unicorn.” I fish it out of the bag and demonstrate.
“I got the trivia question right at the coffee shop and they insisted I take the prize. I told them I didn’t want it, but…
” My gaze drifts to all her mystical, magical trinkets. “I figured maybe you would?”
I don’t fucking know. This is all so stupid. I should’ve just chucked the damn thing in the trash.
But Morgan unwrinkles her nose. She reaches for it, holding the paper stick between impressively lacquered fingertips, and studies it.
“Aww. It’s cute.” And then, she unceremoniously takes a bite, cleaving the thing’s head in two. Something syrupy and red drips from the center, and Morgan claps a hand to her mouth.
“Oh my God,” she says. “They put blood in it? That’s…”
“Hopefully fake,” I say, without thinking.
And suddenly we’re both laughing. Morgan even coughs a little, struggling to swallow.
“It’s good, kinda,” she says, frowning. “Pomegranate flavored, or something? Hm.” She polishes off the rest of the poor thing, brushes crumbs from her lips. But this time, she doesn’t go back to her makeup mirror.
“I’m going to the cap tonight,” she says. “Are you?”
I stare at her. “The what?”
“Cap,” she repeats. “Caliburn Academic Parlour?”
I’m still not following. She’s not dressed for anything academic.
“A party,” she explains, at last in plain English.
“They’re scheduled every week, ish. A cap or a gap—general assembly of persons.
Those are more lowkey. Board games and shit.
Caps are, like…party parties.” She pauses.
“Do you…want to go?” She asks it half-hesitantly, drumming those long nails on her desk, and I can’t tell if she’s just asking to be nice.
“And no, I’m not just asking to be nice.”
“Jesus,” I say sharply. Can she read minds?
But Morgan looks genuinely nonplussed, and I inwardly slap myself on the wrist. BE NORMAL, GWENNA.
Okay, well, what would a normal person do?
As if on cue, my phone buzzes beside me on the bed.
From: Mom
I’m so glad to hear it. Send me photos when you can. Love you.
Fucking hell.
“Earth to Gwenna?” comes Morgan’s voice. “Party?”
“Sure,” I hear myself say. “I…love parties. I mean caps.”
Who, actually, am I right now?
My fingers tense in the bedspread, almost involuntary, and I force them to relax.
I’m Gwenna. Normal Gwenna. Happy Gwenna. Enjoying-her-time-and-not-struggling-at-all Gwenna.
Gwenna who goes to parties.
Right?
Morgan laughs. No, cackles, almost. “You’re a very bad liar, did you know that? But I’ll believe you.” She shakes her endless wavy hair out and surveys me up and down. “Do you have anything…else to wear?” she asks, biting her lip.
“If I say yes, would you believe me?” I return.
“No.” She gets up and clasps me by the wrist. “Come here.”