Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
She dreamt that the Neverland had come too near and that a strange boy had broken through from it.
Ifling the last composition notebook into the pile beside my desk and lean back, my spine aching from hunching over and reading what passes for freshman creative writing.
Such is the life of a teaching assistant. Rubbing my eyes, I check my phone for the time and sigh. I’ve missed the free food on the quad, an early-semester welcome from the Greek organizations looking to score points with the administration.
“Crap.” I stand and stretch, then consider entering grades now.
But my stomach rumbles, and I figure that task can wait for the morning.
I don’t have class until 9, so I can do it before then.
Besides, I have to finish my own creative writing for my grad course, and I’ve barely even started the assignment.
Peeking from my dorm window, I check to see if the quad is well and truly empty.
Almost, but there’s one frat stand still up, and I can see smoke wafting from the grill.
If I can just snag a hotdog or a burger, I’ll be set.
I don’t have the cash or the energy to hit the cafeteria, so this is my only chance.
Pulling on a cardigan, I leave my room, the familiar hallway smell of microwave meals and the faint tang of condoms in the air.
It only makes me glad that graduate students don’t have to share their dorm rooms. I don’t think I could take another semester of roommates bringing over strange guys and making animal sounds when I’m trying to sleep.
Not that I’m a prude in the strictest sense. I just prize sleep above all else.
If I don’t get eight hours, I can’t seem to function.
It’s as if I’m drunk or high or just all-around out of my mind.
I’m crabby and rude to the point I’ve often wondered if I have some sort of multiple personality issue.
But my shrink assured me I’m just your run-of-the mill high anxiety creative, that my mind feeds on dreams and needs rest.
The funny thing is, she’s right that I need my sleep, but I never dream.
I take a left out the front doors, past the parking lot and onto the path between two hedges.
The college isn’t exactly Ivy League, but they manage to keep up appearances by constant landscaping and building every new structure with a Georgian facade.
It’s a running joke in the architecture department, apparently.
A few students pass by, most of them laden with backpacks and headed home to the dorms for the evening. I pick up my pace, hoping against hope that there’s at least some sort of food left for me at the quad.
My stomach growls again, and I curse myself for not looking at the time sooner.
When I turn past one of the old oaks that line the large rectangle of perfectly-kept grass, I catch the scent of barbecue in the air.
God, yes. Only a few frats are left standing, and I make a beeline toward the one with the grill.
“You pledging?” One of the frat guys snickers as I blow by him.
I would retort, but he’s not the frat guy with the food, so he doesn’t matter to me in the least. I keep going, crossing the center of the quad until I’m standing at the Alpha Psi table.
The guy behind the folding table gives me a look up and down, no doubt taking in my messy bun, reading glasses, and the general disheveled appearance I pride myself on. “Uh, hey.”
“Hey, is there food left?” I’m a cut to the chase kind of gal, apparently.
“We’ve got a few hot dogs. Thick ones,” he says with the required frat boy smirk.
I roll my eyes. “Two please.”
“You can handle two?” His smirk only grows. “At the same time?”
“Just give me the hot dogs, man. I didn’t come here for the sausage fest you’re implying.”
A snicker to my right has me turning quickly.
Then I sort of stand still—everything does—because the guy beside me is clearly not a frat boy.
He’s more man than boy. Maybe a professor?
His dark blond hair and dimples along with deep brown eyes are enough to make anyone stop in their tracks and gawk. And I’m not above it.
“She’s taking the last of the dogs. Sorry, man.” Frat Bro grudgingly serves up the hotdogs for me and points to a side table with condiments. “Ketchup and shit’s over there. Hurry up. We’re done for the night.”
I’m still staring at the man who appeared at my elbow, and he’s staring right back at me.
This should be awkward. Instead, it’s like two explorers meeting each other in the wilderness, both surprised and somewhat elated to find each other.
He’s older by a good bit, the laugh lines etched in his skin somehow at odds with the youthful glitter in his eyes.
“Um, hi, did you want one of my hot dogs?” As usual, I manage to say the absolute dumbest thing possible.
He shakes his head, his hair tousling perfectly as he does it. “I don’t eat dog.”
I roll my eyes. He’s tall and gorgeous, and of course he’s a total asshole. He’s probably the president of one of the frats with his button-up shirt done casually, the sleeves rolled up, his jeans perfectly ripped at the knees. I bet he models or something. What am I even thinking?
“Excuse me, but I have papers to grade.” Bristling, I brush past him to snag some ketchup before Frat Bro can take it away from me.
“You teach?” He doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by my short tone.
“Yes.”
“What do you teach?”
I squeeze the ketchup onto my hotdogs while I glare up at him. “Composition.”
“Music then?” he asks.
“Are you fucking with me? You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?” I slam the ketchup bottle back down on the table. This is why I keep to myself and don’t waste my time with men, even attractive ones.
“No, I’m not.” He keeps looking down at me, and the earnestness in his face makes me reconsider. Maybe he’s just … slow?
I grab the mustard. “Well, I majored in American and British literature with a creative writing concentration, and I minored in Renaissance studies.”
He’s still at my elbow, standing a little too close for two strangers.
“You like stories, then, I take it?” He grabs a bag of chips from the table and opens them, then gives them a sniff before pinching several between his forefinger and thumb and dropping them into his mouth.
He chews with more relish than I’d expect from a bag of Lay’s, but to each their own.
“I’m getting my MFA, so yeah.”
“MFA?” he asks between chews.
I stare at him. Yep, he’s slow. Handsome and slow. “Master of Fine Arts. I’m a creative writing student.”
“Oh, so you not only tell stories, you make them up too?” His eyes gleam as he finishes off the bag of chips and grabs another.
“Yes.” I glance around as the remaining frat bros load up and begin to thin out.
It’s only then that I start to feel a prickle down my spine, worry chiming through my mind.
It’s dark, and I don’t want to be out here alone.
“Um, nice to meet you, but I have to get back to my dorm.” I hurry away, then turn and glance back at him.
“Very nice to meet you too.” His gaze is on me as he demolishes another bag of chips with almost carnal satisfaction.
He may not be into processed meats, but eating healthy is another matter.
Then again, I’m the one ready to chow down on two hot dogs, likely the pink kind financed with sweaty frat dollars. But it’s free, so I’m not complaining.
I scurry across the quad and take a bite of my hotdog, chewing quickly, my steps picking up to match my mouth’s pace. When I glance over my shoulder again, the guy is gone, and Hotdog Frat Bro is grumbling as he picks up the two empty chip bags carelessly left on the table.
The prickling sensation still runs along my skin, and I move even faster, almost breaking into a run before making it to the safety of my dorm. The hallway now smells like Hot Pockets with a side of weed, and I like the comfort it gives me.
With a full stomach, I sit down to continue penning my short story for tomorrow’s first draft class. My tale is dark, a twist at the end of each short chapter to keep the reader turning the page. Clever. That’s what I want my stories to be—clever enough to fool even the most seasoned reader.
But as I get into my rhythm of putting words on the page, I feel that same itchy sensation at the back of my neck, the feeling of being watched. I shake it off and keep going, the words coming at a fluid pace as I finish one chapter, then another.
I only have a couple more to go. My characters are trapped in a basement that’s slowly filling with water from a burst pipe.
But the twist—that’s coming up now. The reveal.
The moment when the entire story is turned on its head and we find out that one of the characters has been practicing holding her breath for months before the events that led to the flooding disaster.
That she had a plan all along, and nothing is as it seems.
The prickling sensation grows.
I shake it off and keep writing. Something about the guy on the quad has unsettled me.
He was gorgeous, after all, but there was something more.
I don’t know what, but it doesn’t matter.
I’m not here for friends or guys or anything other than getting my degree and showing my family that stories do matter.
That telling stories can be worthwhile enough to make a living.
That I won’t end up like my mother, no matter what my father says.
But then a shadow falls across my hands, stilling them.
The weight of it is real, not just faded light, but a touch.
It sends that prickly sensation shooting all over my body.
My gasp is quick as the shadow takes over, racing along my form and clawing open my mouth.
I feel it rush down my throat, coating me with dim, smoky soot.
I scream as it coats my lungs and stills my breath, and then I go silent in the unending dark.