When I got back to my dorm, Lottie was already there. She was tangled in a set of blue floral duvet covers that she was trying to put on the bed. Although she didn’t see me come in, thanks to the linen gimp mask she’d inadvertently fashioned for herself, she must have heard my footsteps.
‘Changing bedsheets is impossible, right?’ she grunted. ‘Like it’s literally not a possible thing to do?’
She emerged from the sheets in a flustered harrumph, blonde flyaways haloing her face. She glanced over at my still unmade bed; I’d spent the whole afternoon meandering around the library instead of unpacking. ‘I think you’re on to something. Just, like, shunning bedsheets altogether. Jail-cell chic.’
I smiled tightly, hating that it was tight, hating that I could feel my skin puckering around my lip scar, hating that there was nothing I could do about it.
‘Yeah,’ I said, laying down my stack of library books on the heavily scratched desk. ‘I’d offer you a hand, but I’m rubbish at that stuff.’
‘What, like laundry? Or being a good person?’ Lottie grinned, then saw my face. ‘I’m kidding! Oh my god, I’m kidding. I’m sure you’re all sunshine and roses deep down.’
I rolled my eyes, and muttered, ‘At least I keep my sharp edges on the surface, where people can see them. Unlike the girls in my high school, who . . .’ I trailed off, realising I didn’t particularly want to share the worst moments of my teenage years with this near stranger.
‘Ohhhh, I get it,’ Lottie said slowly, with a triumphant grin.
‘That’s why you don’t like me?’
‘What?’ I asked, not meeting her eye.
She stuffed a pillow into its creased case. ‘I remind you of the girls who were mean to you?’
‘Don’t psychoanalyse me,’ I practically spat, regretting it the second I did.
That’s when her perky patience seemed to run out, and I didn’t blame her. I knew I was making things difficult. Self-loathing beat in my skull like a pulse.
We continued unpacking for a few long, stony minutes. Watching her out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dazzling array of extra-curricular paraphernalia: cross-country medals and Grade Eight piano certificates; a tennis racket and a trombone; a programme from an amateur production ofThe Rocky Horror Picture Showwhich she’d starred in. I felt immediately and completely inferior. That was the kernel of truth at the centre of my anger towards Lottie; I was jealous of girls like her. Girls who moved through the world with joy and ease.
I checked my phone and found a text from my dad. As it always did, my stomach flipped over. Texts from my dad usually meant something had happened with Mum; she was in hospital with kidney failure, or she’d had another seizure, or her vision had taken a nosedive. But today he was just telling me that I’d forgotten Alf, my childhood teddy I slept with every night, and did I want to go home this weekend to get him? He’d make my favourite roast beef, and I could tell them all about my first week. My heart twinged. I didn’t know how to tell him that the decision to leave Alf behind was intentional. I fired off a quick message saying I’d think about it.
Noémie still hadn’t replied to my text from that morning. True, it was still early in Canada, but she usually woke at dawn for a long, slow jog every day. And so for her not to reply to my text meant she really did hate me. A fist of grief opened in my chest, but I clamped it shut as quickly as I could.
Thankfully Lottie was far less stubborn than either me or Noémie, and she broke the silence in the dorm first.
‘Come on,’ she said, with that carefree grin. ‘I don’t want it to be like this. I’m meeting some other girls at the students’ union in twenty minutes.’ She gave a little butt wiggle to indicate dancing. She really was exceptionally tall – at least six foot. Her whole body was long and muscular in a way that made my throat dry up. ‘You should come.’
I knew I should say yes, just in the name of making things less awkward, but the thought of all those sweaty bodies made the belt around my chest tighten.
‘Nah, I’m fine here.’ I gestured to the stack of plastic-bound library books on my desk. ‘I want to get ahead of the course reading.’
Lottie laughed. ‘You’re unbelievable. One drink! You can come for one drink.’
‘I do like to drink.’ I chewed my lip, thinking longingly of the softly lit reading nooks in the library. I could head there just before sunset, let the dusky lavender light drape over me through the arched windows. ‘But I really . . .’
Lottie folded her tanned arms. ‘Alice, come on. I’m not going to beg you. But I am going to guilt trip you. It’s my birthday.’ I looked up at her in surprise, but she held up a palm as if to tell me not to bother addressing it further. ‘And I just left home, and I’m emotional, and I’m terrified that I made a big mistake coming here. So please. One drink.’
The ease with which she shared all of these emotions with me momentarily stunned me. It felt like looking at a bright lamp head-on. It wasn’t how we did things in our family. We skirted around the truth of our feelings, communicated through subtext and passive aggression, never apologised after an argument – just waited for the anger to naturally subside. It was a Northumberland thing.
Despite my involuntary eye-roll, I caved into Lottie’s emotional blackmail. ‘Fine. One drink.’