Home > Bright Side (Bright Side #1)(12)

Bright Side (Bright Side #1)(12)
Author: Kim Holden

After we’re bid farewell with a collective, “Live the Grant College Experience!” from the faculty, I offer up an unbridled, “Yee-haw!” It blends in nicely with all the clapping and hoopla from the other freshman. Clayton rolls his eyes at me like my enthusiasm has just embarrassed him. “What dude?” I retort. “I’m just so excited. That was some inspirational shit.” I point at him and impersonate the dean’s voice with a straight face. “’Your destiny is in your hands.’ ‘The future is bright.’ ‘We’re all one big happy family here at Grant.’ ‘You’re life starts now.’”

He shakes his head solemnly but there’s a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t do stern very well. “Katherine, that was an hour of my life I’ll never be able to get back,” he says dryly.

I laugh. “Aw Clayton, I wouldn’t take back that hour for all the coffee in Columbia.”

“I think the phrase is ‘for all the tea in China.’”

I shake my head. “I hate tea.”

He shakes his head like he’s not sure what to do with me.

I suppress a giggle and continue. “My eyes have been opened like a newborn babe to the Grant College Experience. It’s going to be f**king magnificent.”

He cracks a smile and throws his pencil at me. “Katherine, hush!”

I point to his notebook still on the table in front of him. “You get any of the dean’s little nuggets of wisdom? Jesus, were you taking dictation, Clayton? Those are some extensive notes.”

He blushes. “I’m thorough.”

And now I feel bad for making him blush. I pat his shoulder as I stand. “Ah, I’m just kidding, Clayton. I’m a slacker. You’re an overachiever. We’ll get it sorted out. Let’s go find our dorm rooms.”

I’m a little surprised that after he stands and slings his leather messenger bag over his shoulder, he loops his arm through mine. I’m all for touchy-feely, but he’s not leading, he wants to be led. I’m beginning to wonder if I emit the scent of sour milk like a nursing mother, because certain people gravitate to me for one reason, and one reason only—they need to be taken care of. I have a new mission: to shelter Clayton from the storm, or at least to gently introduce him to it. I get the feeling life hasn’t always been a picnic for Clayton. He’s chosen the right friend. I make a fantastic buffer, believe me.

I cover his hand looped through my arm with my own. “Let’s get this goddamn Grant College Experience started.”

Our dorm rooms turn out to be right across the hall from each other. Goddamn destiny. Our names along with our roommates’ are posted on each door. Clayton’s is Peter Samuel Longstreet III. I say a silent prayer, Please God, please don’t let Pete be a homophobic bastard. Because although I’ve only known Clayton for an hour, I’m 99.9% sure that sweet, lovely Clayton likes boys as much as I do.

My roommate seems to have been saddled from birth with the name—I’m not kidding you—Sugar Starr LaRue. Did her parents even think that one through? I’m trying so damn hard not to let my imagination run away with me, but the first thought that pops into my head is … stripper. I know, I know. She could be a lovely, chaste, prudish young maiden, but with a name like Sugar Starr LaRue you almost have to live up to the stage name, don’t you think? And once the stripper profile implants itself in my head I find myself thinking I’ll be disappointed if this girl turns out to be normal.

I help Clayton carry his belongings from his car to his room, and then he helps me. Peter Samuel Longstreet III shows up somewhere in the middle, so we help him carry his stuff, too. He’s tall and a little heavy around the middle. He’s got light brown hair that’s cut in a military-style crew cut, a mild case of acne, and he’s wearing pleated khaki pants and a forest green polo shirt with slip-on brown loafers. The dude looks like a middle aged insurance agent trapped in an eighteen-year-old’s body. He’s really just your average looking guy I guess, except that he looks insanely innocent. I mean, like, insanely innocent. After spending five minutes around him I learn I’m not far off. He’s really shy and really, really tense. I take a minute to give God a silent shout out, Thank you, God. Pete seems way uptight, but he doesn’t seem like a hateful ass clown. Many thanks. Over and out.

I know it’s weird, but I like to think of God as my homeboy. I’m not religious; I just talk to him a lot. I ask for a lot of favors. Sometimes things go my way, sometimes they don’t. That’s life. You just have to make the most of it.

Of course, now that my interest is piqued and I’m wondering if Sugar will set up her stripper pole in the north corner of our room or right in the center, she’s a no-show. The mystery will have to wait another day. I unpack all by my lonesome, accompanied by my trusty iPod. I claim the bed farthest from the door, right next to the window.

Clayton comes over to borrow some toothpaste, and I follow him back to his room. Jesus. H. Christ. It’s the tidiest, most organized room I’ve ever seen in my life. They’re both unpacked and everything’s put away. Damn, it’s kismet. Clay and Pete were destined to be roommates. What are the chances of two obsessively neat guys randomly getting assigned to the same room? I mean, the odds have to be like a million to one, right? I hope Sugar’s not OCD like this, or she’s going to be monumentally disappointed. I don’t make my bed, ever. I don’t put my dirty clothes in a hamper, ever. It’s not that I’m unclean, I’m just messy.

   
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