Dreamland City. Larina Lavergne

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      Aren’t I always?

      “They shut down Randolph because of the bedbugs, remember?”

      The guy who might be David grunts. There’s a wet slurping sound. I guess they’re kissing, or more, if her little sounds are any indication.

      I squeeze my eyes shut and try to go to sleep.

      Just as I’m about to resign myself to the inevitable sounds of them fucking in the bed next to me, my roommate lets out a tiny scream that doesn’t sound like it’s meant to be a turn-on.

      There’s the sound of a minor scuffle, and then, the David voice asking, “What’s wrong, Reagan?”

      “Nothing,” she replies hastily. “You know…I’m just really tired…”

      He must be reaching for her again but she slaps him away. “Come on,” he pleads. But she’s adamant, and soon has him out the door after promises of another date this week. When the door shuts, she locks it and sighs heavily. There’s a sudden brief silence, and I know suddenly without a doubt that she’s looking at me in the dark. Then, there’s the sound of her bed creaking, and eventually, deep, even breathing, and she’s out.

      +++

      The sound of the creak of the bed is the first thing I remember when I wake up to bright sun flooding in through the window. My roommate’s bed.

      My roommate.

      I whip my head over. It’s empty.

      She’s gone already, and the bed is neatly made up. She’s even left a note on it.

      Sorry we haven’t really met. I’ll see you at lab today. Reagan.

      So she recognized me then. How, I don’t know, seeing as I normally sleep on my stomach and all she must have seen this morning was a mess of hair.

      I crumple the paper up, and throw it on the floor. I think it looks better like that.

      +++

      Later that day, I slink to the seat at the back of the lab but the pointed look from the instructor makes me slink right back to where I was the last time. I ignore Reagan’s ‘hi’ again and am staring into space as the instructor does more announcements. Seriously, these university teachers always have a hundred announcements to make—what’s the fucking point of email, professors? Reagan, as usual, is taking copious notes on her laptop. She’s wearing glasses today—her sexy librarian look no doubt—and they make me more annoyed. I deliberately jostle her; the movement almost knocks her laptop off the table.

      The TA’s talking about the mandatory lab project and I yawn as she says, “I’ll be pairing people up randomly. If your project is particularly ambitious, come see me and we’ll talk about joining two groups together.”

      She drones on and on, and I literally fall asleep with my eyes still open—it’s a trick I’ve mastered with lots of practice.

      It’s only when I hear my name being called that I snap out of it.

      “Reagan Van Stieg, you’ll be partnered with Lily Anderson.”

      I overheard a couple of girls talking about Reagan at lunch: They were wondering if she was one of the Van Stiegs from New York, or perhaps some other Southern branch. Then they were positing theories on why she was named after a dead president, or if there was some other reason. Whether it’s famous New York, dead president, southern Baptist or otherwise, I’m sure she’s going to love being paired with Trailer Park Anderson.

      I look over: Reagan’s been frowning at me since I jostled her. She’s probably realizing I’m going to be a terrible partner, not to mention roommate from hell—temporary or otherwise.

      Who said life was fair? Our eyes meet, and I wink.

      To her credit, she doesn’t blink.

      The TA gives us a half hour to split into our groups so we can discuss what we’ll be doing for the project. Reagan and I sit motionless, not looking at each other.

      “So,” she says finally.

      I stare at her. She really is extremely pretty. I’m all hair and eyes, but she’s a perfect blond study in symmetry, from the evenness of the color of her hazel eyes, to the curvature of her delicate ears. Even her eyebrows look equally arched down to the last, submissive hair. She’s almost begging to be messed with.

      She shifts uncomfortably at my blank gaze and lack of response.

      “So we need to discuss what we’ll be doing,” she says weakly, when I go back to doodling on my notepad.

      “And what exactly are we doing?” I ask, curious to see how this will play out.

      She perks up. “I have a few ideas. It’s flow dynamics and engine construction. We can show the principles of engine combustion and flow, so maybe we could build something?

      In answer, I go back to my kickass drawing of our TA having sex with a unicorn, but I’m still watching Reagan out of the corner of my eye. The girl’s biting her lip, her brow furrowed, and she’s twisting her fingers nervously, round and round in endless misshapen circles.

      “Do you have any ideas on what we should do?” she asks, her voice a little shaky.

      I almost feel bad for her. Reagan Van Stieg with her perfect face, hair and grades is now faced with a huge obstacle obtaining those perfect grades for her perfect Ivy League transcripts: Me.

      “Whatever,” I tell her.

      She’s sitting very still and I know she’s staring at my ragged unpainted and un-manicured nails curved around the stubby pencil as I’m drawing, at my face unblemished by the heavy make-up that is war paint for her kind.

      She has no idea what to do with me.

      After staring at my left ear for a long moment, she finally clears her throat. “OK. Should I sketch out a plan, and then we can talk about it?”

      I shrug, eloquently.

      She nods slowly and looks around at the other huddled groups talking animatedly amongst themselves. She clears her throat, and then she glances down at my doodle, a slight frown on her face. It wasn’t funny enough earlier, so I’ve added on humongous boobs to the TA as she lies on her back with the unicorn on top of her.

      I can’t read what’s in Reagan’s eyes. I can’t imagine what a classy, perfect girl like her must be feeling about my drawing: Dislike? Distaste? Disgust?

      Unexpectedly, a tiny smile appears on her face.

      7

      Reagan and I hardly see each other, despite being roommates. Every day the next few weeks I wander about campus until late, and when I come back, she’s either asleep or out. She’s emailed me a bunch of times, left notes on our door, my bed and even on the top of the pile of my dirty clothes, but I ignore them all.

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