Freshmen

by Tom Ellen

  I spent two hours pulling every single item of clothing out of my wardrobe, before deciding I didn’t own anything cool enough to wear to a Fit Sister gig. I settled on classic wallflower jeans and a plain T-shirt and vowed to buy an electric-blue vest dress just in case this ever happened again.

  I met Luke outside Gildas Bar, and as soon as we walked in I felt self-conscious.

  The whole place was full of people who looked like they were one hundred percent part of the Bowl-Cut tribe. People with bright-aqua hair tied in buns on top of their heads. A girl wearing a Run DMC tank top and a sequined skirt, and another one wearing baggy combat boots but also a wedding veil. She was just randomly wearing a full-length wedding veil. The boys were all good-looking in a cool, alternative way, dancing wildly with their shirts tied round their waists and nodding every time the music changed.

  Me and Luke, sitting at the side with our drinks, looked like a mum and dad who had accidentally walked into the wrong tent at a festival.

  “I do not feel cool enough to be here,” he whispered.

  I wanted to say, “You are, but I’m definitely not.” But I just said: “Me neither.”

  The lights went down and a few people cheered, and suddenly Bowl-Cut was up on stage, standing behind a massive keyboard and a microphone. Under the black light you could see she had UV stars painted all over her stomach.

  Next to her was a hot guy with shaggy hair and a moth-eaten sweater. He was also standing behind a keyboard and mic stand. It took a couple of seconds for me to place him, but as soon as I did I whipped out my phone.

  “Such a groupie.” Luke shook his head as I pressed “record.”

  I covered the clip in hearts and sent it to Frankie and Negin: “Interesting Thought Boy is performing LIVE before my eyes.”

  “We are Fit Sister,” Bowl-Cut yelled into the mic. “You guys aren’t ready for us yet…but your kids are gonna love us.”

  She and ITB both started whacking their keyboards, making a kind of music I have literally no idea how to describe. It sounded a bit like a computer game playing underwater, with Mary’s distorted singing over the top. She actually had a really good voice.

  People at the front started dancing. Or, not really dancing dancing, but sort of swaying and bobbing their heads and jerking about wildly.

  “D’you think that guy’s all right?” Luke nodded at a guy in a Sherlock hat who was flailing his arms around a tower of speakers. “He looks like he’s having a seizure.”

  “Everyone here is nuts, but in the coolest possible way. Like, treading the line between headlining-at-Glastonbury and being-committed-to-an-insane-asylum.” I took a sip of my drink. “I’m definitely the geekiest person here.”

  “Geek power.” Luke raised his fist in salute.

  “You are so not a geek. You’re one hundred percent pure jock.”

  Luke actually looked offended. “I hate that word. It’s like you’re just a dick who’s not interested in anything except soccer.”

  Negin and Frankie had sent a photo back; they were both in their pj’s, drinking hot chocolate. Frankie had written:

  Can’t BELIEVE you wouldn’t let us come. As if we really would have embarrassed you in front of Quidditch Bailer. Tell ITB that Negin is his ONE TRUE LOVE.

  Negin had just written:

  Do NOT tell ITB that. How’s the date going…?

  On stage, ITB was now holding a small bell up to his microphone and ringing it gently in time to the drumbeat. I took another picture.

  “I’m sure you’re interested in other stuff,” I said to Luke. Then, because it was dark, and I was half drunk and feeling brave, I added: “Just not quidditch, obviously.”

  He turned to look at me and shook his head. “Honestly, Phoebe…I have wanted to talk to you about that for ages. Something just…came up, and I felt so, so bad about it and I actually really wanted to go and—”

  “It’s fine. Actually, it’s really fun.” We both glanced at a couple exaggeratedly waltzing next to us.

  The song ended, and Bowl-Cut jabbed her finger at me and Luke: “Yes! Big up my leaf memory class bredrins!”

  A few people whooped around to us, and we both grinned at them. Then the music started bubbling and squelching again, with Bowl-Cut wailing all over it, and Luke said: “Come on, we’ve got to at least try to dance after she basically dedicated the gig to us….”

  We made our way down to the front and started copying the Sherlock guy. It went from awkward to really, really fun in the space of about five seconds. After three songs, we were both laughing and sweating so much we had to go back to the bar.

  “Honestly, can I come to the next thing?” Luke shouted into my ear as we ordered more drinks. “Quidditch, I mean. I really, genuinely want to.”

  He stuck his hand out.

  “We’ve shaken before, Luke Taylor,” I said. “You are not a man of your word.”

  He pulled a leaf out of his pocket. “I swear on the rotten leaf of memory.”

  “OK.” I shook his hand.

  Then the lights came up, and Mary was bouncing down into the crowd, hugging people. She came over to us, with a few other girls in tow—including Sequined Skirt and Wedding Veil, who had now taken her wedding veil off.

  “You guys came!” Mary howled, hugging us both.

  “Of course.” Luke smiled.

  She thumped the bar. “I demand to have some booze.” The bartender appeared and she started ordering.

  I pointed at the FEMINIST CLUB badge on Wedding Veil girl’s lapel. “I feel bad, I still haven’t been to any meetings,” I said. “I signed up at Orientation Fair.”

  “You should totally come.” Wedding Veil smiled at me and then at Luke. “You too.”

  “Yeah, I’d definitely be up for it,” Luke said.

  Bowl-Cut handed him a shot. “Luke’s on the soccer team, so he’s more into oppressing women than emancipating them, aren’t you, Luke?” She clearly meant it as a joke, but the girl with the sequined skirt bristled a bit, and stared at him hard. “Are you really on the soccer team?”

  Luke nodded.

  “So is all that Wall of Shame stuff true, then?” she asked, and suddenly everyone was looking at Luke.

  “What’s the Wall of Shame stuff?” I said.

  “They take photos of girls they sleep with and then rate them out of ten and shit,” said Sequined Skirt. “It’s fucking Donald Trump–level dickishness.”

  “Yeah, and it’s only a rumor, Jen,” frowned Wedding Veil. Then she turned to Luke. “Right?”

  I felt myself getting hot. What if it was true? Had Will taken a picture of me when I was asleep? He might not have texted me back, but he wasn’t that much of a bastard, surely? Panic started to rise up in my stomach. I hadn’t even slept with Will. I had just slept with him.

  Luke downed his shot and winced. “Yeah, it’s not true,” he said, wiping his lips.

  Bowl-Cut punched him on the shoulder. “See? If my man Taylor says it’s bullshit, then that’s good enough for me.”

  Luke smiled at me, and I felt relief cooling my whole body as I thought, Me too.

  It freaked me out how quickly it was happening.

  How quickly I’d gone from crushing on Phoebe in this vague, daydreamy, nothingy way, to liking her in solid, this-might-actually-happen concrete.

  When I was around her, I was constantly on edge. I felt that weird, unexplainable electricity you get when you like someone new. I hadn’t felt that since Abbey sat down next to me at the start of tenth-grade French, and it made me scared and guilty and excited all at the same time.

  Just thinking about seeing her made me pick up my pace as I left the field. It was a weirdly warm morning for late October, and me and Will were strolling back through Jutland after an early five
-a-side. We’d played our first real game last week—against Chester University—and lost 4–2, so Will was insisting we all practice at every available opportunity.

  I hadn’t really been able to focus on today’s game, because I was so caught up in Phoebe thoughts. We’d arranged to meet at our poetry class and then head straight over to the quidditch thing afterward.

  “You coming for a beer, then?” Will asked, looking at his phone.

  “It’s not even half past ten.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “I’ve got class.” I considered telling him about quidditch but instantly decided against it. Firstly because I was fairly certain he’d tease me, but also because I still wasn’t sure what had actually happened between him and Phoebe. I’d seen him get with tons of girls over the past few weeks, so he couldn’t have been that into her. But I still wondered what he’d think if he knew I liked her. And I wondered what she thought about him.

  His phone beeped and he flashed it under my nose. “Fuck, man. She’s hot. Well played, Geordie Al.”

  I looked at the photo and figured this was as good a time as any to try to say something about the Wall of Shame. About how off I thought it was.

  I tried to sound casual: “By the way, I never told you. I was out a few nights back and this girl said something about the Wall of Shame stuff. Like, how she’d heard rumors about it.”

  Will’s face tightened. “You didn’t say anything, did you?”

  “No…”

  His face relaxed back into a smile, which made me feel sort of dirty and complicit somehow. As if I’d told that lie out of team loyalty rather than just panicking under the pressure and shame and blurting it out.

  “Some girls are so fucking uptight, honestly.” Will shook his head. “I mean, people take pictures of people all the time. It’s just a joke.”

  I nodded. But it really didn’t feel funny.

  “I’d better go,” I said.

  I sprinted all the way across campus, hoping I’d get to the lecture early enough to get a seat next to Phoebe. But in the end, I was still five minutes late. I took a deep breath and pushed the doors as gently as possible, but they squeaked ridiculously loudly, and about a hundred heads turned to look at me.

  “Ah…There’s always one, isn’t there?” said the professor, peering up over his glasses. “In you come, quick as possible.”

  There was only one free seat—in the middle of a packed row near the back. I squeezed my way through, apologizing to the muttering people who had to stand up. Finally, I sat down, massively relieved not to be the center of attention anymore.

  And then my phone went off.

  And a hundred heads turned. Again.

  “There’s always one, isn’t there?” said the professor again. “Although it’s not usually the same one.” The muttering had now blossomed into full-blown laughter.

  “Right…,” said the professor sternly as I put my phone on silent and took out my copy of Modern Romantic Poetry. “Let’s get back to it. Now then, by 1542, Henry VIII’s alliance with the Holy Roman emperor Charles V causes him to intervene in the Italian War…”

  I stopped unpacking my bag and looked around the hall. I couldn’t see Phoebe. In fact, I couldn’t see a single person I recognized, apart from the massive Game of Thrones guy who’d walked out of the soccer initiation. And he’d definitely not been in any of my other classes. He was sitting two seats down, scribbling notes and scratching his stubbly rust-colored beard. He looked across at my poetry book and wrote something on his phone. He slid it over to me: “WRONG ROOM PAL.”

  I slumped forward onto the desk as he tried to stifle his laughter.

  An hour later, I had a decent—if ultimately useless—grasp of Henry VIII’s foreign policy, and me and the giant shuffled out of the hall and introduced ourselves properly. His name was Ed, and since he was in Gildas College—where the quidditch thing was happening—we ended up walking in the same direction. He was so tall that his dirty-blond Afro nearly brushed the top of the covered walkway.

  “How was the rest of that initiation, then?” he asked.

  “Your walkout was probably the highlight.”

  He smiled. “That Dempers seemed like a right dick.”

  “Yeah. He is a bit. But the rest of them are cool. Mostly.”

  Ed just shrugged.

  “Do you really not drink, then?” I asked him.

  “Nah, never,” he said. “Tried it once. Had five pints of lager. It had no effect whatsoever. Must be my size, I suppose. So I don’t bother with it now. Just stick to the pineapple juice. Much tastier.”

  “But didn’t you think about drinking just for that night? So you could get on the team?”

  “Not really. I mean, I like soccer and that, but if being on the team means putting up with all that bro bullshit, then I’m best off out of it, I feel. Plenty of other stuff to do here.”

  We crossed the Stephanie Stevens bridge, and something stopped me in my tracks.

  “Fuck. I know that smell….”

  Rita and Arthur were lying on the grass, both leafing through massive books while Arthur ate a wedge of Brie like a pizza slice. He almost choked on it when he spotted Ed. “Jesus, look at the size of him,” he sputtered.

  Ed sniffed deeply. “That’s good-quality Brie, is that. Very nice.”

  “Exactly.” Arthur snapped his book shut. “I wish you were in our hall. I’m surrounded by fucking savages. No offense, Luke.”

  “None taken,” I said. “Ed, this is Arthur and Rita. Arthur and Rita, Ed.”

  “Where are you guys off to?” Rita asked.

  “I’m going to this quidditch thing. You guys should come if you want.”

  Rita’s lips twitched. “Ah…Accidental Text Girl?”

  “Who’s Accidental Text Girl?” Ed asked.

  “No one. It’s too long to explain. Look, are you guys coming or not?” I checked my phone. “I’m late as it is. And it could be quite fun. It’s just a friendly game, I think. There’ll probably be free food. And free pineapple juice.”

  “I’ve got class,” Rita said, but Arthur stood up and dusted his coat off. “Yeah, fuck it, I’m in.”

  Ed shrugged. “Me too. Though if anyone tries to handcuff me, I’m straight out the door.”

  “Sorry, but if he bails this time, none of us are speaking to him again. Ever. The end.” Frankie didn’t look angry, she looked upset.

  Negin nodded and sipped her cream soda–and–syrup butterbeer. “Me and you haven’t even spoken to him anyway. But yeah, to do this twice he’d have to be either mentally unhinged or genuinely evil.”

  “Or dead,” I said hopefully. “I mean, why did he miss class? This is so upsetting it’s tragic. I kept telling people I was saving his seat, and then I had to sit with an empty space next to me for the whole hour.” I really, really thought he’d come. “He’s such a dick,” I added.

  “Scrap that, no he’s not.” Frankie squeezed my arm. “And, sorry, but who the hell is that with him?”

  We all looked over at the entrance to the hall. Luke was walking toward us, smiling, with two other boys next to him. I didn’t even realize I was smiling back until Negin whispered: “Look how cute you are. It’s disgusting.”

  Frankie still had a tight grip on my arm. “Sorry, but I think I might actually die. Look. How. Tall. He. Is.”

  She squeezed harder with each syllable.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Luke said. “Went to the wrong room.”

  “I can vouch for that—he did.” The tall boy nodded.

  “Nothing’s started yet.” I tried to sound offhand, but seeing Luke in the flesh was weird; because I spent so much time intensely thinking about him when he wasn’t there, it was like dreams and real life muddling together.<
br />
  “I’m Luke.” He smiled at Frankie and Negin.

  “Arthur,” the boy next to him added. “First-time quidditcher. Or is it quiditchee?”

  “Quidditcher, I think,” said the ridiculously tall boy, who had a strong northern accent. “If you’re doing the quidditch, you’d be a quidditcher. Like, if you’re doing a murder, you’re a murderer.” Then he smiled at us. “I’m Ed, by the way.”

  “So it’s Ed and Arthur,” I repeated.

  “And you’re…Luke, was it?” Frankie said “Luke” as if it was a strange foreign name that she was hearing for the first time. “Yes, I think Phoebe’s mentioned you.”

  I made a mental note to kick her later in her sleep.

  “You have to go and sign up.” Negin nodded over to the table where Brandon and Misty were sitting, and the boys wandered off to join the line.

  Frankie slipped her arms around us as she watched them go: “He’s tall and fit and he knows about grammar and quidditch and murder. He’s literally the perfect man. He—” She broke off as Luke came back. When she’d turned to Negin, I whispered, “Does Ed have a girlfriend?”

  Luke smirked at me. “I don’t know—why, are you interested?” Our eyes met for a second.

  “No…,” I said slowly. He was still smiling his fit smile at me, and I willed myself not to go red. “I was asking for Frankie. She’s been looking for a tall man since the first night of Frosh Week.”

  “Noted. Let’s make it happen.” He looked around the hall at people warming up and comparing broomsticks. “So what goes on at this thing, then?”

  “Right, well”—I pointed at Brandon, who was bobbing up and down excitedly—“that’s Brandon. He’s the jolly one. And that”—I pointed at Misty, who was wearing a dark-red camouflage hoodie and looking pissed off—“that’s Misty. She’s the not-jolly one.”

  He looked at me. “Misty?”

  I nodded. “I know, I know. Me and Negin and Frankie have already discussed it.” We both laughed, and then Brandon gathered us all together in a little circle.