Blackout ✓

03 | traffic cone

THE EIGHTH FLOOR HAD A good bunch of people living on it.

However, I noticed over the last two months that a loud, amusing minority disagreed. By March, we'd earned something of a reputation among some people on other floors, which I had more than once overheard in the dining hall, read on the online confession pages or been told by friends of friends of fellow residents on campus.

Ostensibly, if the gossip was to be believed, I was sex-hungry, unstable and disrespectful (kind of true). Kris was a two-faced attention whore who wasn't even pretty without makeup and Riley was a desperate bookworm who was trying to hang out with cool girls in the way she'd been unable to all her life (objectively untrue). The twins—collectively, the Jays—were meathead jocks who would peak in college and reminisce about it years later, their beer bellies falling out of their stained Letterman jackets (abominably false: they didn't own Letterman jackets).

I couldn't help laughing at every single one of them. That there were pathetic trolls out there who still cared about other people's lives to that extent—who would direct their time and energy into spreading meaningless rumours—was so pathetic. When I told Riley and Kris about the things I'd heard, scrolling absentmindedly through the confession page feed, incredulous laughs burst out of them.

"That's cute," Riley said, without looking up from her laptop. The light from her writing document glinted off her mocha-coloured glasses. "Reminds me of high school."

I tossed my scapula-length hair over my shoulder. "It's probably because our floor has more brains and looks than all the others combined."

I had met Riley Salesi the English Lit major in sophomore year. Krista had introduced us, having known her since their mutual interpretive dance elective (renowned for being an easy A) in freshman year.

Riley wanted to become a published author and change the world with her writing. She harboured massive dreams for a girl from a tiny world. Carsonville, Riley's hometown, was within an hour or so's driving distance from Halston University, and pretty much anyone who wanted to get out of that place had to come through Halston.

The days were still so cold that I didn't leave the building unless I had important lectures to attend. So, we were studying for midterms in one of the private glass pods on the first floor instead of on campus. Ours, being the newest hall of residence, was well-equipped with state-of-the-art study, laundry, music and game rooms. I loved soaking up the glistening, active atmosphere but my two best friends preferred the comforts of their shared dorm, Krista, especially. Each time she indulged my need for stimulation and left her room, I felt a personal sense of victory.

"It's actually more likely that we've pissed the alcohol-free floors off by playing loud music and drinking way past quiet hours," Kris interjected logically. "Every week."

"And what?" I challenged stubbornly. "How can they be alcohol-free in college? And who actually sleeps at quiet hour? Ten p.m. is lunchtime for college students."

"Some people like a quiet Friday night," she explained gently. "Especially during midterm season. I feel the same sometimes. I was actually going to apply for an alcohol-free floor—"

"What? You take that back right now."

The general public thought the most interesting thing about Krista Ming was her one million-plus Instagram followers, but around us, she seemed to forget she was even a famous influencer—until she asked one of us to take pictures of her for obligatory social media updates.

When I met Krista in my freshman electives, I knew immediately that she was hard-working and crazy committed to her studies. Whereas I ran on consistently inconsistent cramming sessions and sporadic bursts of energy, Kris chipped away at the insurmountable monolith that was Pre-Med with unrelenting concentration. Internally I gave her major credit for that, but outwardly I scolded her for being such a stick in the mud.