Page 1 of Slurp

Chapter one

The slow steady drip from a faucet.

That’s the only sound I’m presently processing thanks to my noise-canceling headphones and one of my favorite playlists. However, part of that is probably also due to my current location. Beaufort University boosts the serene atmosphere of its rather large campus library and attached gardens. Since it’s a Saturday morning and the traffic here is rather sparse, I have been able to commandeer one of the medium-sized project tables all for myself. The librarian, Ms. Mertz, keeps giving me the side-eye. But, she knows that if the space is needed I will happily move, so she won’t say anything.

It doesn’t stop the glare she randomly sends my way whenever I opt to work here. It doesn’t bother me though. I see her giving that same cold expression to a few other students, so I know it’s not just something she has against me. Actually, as strange as it may sound, I think she might possibly have hair envy. With how tightly she keeps hers wound in its characteristic bun, I have no doubt that it has devolved into a thin, floppy, lifeless mop, on therare occasion she might see fit to set it free. The thought makes me feel very sad for her. Or at least her hair.

Yes, I am aware that hair does not have cognitive thought.

That does not change the fact that it would still look... sad.

I know it may sound vain. Trust me when I say that is not my intention. Actually, I don’t care one bit about styling my hair, made apparent by the messy bun it normally lives in. Except today when I lost my scrunchy and didn’t have time to hunt for another, so instead it is a wild mane flirting the edges of my face and only mildly tamed by the band from my headphones. Oddly enough, I do sort of enjoy my wild hair. At the very least, I enjoy the healthy curls and silky soft texture.

The secret lies in the conditioner. Get yourself some good conditioner. Seriously.

With a shake of my head, I attempt to refocus my brain. However, when I look back at the paper I am currently writing on, my handwriting looks like gibberish. A quick glance at my watch shows that it’s almost two in the afternoon. Somehow I don’t think the boiled egg I scarfed down on my way out this morning at seven, was quite enough to tide me over, let alone enough to account for a late lunch.

Sighing deeply, I gather my books and papers, stuffing them into my satchel. I turn off my headphones but leave them on my head to use as an avoidance mechanism to communicating with others. Snatching the two borrowed books off the table, I make my way to the shelf, placing them back where they belong, and making my way outside.

I manage to make it only a few steps out the door before my resident bully steps in front of me. With the bit of extra weight in my satchel, my momentum nearly causes me to collide with her altogether. Thankfully my brakes work well because the last thing I want today is a physical confrontation with Samantha Powischer.

From day one of my sophomore year, Sam has made it her mission to make my college experience pure hell. In her defense, she hadn’t expected some random transfer student to come in and knock her down to 2nd best in quite literally all of her classes. Once she discovered that I was ‘some freak’ who actually enjoyed school with an above-average I.Q. which meant I didn’t have to work quite as hard for my grades, well... Nothing sets off a rich and snooty perfectionist quite like being shoved right off their proverbial pedestal.

Even if she is the one that put herself up there, to begin with.

Sam has no friends, boyfriend, or girlfriend. She doesn’t even have a fuckbuddy to release some of the tension that comes off of her in waves. But she does have power. Granted, most comes from her parent’s position in society, but it’s still a power that she wields well and makes others bow before her. Any one of our classmates would happily drop everything if Sam requested their assistance.

Though that is a rare sight.

“What in the world is on your head?” Sam’s additional three inches of height over my meager sixty-three-inch stature, gives her just enough of an advantage to really play into the wholeexamining my headbit. “Oh! That’s your hair. You know, you really should try just a little harder to care about the way you look. I mean, you could at least look like you shower.” She waves her hand in front of her nose and I manage to suppress the eye-roll. “Or at least smell like it.”

“Sorry Sam, not everyone wants to smell like bleach. Some of us like to actually live. And for your information, my hair looks like this no matter how much I try to tame it. It’s called natural curls.”

She spears me with a nasty glare. Her clothes are primly pressed, even though she dresses like she is on her way to an important luncheon, pretty much all the time. And she doessmell clean. Just sickeningly so. I can smell the bleach from her no-doubt stark white bra and panties. It’s too much. I look down at my too-short shorts and the over-sized hoodie that nearly covers them in length, topped off by the sneakers that are probably ten years old now—given that I stole them from my mom’s closet—and I guess I really do look a bit more of amessthan the country club princess.

Then there is her hair. The sad, overstimulated bottle blonde she thinks looks natural, that is always in a high and tightly pulled ponytail. The hair hanging loose is sleek and appears to lack the ability to be out of place.

Honestly, everything about Samantha Powischer screams silver spoon and freaky clean.

No, thank you.

Sam’s face turns red and I realize she has been talking to me. I must have tuned her out again.

“Sorry, Sam, places to go and anyone other than you to see.” I move to go around her when her snippy comment catches me off guard.

“Running to Professor Durban for some extra credit? I know how you really got your grades, you slut.” My brain briefly experiences shock from her words, before my foot catches on her extended one and sends me plummeting.

Do I have a secret crush on my professor? Yes. Actually, I have a crush on two of them. But I haveneverlet that little secret out. Certainly not to Samantha, and I have definitely never acted on those feelings.

My body connects with the first set of stairs with a crunch. Honestly, the shock is all so much that I don’t even feel pain. Well, that can’t be good.

When my head spins around I see the hundreds of stairs before me. How did I never notice how many there were before?

Another impact and another crunch. This time I hear someone shrieking. It might be Sam, but that would be odd since she basically just put all of this in motion. Maybe it’s me screaming?

Impact, crunch, and heat. So much heat.

I must make it to the bottom because the falling finally stops, and the world around me goes fuzzy.

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