“What?” he asked, confused.
My hands were trembling. “Ah, sorry, ah, a friend ate a cupcake with a razorblade in it and ah,” I turned away from him to walk to my door, “it was supposed to be for me that cut my mouth.”
I slammed the door shut and fell onto my bed, hugging my stomach, serenaded by the sound of the metalhead’s heavy footsteps running down the stairs.
8
Leaving a dead rat in her room, scaring the shit out of her,was one thing, but physically harming her at this point was wrong. I left the boys at the café and hoped they’d still be there, and fuck, every motherfucker was getting in my way as I walked there.
A group of girls was walking so damn slow, blocking the entire path, so I shot them a loud and sudden, “You stink!” They immediately squealed in fright, and when they turned to look at where the sound came from, I held my nose and growled at them to get out of my way.
Fuck, these chicks are annoying.
“Stink bad,” I yelled, pointing, drawing unwanted attention toward them.
Yeah, I know many folk will assume that I was nuts, the average homeless dude gone mad, but I didn’t care. I enjoyed it. It was purely performative and knew exactly what I was doing, rather than a man with no filter or no control over his words. But let them think that I was deranged because then they’d move out of the way when they see me coming.
One of many things I disliked about Castlehill was the lack of vehicles. If we needed to go somewhere, we had to either walk or take the campus bus, since we obviously couldn’t bring our vehicles on the train, but we bought motorbikes that were stored at The Lud frat house, including a classic Triumph that I made from scratch plus a Suzuki for offroad. But the downside was that the engine was loud and everyone could hear me coming.
My fists clenched tighter the closer I got to the cafe, and as I walked through the high awning of the castle, it seemed weird how empty it felt, and my footsteps echoed. But the noise of Dingle Street flooded into the empty space as I drew closer to the back entrance.
Damn. The boys were gone, so I messaged Ez asking him to call me ASAP. It took two minutes for his call to come through.
“Bro, I thought we were going to hold off from physically hurting her?” I stressed, leaning against the wall of an empty classroom, my free hand knocking on the wall in frustration.
“What are you talking about? The Boleyn chick?” he acted dumb, which he was good at.
“Yes,” I hissed, “The Boleyn chick. Did you put a razorblade in her cupcake?”
“Why the fuck would I do that for?” he stressed, sounding a little confused, and I could tell he was being honest. It didn’t seem like his style, but maybe Sickle had something to do with it.
“What about Sickle?” I asked.
“Why would he bother when we’ve set you up, bro? The rat and you scaring the shit out of her are all we’ve organized,” he explained flatly. “I mean, you’ve got some more scare tactics up your sleeve, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, of course, but…” I rubbed my tired eyes with the base of my palm after spending last night outside, which I didn’t mind. But I kept waking every time I heard footsteps, then realized no one was there. Fuck, I’m starting to scare myself now.
“Bro, are you seriously sayin’ someone put a razorblade in her cupcake?” It finally hit him.
“Yeah, I mean, how fucked up is that?” I argued, realizing that if it wasn’t him, then who?
“Is she okay?” he asked flatly, as if he didn’t care, but felt the need to ask and show that he had a heart.
“Yeah, but it wasn’t her who ate it. It was someone else. I don’t know who, but it sounds as if they cut themselves on it,” I elucidated.
“Maybe a blade fell on the batter?” he suggested. “And the baker didn’t notice.”
“What? Wouldn’t the baker notice a fucking blade in the wet batter when they scooped it out into the tray?” I argued, wondering where his head was at.
“I don’t know, man, I’m not a fucking expert on baking,” he blurted.
“C’mon, man,” I groaned as a girl with black hair tied in a ponytail, and I thought it was the Boleyn girl at first, but no, I left her at Morgana.
“Dude, the fuck,” he accused me. “Are you hot on her?”
“Who?” I knew who he was talking about. I had to hear him say it.
“The fucking Boleyn girl,” he yelled down the line.
