“Yeah, I’m fine,” I croaked out. If only.
“Well you don’t sound it. Open the door.” What the hell?
“I said I’m fine, so you can go. Thanks.” The lack of sincerity in my voice was probably obvious, but I didn’t care. I just wanted her, whoever she was, gone.
“Open the door.”
“No.” My refusal was part belligerence and part vanity as I knew I looked like crap, having spent God knows how long crying.
“Look, I’ve got a degree in stubbornness, so you can either open the door now or listen to me knocking non-stop for however long it takes. Your choice.” Deciding the easiest option was to open the door, get rid of the crazy cow on the other side and then return to the foetal position for the rest of my natural life, I struggled up off the floor.
“Oh, my God, do I hear movement?” The voice had lost any pretence of sympathy and was now just pissing me off. Tightening my dressing gown around me, I took a deep breath and opened the door, ready to do battle with my vocal adversary. But she got there first, before I had even fully opened the door. “Thank fuck for that! What the hell do you think you’re doing, letting some wanker get to you like this? Get a grip. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” Not knowing what else to do in the face of her onslaught, I allowed myself to be pushed back into my room. “Get some clothes on. We’re going for a walk.”
“What? Who are you?” Adopting the classic arms-crossed pose of the defensive, I gave her my hardest stare. “I’m fine. Now, thanks for your concern, but I don’t need your help. You’ve seen I’m still alive, so your job here is done. Bye.” From what I’d seen of her so far, I guessed she wasn’t good at subtlety.
“I’m not going anywhere. You’re here, alone, after some loser, probably your sad-sack-of-shit boyfriend from home, has dumped you. You’ve not made any friends yet. Mummy and Daddy are miles away. So, what are you going to do? Sit here crying? Put some sad songs on and relive your happiest memories with him? Bollocks! As I said, you need to get a grip. So put on some clothes. I draw the line at dressing you.” She sat on my bed, clearly meaning every word she had said. All without so much as a glimmer of a smile.
“Fine,” was all I could muster as I pulled together a pile of random clothes and took them into the bathroom. I heard a snort of laughter follow my melodramatic slamming of the door and wondered who on Earth the girl was. I saw my reflection in the mirror above the sink. I looked like shit: all swollen eyes, blotchy skin and matted hair. But I didn’t really care. After brushing my teeth and trying to pull my hair into a braid, I put the clothes on and returned to my room, only to find whoever she was looking through the photos on my windowsill.
“Umm, do you mind?”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist; I was only looking. Is this him?” she asked, holding up a photo I had taken of Jake lay on my bed.
“Yes.”
“Kind of good-looking, I suppose, if you’re into the healthy, outdoors type.” I refused to take the bait.
“Look, thanks for your concern but I’m okay now. You can go.”
“Not a chance, girl. Come on, we’re going out,” she insisted, holding open the door. Picking up my keys and phone, and not knowing what else to do, I followed her.
The campus coffee shop was as busy as usual, but Snarky Girl managed to bag a table in the corner, probably by giving the death stare to the preppy girls who vacated it.
“Sit,” was her only comment before she went to the counter.
Snarky wasn’t exactly unfeminine but she wasn’t the type of girl you’d expect to find cooing over kittens, either. Her afro hair was tamed into Medusa—like curls which sprung in every direction and bounced as she moved. Wearing a vintage leather jacket, leggings and Dr. Martens, she stood out from the floaty, flippy skirts and opaque tights which surrounded us. Even from the other side of the coffee shop, I felt the assertive—some might say aggressive—vibes rippling off her. She didn’t look like the type of girl who was anyone’s friend; yet, here she was, the only person who had come to my aid. Who was I kidding? She hadn’t come to my aid; she had forced herself into my life, probably out of nothing but nosiness. As she walked back over, a cup in each hand, I felt myself bristling with annoyance at her method of intervention.
“I hope you’re not one of those mocha-frappa-crappy-ccino types. I got you an espresso.” She threw down a couple of sugar sachets before taking the seat opposite me.
“Umm, thanks. Espresso is fine,” I replied, stirring the sugar into the cup before taking a mouth-scalding sip. “What’s your name?” I bravely asked.
“Kema,” was her only response.
“I’m Neve.” Silence. Not much of a talker, then. I continued to burn my mouth as I needed to do something and chat was clearly not on the agenda.