I had been handpicked by the SSS to join them tonight. During the grueling, three-week tryout process, I played ruthless battles against different members online. After a few losses, a few wins, and two ties, the tryouts were over, and all I had to do was wait. Well, that time has come. I have the invite in hand, and all it says is to show up to room 209 in the Pine Dormitory at 10:23 sharp, ask no questions, and say nothing. And then I’m to knock with a specific pattern and provide the secret password to get in.
But now that I’m here, lost and confused, I feel like I’m breaking the rules already.
Unfortunately, time is ticking, and I have no idea how to proceed. I don’t want to show up late, especially on the first night. But I can’t find the room, and . . . this guy with the stache and the Slurpee seems like he knows what he’s talking about.
Ugh . . . but what if this is a test? What if he was planted by the SSS, and I already failed because I mentioned room 209 and Scrabble and . . . God, I’m a failure.
Unsure of how to proceed, I rock on my feet, my hands twisting in front of me as I glance around the hordes of people. What is going on in here anyway? It’s a dorm hallway, not a cafeteria. Where are all these people going? I think I need to ditch Slurpee Boy. He knows too much already. And I will not put my position with the SSS in jeopardy. I worked way too hard for an invitation.
“You know, it was nice talking to you, but I think I’ll just go look for the room myself. Thanks.”
I turn away and head for a dark corridor, only for him to call out, “Not going to find room 209 down there.”
I glance over my shoulder to see him sipping on his Slurpee with a smile, his playful eyes intent on my annoyed expression.
“I wasn’t actually going that way,” I respond with indignance.
“Seemed like you were.”
“I was faking you out.”
“Were you now?” he asks, that smile growing wider. “Why would you be faking me out?”
I straighten to face him and raise my chin as I say, “Because between your ungodly thick mustache and your shaggy hair, you look like a predator. How can I be sure that you’re not attempting to snatch me up?”
His brows raise as he runs his fingers over his mustache. “You know, you’re the third person who said I can’t rock this mustache. I thought I was looking pretty legit.”
The man needs to get a better mirror.
“Your mustache is offensive. I’m pretty sure it would make even the most randy of women go dry.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. Lack of filter—it’s my downfall.
I wince as his eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. Yeah, I was surprised too, buddy.
“Uh, I don’t know—”
Before I can finish telling him I’m not quite sure where in the depths of my being that insult came out of, he grips his stomach, bends forward, and lets out a long-drawn-out laugh, his Slurpee shaking in his hand.
Well, at least he wasn’t offended. I’ve got that going for me.
Either way, I don’t have time for this.
Moving past him, I head down the right of the hallway, where I find an unmarked door. Initially, when I was first looking around, I thought this was a utility closet. But paying a little more attention to the door, I think there could be a faint marking of a number on the wall. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . it’s what I’m looking for.
On a hopeful breath, I knock on the door three times and then kick the footer like I was told just as a tall figure closes in behind me.
“You know, I’ve never had a girl tell me that I possess the uncanny ability to dehydrate the nether regions of the female race with just my facial hair.”
I hold back my smile. “Be glad I’m honest.”
The door cracks open, and a single eyeball comes into view. “Password.”
“Walla-walla-bing-bang,” I answer just as the guy behind me leans forward over my shoulder.
“You missed the ching-chang part,” he says.
“What? No, I didn’t.”
“He’s right,” the eyeball says. “Sorry, no entrance.”
“Wait, no,” I say as I prevent the eyeball from shutting the door. I pull the invite out from my pocket and say, “I have the invitation . . . errr, I mean . . .” Ugh, stupid, Lia. You’re not supposed to show the invitation. Backpedal. “Actually . . .” I slip the invite back into my pocket and fold my hands together. “There is no invite, and I have no idea what this door leads to. I just know that I’m supposed to be here at ten twenty-three, and I am, so therefore, I believe I should gain entrance.”
“But you forgot the ching-chang,” Slurpee Boy says while sucking on his straw.
“There was no ching-chang,” I reply with aggravation. “It clearly said, knock three times, kick the footer, and then say walla-walla-bing-bang. I know this because I read the, uh . . . thing, twenty-seven times precisely. So either this is not the right door, which perhaps it’s not, or you two have not read the instructions yourself, and in which case, I demand to speak to an authoritative human.”
“An authoritative human?” Slurpee Boy asks. “Is that a professional term?”
“Dumbing it down for you,” I say with snark. “You know, since you have that look.”
“What look?” he asks.
“One that’s lacking intelligence.” Call it my nerves or my irritation, or just the fact that I can’t hold anything back, but I just let my insult fly.
Thankfully, that smile of his once again tugs on the corners of his lips right before he says to eyeball, “She’s good, man. Let her in.”
“What?” I ask, so utterly confused that I wonder if being part of the SSS is even worth it.
But then the door opens, revealing a very large room, larger than all the other dorm rooms, and it’s a haven to all the things I love. Off to the right is a raised bed with a desk underneath which holds three computer screens, speakers, a massive keyboard as well as a giant mouse and mouse pad that expands the length of the desk . . . Lord of the Rings themed. Hanging on the beige walls are posters, flags, and framed art ranging from Star Wars to board games to a large yellow-and-blue model airplane suspended from the ceiling. To the left is a futon sofa with a coffee table and crates with cushions all along the edges. In the middle, a Scrabble board on a turntable—the fancy kind.
I could totally spend an hour nerding out in this room.
The whole collection of Harry Potter books rests on the bookshelf—and they look like the originals. My mouth salivates.
A framed poster of Adam West as Batman hangs over the sofa, Adam standing tall with a “Kerpow” in comic detail directly behind him.
And under the small television on a flimsy-looking TV stand is what looks to be an original Atari game console. If the owner of this residence owns Pitfall, we will be best friends for life.
“Wow, cool room,” I say. The fantastic décor speaks to my geeky heart. And the precise organization, from the labeled folders on the bookshelf next to the desk to the stacked shoes on the shoe rack, is next level.
“Thanks,” Slurpee Boy says. “It’s mine. I’m also the authoritative person, as you like to call it.” He holds his hand out. “Breaker Cane. It’s nice to meet you. Maybe as you hang out with us more, you can lower yourself to my lack of intelligence on a more personal level.”