Part 46 (1/2)
”Study?”
”I do study!”
”Study more.”
I swear under my breath and pull out my phone. A text from Dee, the chick I hooked up with at the beginning of term; a starry-eyed Fresher who won't take the hint I'm not interested. Times like this, I need to remind myself who I am. Will Campbell, ba.s.s player for Ruby Riot heading for the big time. Not Will Campbell, failing Arts student trying to keep his parents happy.
”What the f.u.c.k do I do? I tried this time! Really tried. I'm s.h.i.+t at history.”
”If coming back to uni sucks this much, find a job instead.”
No way. As long as I'm here, I have cash flow from my parents. I promised that when Ruby Riot started making more money, I'd pay them back a thousand times over. Behind their smiles of agreement, I see what they really think: never going to happen.
”I can't. I'm not doing some s.h.i.+tty job at a supermarket while I wait for Ruby to come back to the band.”
”Well, suck it up, princess. Keeps Mum and Dad off our backs if we get a 'proper' qualification.”
”When do you think they'll believe we can make a living from the band?”
”When we actually do. The alb.u.m launches next month, we have a few small gigs lined up. A bit of cash. Ruby's coming.”
”With her kid?”
”Dunno. Maybe baby-daddy Jem will come and babysit.”
I laugh; we both do, at the image of Jem Jones bad-mouthed, bad att.i.tude, reformed addict with a baby as his new accessory. ”I'd pay to see that. Reckon he changes nappies?”
Nate screws his face up. ”Dude, I'm eating.”
I steal one of his chips and watch the other students around. Most pay little attention to us, although we have hangers-on some days. Their belief we're partying rock stars draws them to us, and the partying is one of the reason for my bad grades.
Nate slurps from his can of energy drink. ”There's a study group if you're that worried.”
I stare. ”Study group? Are you mad? I suppose that's a group of chicks who meet in the evenings in the library and argue about feminist interpretations of history. Like the one in my cla.s.s, can't remember her name. Jeez, she doesn't shut up and the guy teaching the cla.s.s hardly gets a word in. No wonder I'm not learning anything.”
”Just a suggestion.” He pushes my paper across the table. ”Fail this semester and you'll be stacking supermarket shelves.”
”As if! What about the alb.u.m? We're gonna be big.”
”There's no guarantee, you know that.” Nate stands. ”Whose turn is it to go to the Shakespeare cla.s.s this afternoon? Yours?”
”Oh c.r.a.p, no, please don't make me sit through that again. I b.l.o.o.d.y hate Shakespeare.” I stand too.
”Your name sake? No affinity there? What did you expect when you signed up for Lit as part of your degree?”
”Please,” I beg. ”Do this. After that s.h.i.+t mark, I'm not in the mood.”
Nate wrinkles his nose at my pleading look. ”Fine, but you do the next two cla.s.ses.”
”I love you, man.” I grab the side of his face and kiss his cheek hard.
Nate pushes me off. ”Jesus, Will!”
He hauls his messenger bag across his shoulders and wanders away. Slumping back in my seat, I chew my lip. Study group sounds like a viable option. Unfortunately.
3.
FLEUR.
I flick the switch in the library study room and the strip light illuminates the screwed up paper and abandoned pens from the last occupants. Muttering, I grab the bin and dump everything in. Some moron has spilled a sticky drink on one of the wooden chairs and I pull it away from the table. Four chairs are enough for the group.
A select handful of history student friends and I meet here once a week to combine our research and share ideas. We're aiming to go onto post-grad study, and our co-operation makes sense. We're in this together, not competing.
Some of the group failed the last paper and even I dropped below eighty percent, which hasn't happened since my first year. Our understanding of late twentieth century European history needs work and we've decided that's where we'll focus tonight. Dragging my textbook from the bag and dumping it on the desk, I sit. Laptop open, pen out, and I'm ready.
Nita arrives first; her thick black hair pulled into a ponytail and a worried expression on her face. I'm surprised when Steph enters the room; we had a huge argument in the last session, and we haven't spoken since. Steph doesn't like to be wrong; neither do I, so we have issues. Her mark must've been really bad if she came back. The fourth member of our happy gang, Sam, wanders in after we've started, as usual.
”How'd everybody go with the paper?” I ask.
A variety of displeased grunts is my answer.
”Bombed. What about you?” asks Sam.
”I pa.s.sed.”
Nita glances at Sam. ”Told you she would.”
Steph mutters, ”We failed.”
”Well, the next one we'll all pa.s.s,” I say attempting to inject some enthusiasm into the room. ”Did everybody bring their textbooks?”
”Yes, Miss,” says Sam with a chuckle.
They can tease all they like, but I'm serious about my ambitions. Since I was a kid, my life revolved around books. Learning. Understanding. When I start my PhD, I'll teach first year cla.s.ses part-time too. I admit I'm practicing on my trio of study friends.
”The website links they gave us for research were c.r.a.p,” says Sam. ”I ended up going in circles and ended up more confused.”
”Maybe we'll map out the best ones today?” I suggest. ”Some must be easier to navigate.” I pull up the bookmarks on my laptop.
The door opens and I glance up, annoyed at the interruption. A tall guy stands in the doorway. If it wasn't obvious who he is, the Ruby Riot t-s.h.i.+rt stretched across his muscled chest is a giveaway. A half-smile plays across his mouth, one I remember from a couple of weeks ago. The guy pushes long fingers through his dark, spiked fringe as he looks over.
Nate Campbell. Or Will.
Whoever he is, this is one of the big-headed rock star twins. I don't care which, because after Will's behaviour at the party I don't want to see either. He can get the h.e.l.l out. I wait for the guy to close the door and walk away. He doesn't.