good bunch of people living on it.

However, I noticed over the last two months that a loud, amusing minority disagreed. By March, we'd earned something of a reputation among some people on other floors, which I had more than once overheard in the dining hall, read on the online confession pages or been told by friends of friends of fellow residents on campus.

Ostensibly, if the gossip was to be believed, I was sex-hungry, unstable and disrespectful (kind of true). Kris was a two-faced attention whore who wasn't even pretty without makeup and Riley was a desperate bookworm who was trying to hang out with cool girls in the way she'd been unable to all her life (objectively untrue). The twins—collectively, the Jays—were meathead jocks who would peak in college and reminisce about it years later, their beer bellies falling out of their stained Letterman jackets (abominably false: they didn't own Letterman jackets).

I couldn't help laughing at every single one of them. That there were pathetic trolls out there who still cared about other people's lives to that extent—who would direct their time and energy into spreading meaningless rumours—was so pathetic. When I told Riley and Kris about the things I'd heard, scrolling absentmindedly through the confession page feed, incredulous laughs burst out of them.

"That's cute," Riley said, without looking up from her laptop. The light from her writing document glinted off her mocha-coloured glasses. "Reminds me of high school."

I tossed my scapula-length hair over my shoulder. "It's probably because our floor has more brains and looks than all the others combined."

I had met Riley Salesi the English Lit major in sophomore year. Krista had introduced us, having known her since their mutual interpretive dance elective (renowned for being an easy A) in freshman year.

Riley wanted to become a published author and change the world with her writing. She harboured massive dreams for a girl from a tiny world. Carsonville, Riley's hometown, was within an hour or so's driving distance from Halston University, and pretty much anyone who wanted to get out of that place had to come through Halston.

The days were still so cold that I didn't leave the building unless I had important lectures to attend. So, we were studying for midterms in one of the private glass pods on the first floor instead of on campus. Ours, being the newest hall of residence, was well-equipped with state-of-the-art study, laundry, music and game rooms. I loved soaking up the glistening, active atmosphere but my two best friends preferred the comforts of their shared dorm, Krista, especially. Each time she indulged my need for stimulation and left her room, I felt a personal sense of victory.

"It's actually more likely that we've pissed the alcohol-free floors off by playing loud music and drinking way past quiet hours," Kris interjected logically. "Every week."

"And what?" I challenged stubbornly. "How can they be alcohol-free in college? And who actually sleeps at quiet hour? Ten p.m. is lunchtime for college students."

"Some people like a quiet Friday night," she explained gently. "Especially during midterm season. I feel the same sometimes. I was actually going to apply for an alcohol-free floor—"

"What? You take that back right now."

The general public thought the most interesting thing about Krista Ming was her one million-plus Instagram followers, but around us, she seemed to forget she was even a famous influencer—until she asked one of us to take pictures of her for obligatory social media updates.

When I met Krista in my freshman electives, I knew immediately that she was hard-working and crazy committed to her studies. Whereas I ran on consistently inconsistent cramming sessions and sporadic bursts of energy, Kris chipped away at the insurmountable monolith that was Pre-Med with unrelenting concentration. Internally I gave her major credit for that, but outwardly I scolded her for being such a stick in the mud.

Like, get drunk and shake your ass with me occasionally, please. That's all I ask.

"—if my bestest friends weren't on the eighth floor," she completed, smiling wider at my mollified nod.

In truth, none of us cared what anyone thought. I maintained that our floor was the best in the building.

Sure, maybe the common room had the odd whiff of vomit. Okay, and there was that scandal when a football team party hosted by the Jays spiralled out of hand. I was too drunk to recall all the details, but someone had headbutted the wall and left a huge hole. The disciplinary reaction from the building director was nuclear.

Half of the floor had told the Jays to never invite their teammates around again, while the other half—consisting of me, Riley and Krista—argued that they weren't responsible for the activity of their whole team. Everyone was an adult. So long as the person responsible paid up to fix the wall, why should we punish the other people just trying to have fun?

And, there was that odd incident when a male floormate hit on Krista, but they talked through it maturely and were friends now. I didn't envy her one bit: my roommate turned out to be a taciturn lacrosse player who was always away from the room. Bonus.

But aside from all that in the two short months since the second semester began, best floor ever. Even when I thought of Jamie now, I only thought positive things. Somewhere along the line, I'd accepted our new friendship as legitimate. So, maybe it really was as uncomplicated as a poo joke.

As I returned to my studies, thinking of the people around me, how the semester was shaping up, a special type of warmth spread through my chest. One that didn't come from success or anger or alcohol. It was a casual, noncommittal type of warmth. It asked no effort from me, just quiet recognition.

Like the sun breaking through the clouds to silently shine on my face.

Before everyone left campus for spring break, there was an open invitation party on the eighth floor.

Not everyone was leaving, including myself. I was saving money for the coastal road trip Krista, Riley and I were planning for the summer, so I would only go home to the Boston suburbs at the end of the academic year.

Joining us girls in not leaving were Jake and Jamie, but the five of us wanted to celebrate as a whole floor before some of our other friends parted ways for a week.

Subsequently, most of the attendees were fellow juniors. Jake and Jamie invited the football team, so I invited Sushmita, who, by now, had smashed the shy quarterback about four times and accidentally fallen in love with him. Now she wanted to chase him down and husband him up.

Ugh.

It was kind of sickening how loved-up everyone around me was. Riley and her boyfriend Phoenix, Jake and his girlfriend abroad, now Sushmita and her nine-inch quarterback. Yes, she told me all the details, down to the specific measurement. Yes, it was gross.

Riley, her black curly hair contained in a purple bandana, leaned by the window with said boyfriend and giggled every second sentence. She and Phoenix were sharing a bottle of wine between them, the neck of it clutched unsteadily in Riley's hand, Riley herself held in his arms. She was a total lightweight.

Krista naturally had better tolerance than Riley, but she drank so infrequently that it never built up. Alcohol impacted her like she was a booze virgin every time. I glimpsed her from between a crowd of people surrounding her neon green-wrapped frame, taking cute pictures with her legions of fans while she dangled a soju bottle from her fingers. 

Even Kris was partying tonight—that's how big this bash was!

Someone brought in a traffic cone from the side of the road, alongside some empty cardboard boxes and an old sofa seat. A challenge began to see how long a person could drink from the small hole at the top while the others poured a mixture of drinks into the base.

And I planned to win it.

I stepped into the ring that had formed from faceless bodies and dropped to one knee. Random hands helped poise the apex of the cone over my mouth, and soon the liquor started flowing into it. People chanted as I drank, "Chug, chug, chug, chug..."

It reminded me of King's Cup, the concoction that was sliding down my throat. I caught dozens of different flavours, intermingling with each other. Something fruity, an exceptionally dry beer, the familiar burn of a dark spirit. It was great. Mixing drinks was the best way to get knocked off my feet.

A while later, my stomach started feeling uncomfortably full. If I kept at it, I might end up vomiting later, which was a big no-no. I'd already spewed more times than I liked to admit, and I didn't want anything making it onto my written record. The timekeeper, a senior with a face I'd seen somewhere before, stopped the countdown on his phone screen.

"Two minutes and three seconds," he informed the small crowd in the common room. A round of applause began. My time set the current record to beat, and a wave of pride warmed my stomach. But maybe that was also the large content of alcohol sloshing around in there.

My movements were steady and deliberate as I raised myself from my knees, walked two steps to the couch and sat down slowly. No sudden jolts, or it might all come spewing out. The Jays scooted aside so that I could sit undisturbed. Next to me, Jake scowled but reluctantly held his closed hand out for a fist-bump. He had been the first batter up, and no-one had beaten his time till me.

"Sorry, Jakey. Maybe next time I'll go easy on you," I pouted happily. A pleasant buzzing had started in my head, and I leaned my head on Jake's shoulder.

"Don't go easy," he laughed. "I'll just have to up my game to out-drink you."

"Impossible," I returned confidently. Jake and I leaned forward, giving his twin identical provocative stares. Jamie stared back stonily from the other end of the couch. "Your turn, Jamie."

The Jays were boisterous and competitive; I could always count on them to make a good time better. Jamie had been watching the whole affair from the beginning—I actually suspected it was one of his football friends that had dragged the cone into the building—but he hadn't attempted the challenge yet.

He'd met a leggy redhead who hung around him the whole night, and now she sat next to him on the arm-seat of the couch. Every so often, her slender hand would drop onto Jamie's shoulder absentmindedly, but he never turned around. That was so harsh of him. She was hot and keen—put the girl out of her misery.

Instead, he fixed Jake and me with an unflinching, obstinate frown. "Nah. I'm good."

From beside me, the very-intoxicated Jake gasped loudly. "I'm so shocked. Are you forfeiting?"

I didn't gasp, but I did raise my eyes. The more I'd gotten to know Jake and Jamie after moving in, the more I understood the nature of their relationship. Forfeiting—not competing with each other—was absolutely unheard of.

The Jays were close as can be, but they also were at each other's throats half the time. They insulted, riled up and blatantly humiliated the other at every opportunity. It was truly a case of: the more love between two people, the worse the behaviour they could get away with.

This warmed my heart because I didn't know what it was like challenging a sibling. My little brother, Aaron, had been born when I was seventeen. With the number of times I changed his nappies, picked him up from daycare or taught him sparse words in Khmer, I almost felt like a second mom to him.

For all of my high school career, I was reserved and solitary—completely at odds with the carefree and competitive Jays. That is, if one overlooked Jamie's current sour behaviour.

He rolled his umpteenth beer of the night in his wrist and leaned deeper into the cushions of the couch, as if to make the point that he wasn't leaving it. 

He sniffed and retorted, "I can't forfeit a game I never started."

Jake looked at me and whispered theatrically, "He's forfeiting."

"I'm not forfeiting. I've just had enough-"

I nodded at Jake. "Totally forfeiting."

The timekeeper asked around, "Any other challengers?" 

People giggled and tried to push their unwilling friends towards the cone, but no serious competitor stepped forward. Not even Jamie, sadly. The man could really drink. 

"Then we have a winner!" the timekeeper called, extending a hand to me.

I gave the timekeeper my hand. He pulled me to my feet and looked over me slowly. He was seemingly aware that my movements and reflexes had slowed considerably since I'd ingested that uncontested amount of alcohol. I hadn't noticed before, through the intense haze around my brain, how hot he was.

Once I got to my feet, people cheered and the RGB speakers kicked up in volume. The majority of the crowd dispersed to find other means of entertainment, either dancing by the window or fighting for the next game on the PlayStation. Jake lunged for a controller and whooped in victory—even though he owned the damn device. A layer of Call of Duty theme music joined the chatter, dance songs and laughter that filled the common room.

I stayed by the coffee table, feeling the hot timekeeper stroke my hand. He pulled me into him and wrapped an arm around my waist. At the whiff of his delicious, woodsy cologne, a flicker of desire struck up in my gut.

We swayed along to the music, until he leaned in and asked, "What's your name?"

"Vivian," I replied. I didn't really care about his name, so I didn't ask. There were more important things to ascertain about this man. "Who did you vote for in the primaries?"

He drew his head back to inspect my face, a quizzical expression on his face. When he realised I was serious, a delighted laugh escaped his gorgeous mouth. His hands wound tighter around my back and tugged me against his firm, sculpted body.

"I voted for Abbott," he answered. "I really liked his stance on healthcare and Planned Parenthood funding. I'm Ajay, by the way."

Registered to vote in primary elections. Registered with Democrats, more importantly. And he supported social healthcare policies. Those were three fat checkmarks in my book.

I leaned my head close enough to whisper in his ear. "Nice to meet you, Ajay."

Over Ajay's shoulder, I had a clear view of Jamie on the couch. He was by no means sober, but his eyes gleamed with an alertness that looked awfully stressful and boring. The redhead on the armchair started twining her fingers through Jamie's curls, but he wasn't looking in her direction.

When Jamie and I locked eyes, he cleared his throat and looked away. A moment later he downed his half bottle of beer and took the redhead's hand in his. I watched her eyes finally light up as Jamie spoke to her. Good boy.

Turning my head to the left, I stretched onto my tiptoes and lightly nibbled on Ajay's earlobe, tugging the sensitive skin there between my teeth. I felt a shudder roll through this magnificent, politically-active, progressive upperclassman and breathed against his ear, "Want to see my bedroom?"

Ajay swallowed, nodded and followed me out of the common room.

Does it come across that I'm not American? If so, do comment and let me know some improvements I can make to the setting details. One of my single greatest writing struggles (self-inflicted by deciding to base Universe 1 in the States) is switching Mum to Mom and learning what the hell Homecoming is.

Vote, comment, follow!

Peace out from New Zealand. <3

Aimee x