Pretend to date? That lunatic actually suggested that? Like it was completely normal? Like she was asking to borrow a bloody pencil? Who asks of such a favor of someone they barely even know, let alone like? Crazy Kennedy. That girl has several loose screws in that pretty head of hers.

The fact she was able to ask for a favor and insult me in the same breath is astounding, yet I'm borderline impressed by her brazen negotiating tactics. But unfortunately, I don't have time in my schedule for petty drama. I just need to survive the next ten months then I'll be set for life. Just ten months of keeping my head down. Shouldn't be hard to do since Mycroft County is the epitome of boring.

I don't need her help. What kind of trouble can I even get into if there's nothing to do? It's like my parents sent me to the most inactive city in America. Probably on purpose. They knew that this place would slowly kill me. Drain my will to live.

No friends? No acquaintances? Nobody. Not that I need friends. I have friends. They just happen to be halfway across the world.

I twist open the handle to my dorm room, hoping I'll finally get some alone time. But instead, the cruel hand of fate has delivered me a supposed flatmate in the form of a stubby young chap with light brown hair and tattered clothing. For Christ's sake. I thought I wouldn't have a flatmate. There was no one here earlier. This is a nightmare. Truly. Can this day get any worse?

"Oh, hey. Didn't hear you come in," he says, adjusting records on his side of the room, his buggy blue eyes scanning my face intently. "You must be Oliver Knight. I'm Clifford Travosky. Nice to meet you." Clifford holds out his meaty hand towards me.

"Hey," I say casually, walking past Cliff and plopping down on my bed, my gaze scanning his vinyl collection. Not bad. "I thought I didn't have a flatmate."

"Sorry about that." Clifford sucks in a sharp breath as he saunters towards my side of the room, his eyes sweeping across the various cameras I positioned on the floating shelves. "I had to cover a shift this morning so I missed homeroom, I just got here a few minutes ago." His hand reaches out towards my vintage Canon A-1 camera.

"Don't touch that," I state flatly, narrowing my eyes. He's going to be a nuisance, I can tell. Clifford throws his hands up apologetically and stumbles backward towards his bed. Better. "Did you say you had a shift? As in you have a job?"

He attends Hilton and has a job? Who is this person? I would bet that the majority of these students don't even know what a Curriculum Vitae is.

"Yup," Clifford says, running an embarrassed hand through his hair. "That I do."

"Really?" I ask, pulling my headphones out of my nightstand and cueing up my mid-afternoon playlist. "Why?"

"Well-" Clifford chuckles quietly. "I'm here on an academic scholarship," he explains. "Only about eighty percent of the tuition is covered. My parents pay the rest out of pocket but they don't make that much. My dad's a music teacher and my mom's a pharmacist. I gotta work for my own spending money."

"Oh," I hum, nodding my head and slipping on my headphones. At least I didn't get roomed with an uppity Chad. Plus if he works, that means that he won't be in our room all the time. A win-win. "That's cool."

"Yeah," Cliff says, tapping his hands on his knees like he can't sit still. "It's an easy job. I stock inventory at an indie record store in town. Pretty chill work."

I crane my neck towards him, my curiosity piqued. "There's a record store in town?" I ask. "Really?"

"Yeah, it's just off Winder Avenue near Elle's Cafe, if you know where that is," Clifford elaborates, rummaging through the pockets of his army trousers. I've seen the cafe on my rips through town but never saw a record store. He fishes out a business card and hands it to me. "You should check it out. We stock lots of cool one-of-a-kind records. It's on the second floor, kinda hard to find if you're not looking."

I take the card from him. Well, maybe this will give me something to do for the next couple of days. "Saturn Records," I read, pursing my lips. "Thanks, I'll have to check it out."

"Yeah, no worries," he says. "I can give you a discount if you want one. I get twenty percent off." He pauses, wincing. "Sorry, you probably don't need a discount."

"Why wouldn't I want a discount?" I ask, tilting my head. "Just because I have money doesn't mean I'm not thrifty. Less money on records means more money on pints."

If Aunt Bessie saw charges on her precious black visa card from a liquor store she'd surely tell my parents. That means my degenerate habits must be supported through my lousy weekly allowance.

"Pints? As in...beer?" Cliff asks, blinking at me. "But you're not-"

"I'm not what?" I ask, feigning confusion. He's kind of amusing, isn't he? "I'm not of age?"

"Well, yeah," Cliff murmurs. "You can't buy alcohol in the States until you're twenty-one. You know that right?"

"Yes, I am aware of your idiotic rules." I let out a low laugh. "Heard of fake IDs before? Do they not have those in America? That's hard to believe."

"Oh yeah, fake IDs," Cliff mumbles, rubbing his hands together. "I didn't think of that." He's quiet for a second before his gaze flickers back to my cameras. "So you're into photography?"

"No," I say deadpan. "I just collect vintage cameras."

"Oh," Cliff hums, nodding his head. "That's-"

"I'm joking," I say. Poor chap. So much to learn about the world.

"Oh," he chuckles nervously. "Are you taking photography this year? Mr. Takanaki used to shoot for National Geographic."

"I am, yeah," I mutter, propping my headphones back on. Maybe I'll go check out Saturn records in the morning, once the bike is out of the shop.

"Cool, me too," he says, and I turn up my music, slowly tuning out his voice. "Did you want to-"

I close my eyes, the blaring sounds of Guns N' Roses filling my ears.

Fuck, he's chatty.

***

It's taking longer for the auto shop on campus to fix my poor baby than I thought it would. So rather than spending my last two days of freedom riding around town, I get to spend it inside with Cliff, who literally never shuts the fuck up with his endless parade of questions.

Where exactly are you from? What do your parents do? Do you like America? What do you want to do when you graduate? Do you have a girlfriend? Are your parents still married? Is that your real hair color?

Why does it matter?! Jesus Christ, he needs a bloody muzzle. I thought about escaping his inquisition by hanging out in the senior's common room but then I'd for sure have people talking to me. But I'm starting to think that one Clifford is as bad as five regular people.

As luck would have it, a text pops up on my phone just as Clifford segues into asking me about my childhood. So fucking intrusive.

"Listen, Cliff," I say, tossing on a leather jacket and grabbing my helmet off the desk. "My bike's ready at the shop. So I'll see you later, yeah?"

I don't give Cliff a chance to respond before I dash out the door, grateful for a moment of peace and quiet. I fumble around my pocket and pull out the record store business card. They're open until 6 pm today. Perfect. This gives me a couple of hours to browse before curfew at 8 pm. Fucking eight o'clock! Absurd. What are we? Toddlers?

With nothing else to do yesterday, I actually took the time to read Hilton's Student Handbook. Lights out at 10 pm. Every night. Breakfast at 7 am. Classes from 8 am to 4 pm. It's like a prison. We are literally in prison.

After thanking the shop teacher, Mr. Hall, for saving the Triumph, I cut through the quad, checking out his repair job as I trudge towards the road. The paint looks brilliant, you can't even tell that it was smashed up. Man's got some talent.

"What did I say about rolling your motorcycle through the grass?!"

Bloody hell.

I suck in a deep breath, turning my head towards the source of my sudden irritation. I had somehow managed to avoid the girl for thirty-six hours. I suppose my luck was bound to run out eventually.

"Kennedy, what a pleasure," I mutter as she runs towards me, surprisingly she's wearing leggings and an oversized Harvard hoodie rather than the school's uniform. I would have thought she lived in that thing. "I'd love to stay and chat but I have places to be."

She crosses her arms suspiciously, pieces of her hair wisping across her face as a gust of wind swirls around us. "What places?"

"None of your business," I say as I continue to push the bike. Is everyone at this school so fucking nosy?

"Well, make sure you're back by eight," she sings in a mildly threatening tone. "I would hate to have to write you up."

"Yes, I'm sure it causes you great pain," I say, rolling my eyes as we reach the pavement. "Why don't you go and bother someone else, eh? I think I saw a group of girls smoking by the garage. Go ruin their day."

"Really?" she asks in a serious tone, her gaze flickering to the west side of the school. "Where were they?"

"Oh my God," I sigh, straddling my bike. "You need help."

She scoffs. "I'm just doing my job, Oliver."

"Yeah, well you should quit," I observe, kick-starting the bike. "Otherwise you'll graduate with no friends."

"I have all the friends I need," she says, her face falling slightly. "Everyone else is dispensable."

I chuckle, mildly amused at her outlook. "A bit cold-blooded, aren't we?"

"Sometimes you have to be," she mutters, checking her watch. "Shit. I'm late." She narrows her earthy eyes at me. "Take the sidewalk next time, okay? Last warning."

"Yes ma'am," I say, saluting her before accelerating and riding away.

This is the second time she's given me a warning. I'm starting to think she's bullshitting and won't actually nail me with an infraction. She can talk-the-talk but I don't think she can walk-the-walk. Despite what she says, I'm sure being the most hated person in our class doesn't feel good. But at least no one talks to her.

Maybe I should be an SLO.

***

"Hey man, can I help you find anything?"

"Nah," I say, flipping through the records. "I'm just browsing."

"Aight, well just lemme know if you need any help."

I flicker my gaze to the middle-aged man with blonde dreadlocks and glazed over red eyes. "Thanks," I mutter as I move to the next section. They have some good shit in here but I don't even own a record player so buying a vinyl would be useless. I pause in front of a corkboard with various posters hung up. "What's this?"

"Oh, that's a community bulletin board," he explains from across the room. "We post local shows on there and shit."

"Oh," I hum, scanning the posters. It's mostly dad-rock gigs, at least based on the band names. My eyes land on a hand-drawn poster in black sharpie.

"Oi," I call out, turning towards the stoned associate. "What's The Garage?"

"It's a bar down the street," he explains. "Just two blocks over, one block down."

"Huh," I hum, turning my attention back to the poster. They're looking for a drummer. This might give me something to do in my spare time. They seem to have decent music taste. Maybe Mycroft County is more than just picket fences. I snap a photo of the poster and head out the door.

"Have a good one!"

"Yeah," I mumble before jolting down the stairs. I didn't bring my drum kit with me to America for obvious reasons but if they have one I can use then this might just work out.

I walk two blocks down towards The Garage, keeping my eyes open for the bar. Flashing red neon lights grab my attention and I pause in front of the grungy establishment, its windows graffitied. Maybe it's part of the aesthetic. Opening the wooden door, I head inside.

"ID?" the bouncer asks and I fish out my wallet, passing him an old copy of my brother's driver's license. Moron thought he lost it one night and got a new one. Little did he know I snagged it from his room. He's five years older than me but we look almost identical. "Alright, thanks."

"Where's the band auditions?" I ask.

"Basement," he says, nodding towards the hallway. The bar is empty with only a couple of old fucks sipping Budweisers. I suppose it's a weekday so it's not peak drinking time yet.

When I get down to the basement, I'm greeted by the pungent smell of weed and the hacking coughs of three college kids.

"Hey," I say, sauntering towards them, tossing them a nod. "I heard you're looking for a drummer?"

"You heard right," the dark-haired guy says, giving me a careful once over. "You play?"

"Wouldn't be here if I didn't," I say, eyeing the joint in his hand. They seem chill. "You got a kit?"

"What's your name, kid?" the smallest of the three asks. "I don't think we've seen you around."

"Oliver."

"Nice to meet you, Oliver. I'm Jaime, I play guitar," short tattooed man says, gesturing to his bandmates. "This is Ricky, bass,-" Dark hair, a lip ring. "And this is Colt, our singer." Tall, long blonde hair with devilish eyes.

"You any good?" Colt asks, puffing on the joint.

"You tell me," I say. "Sticks?"

"Over there," he says, gesturing towards the drum kit. "Show us what you got."

As I walk to the kit, I try to rack my brain around what I should play. It needs to be something accessible that they'll know off hand but I also can't overextend myself and play something I could possibly butcher. I snatch the drum sticks off of the high tom and position myself on the throne, my eyes darting to the single kick pedal on the ground. Interesting. Okay.

Meeting the eager gaze of my possible future bandmates, I make the split decision to play Good Times, Bad Times by Led Zeppelin. Impress them with a little John Bonham. Giving my neck a quick twist, I close my eyes and hit the skins. It's been a couple of months since I've played but it's hard to forget. Working through the intro, tension builds as I mentally anticipate playing the classic fill that launches into the beat. When I nail the signature flutter kicks, I hear the bewildered murmuring of the band. Fucking rights. I relax, finishing the song with more confidence, and end with an obnoxious stick toss.

A little flair never hurts.

"Well?" I ask, looking up to meet their impressed gaze. Still got it apparently. "Am I in?" Colt, Jaime, and Ricky huddle briefly to discuss as I get up and walk towards them. I'm sure their minds were made up as soon as I flawlessly hit the fills. "So?"

"You're in." Colt grins, passing me the remnants of the joint. "Welcome to Catharsis."

"You're fucking good, Ollie," Jaime says, nodding in approval.

"Yeah, dude," Ricky agrees. "Best we've seen all day."

"Thanks." I take a puff, holding it in, letting the smoke penetrate my lungs. "Sick name by the way," I mutter, blowing out. I could use some catharsis. "So when's practice?"

"We link up three times a week," Jaime explains. "Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from seven to ten. We play a few Saturdays upstairs. It's decent money. Free beer."

Fuck.

"Seven to ten at night?" I ask, inwardly wincing. Are you fucking kidding me?! How am I supposed to sneak out four times a week?

"Yeah at night," Ricky says, tossing me a skeptical look. "That's cool, right? We can have our first practice next week."

"Of course," I say. "Not a problem."

Big fucking problem.

"Ok, sick," Colt says, heading to the mini-fridge and pulling out a case of beer. "Let's celebrate, boys."

I check my watch. Eh, it's only six, I have time for a couple of pints before curfew. Just can't get hammered. Wouldn't want Kennedy to write me up.

Fuck. I'm going to have to talk to her, aren't I?

__________________

Oh shizzles, Ollie. Looks like you're in a pickle. Maybe it's time to make a deal with the devil.

THOUGHTS?