In seconds, the dorm room and John devolve into hysterics as his girlfriend heads up to give him a piece of her mind. It didn't appear to be outright fear, but more or less the type of panic that came when a partner saw your whole, pasty rear suspiciously plastered against a window.
"Hurry up, man!" John shouts hoarsely at me and yanks on a dark wool sweater. "I'm supposed to be under lock and key right now! Bea's punishing me after I flirted with one of her best friends at a party, and I haven't gotten laid in almost a month, let alone felt the warm touch of a human in ages! I'm dying here!"
"But I thought you and the other poets were swingers! Isn't this normal behavior for you?" I struggle to put one leg through the trousers John had lent me and execute a foolish bunny hop across the floor in the process.
"Swingers?" John shrills out a laugh as he jerks on his belt and fastens the buckle. "Dante, my sweet summer child, Swingers are fat, retired old men who have nothing left to do but screw other fat, old people in the comfort of their mansions. Please, for Christ's sake, don't ever call me that again, or I might vomit all over the floor."
It takes everything I have not to remind him that if he kept going the way he was, he would end up a retired, old fat man bedding other people's spouses for fun. His family probably owned ten mansions, and the little pudge around John's belly that I'd seen earlier could easily double in size by the time he hit forty.
There's a pounding on our door as we're finishing up pulling on the last of our layers, and Beatrice shouts through the thick wood just as loudly as she can, "John! You better open this door right now! Don't think I didn't just see your stark white ass hovering in the window!"
"All right, Johny Boy. Stay calm in the face of the storm," John says to himself as he walks over to the door, tugging on his collar slightly. Gulping nervously, he gives me an anxious look before unlocking the latch and flinging the door open. On the other side is his petite girlfriend in a dashing brown coat and checkered pants, looking quite nearly as handsome as John.
"Beatrice, honey? What are you doing here? I thought we agreed to meet in the cafeteria this morning!" John flutters his eyelashes in a ridiculous way, and I snort a laugh into my hand before clearing my throat and straightening up.
Our antics displease Beatrice immediately, and she elbows her way into our shabby little dorm room and does a quick little scan with her button eyes.
Unlike her shadow, Lucan, all her features were tiny and fierce, but she had a way about her that didn't allow others to smother her despite her size. Perhaps it was the shoulder pads in her jacket or the slash of crimson lipstick on her lips, but I could see why John had been enamored.
"Dante and I were just about to head out," John explains cheerfully. "He still hasn't unpacked any of his stuff, so I let him borrow some of my clothes until he can dig his out. He looks great, doesn't he? That's the alpaca sweater you bought me last year from Jacquemus."
Beatrice spins on her heel, arms crossing. "Do you think I'm an idiot, John Ciardi? You're not as innocent as you look. I know what you're doing."
John freezes mid-smile, his hand still on the doorknob, as if to bolt.
"Can you please give us the room, Dante?" Beatrice asks me without looking over, "I need to have a private discussion with John."
"Oh, I—of course! I guess I'll see you two at breakfast." I stammer and grab my coat on the way past her and John, who steps aside when I slip back out into the hallway. He had the expression of a man about to go to a funeral, and I couldn't help but feel sorry for him.
The door closes behind me as soon as I'm out, and a few minutes of quiet pass before Beatrice's voice filters out and John's voice joins in, both respectively shouting at one another. It felt rude to stand around and listen, but I couldn't help but hover by the door to try to catch some part of their argument.
"You're the son of a senator, John!" Beatrice shouts, "How are you going to be diddling yourself in front of the window of one of the most prestigious universities in the state? What if the press gets a hold of this story? It doesn't matter if you screw up your reputation, but mine's going to be ruined! I had to work hard to be here!"
"I'm sorry," John replies. "I didn't just get in riding on daddy's money, Beatrice."
"You're a rich man with parents in high positions of power," Beatrice points out. "God, they look at you like you're going to solve world hunger every time you turn in a report on mold spores and microorganisms! And now you're just throwing it all away so you can act like some wild caveman before they stick you in an office somewhere, aren't you?"
I couldn't hear what John said next because his voice was too low, and I realized at this point that I'd overheard far too much. The door to our dorm begins to open again, so I dash down to the elevator before I can get caught spying.
If John and Beatrice were so unhappy with each other but still played nice in public, the poets might not have been as much fun as they made themselves out to be.
The doors to the elevator slide open as I'm preparing to push the button, and all at once, Homer appears standing in the lift, his big body practically blocking the whole back wall.
"Oh," he drawls, surprised, "Dante? I was just coming to get you. Thought you overslept."
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