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Chapter 103 by bobbobbobthethir bobbobbobthethir

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Day-Drinking

It’s mid-afternoon, and you find yourself thirsting for a beer. The problem is, you don’t exactly have any on hand.

Emma, on the other hand, is known around the hall as being the local **** supplier. As the resident senior that’s not on the university payroll, she is (unlike Dominic) able to get away with selling away copious amounts of beer to the underclassmen.

A moment later, you’re knocking on her door, and it swings open to reveal Emma. She’s got dirty brown (or is that blonde?) hair and a light blue blouse on. With the top few buttons undone, there’s a healthy amount of cleavage on display, but instead of being drawn to that, your eyes fixate on the can of beer she’s holding in her left hand.

Emma
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“What’s up?” she asks, her eyebrows crinkling slightly.

“I was looking for a drink, you think you can fix me up with something?”

“‘Course, who did you think I am? Come in,” she says, opening the door wider.

“Man, this room’s massive,” you say as you step inside.

The place has got to be at least twice the size of your room, with space for everything you’ve got, plus a couch, a wall-mounted TV, as well as a full-sized fridge and wine cooler. It’s not the messiest room you’ve ever been in, though there are papers and books strewn about the couch and floor, as well as some assorted articles of clothing. There ends up being enough space on the couch for you to fit in on the side.

“Yeah, perks of being a senior,” she says, and she opens the fridge, revealing that it is stocked from top to bottom with booze. Lots and lots of it, of all varieties and types, and she grabs a can of beer and tosses it to you.

“How much is this one gonna be?” you ask, cracking it open.

“We’ll say this one’s on the house,” she says, cracking open her own. She sits on the edge of her bed, jotting down something on a scrap piece of paper before crumpling it and tossing it onto her desk. “I needed a break from all this circuit design and convex optimisation anyways.”

You look down at the papers scattered across the room, and realise with horror that they’re all filled with dense mathematical notation and crude drawings of circuits. “Yeah, looks like I’ve really rescued you here,” you say.

“So, tell me what’s happening in your corner of the world,” she says. “This wouldn’t be much of a good break without some gossip in it, would it?”

For a moment, you consider telling Emma about the sight you saw yesterday night, but you reconsider. It was a bit of a personal thing, and besides, you’re still not really sure what to make of the whole situation. You go with the next thing that comes to your mind instead: “There’s this guy that’s been getting on my nerves, Jack. He’s got this thing where he just keeps hitting on all the girls around him, all the time, and…”

“He’s not in our hall, is he? I think I know all the new freshmen by this point.”

“No, no. He’s Jack King—”

“No way! This is a super preppy kid, talks like his dad owns a small country…”

“Yeah, you know him? The description’s spot on.”

Emma’s finished her first beer by this point, and she cracks open a second and sloshes half of it down after a second of chugging. “Oh gods yeah. He went to my high school, and honestly, the description could fit just about any of those tools.”

“What kind of deranged high school was this? It sounds like the worst possible place you could send your kid to,” you say.

“That’s Ex’s-Sister, and just about every other ‘elite private boarding school,’ for you,” she says. “Honestly, the kids only go because their parents went, but it’s not all that it’s cocked up to be.”

“Oh, that’s the one with the rival sister school… uh, what’s its name again?“ you ask, feeling the name on the tip of your tongue. You scratch your chin, trying to remember, and Emma lets you stew for a second before she jumps in with the answer.

“Bendover,” she says. “But I hate saying the place as much as you have trouble recalling it. The dipshits that come out of that place are even more entitled and arrogant than us.”

“Wow, sounds like somebody has some unresolved grudges to work through,” you say. “Aren’t you a senior? Wasn’t all this business, like, four years ago? Why does it even still matter?”

“And this is how I know you didn’t go to one of these elite high schools. It’s just a thing,” she says, “to keep caring even when it seems like you shouldn’t anymore. There are a couple out there where you’ll know they’re alum within minutes of meeting them—there’s New York’s Guyvesant, DC’s got GW, and Boston’s got the ETA. Even if they don’t tell you it upfront, you start to get a feel for it.”

“I’ve heard of the others, but the ETA?” you ask.

“Enfield Tennis Academy, you can spot them from a mile off,” Emma laughs. “They’ve always got one arm that’s bigger than the other. Like really noticeably. Comes from all the tennis they play, I assume; our varsity team’s full of the kids, all ATP rejects. And no, don’t ask me how they’re all also smart enough to come to Stonewall, I have no idea what they put in the water there.”

“Damn, they sound like a scary bunch,” you say, setting aside your beer that you’ve only just finished.

“Yeah, yeah, but their abs though…” Emma says dreamily. She gets a far-off look for a second, recalling some distant memory, and then her attention snaps back to you and the beer can that you’ve juts put down. “Anyways, I’ve bitched on for long enough about this. You were only here for a beer, and I have work to catch up on.”

“Sure, catch you later,” you say, getting up. You’re happy to take the exit opportunity she’s given you—though you hadn’t come in here expecting to hook up with Emma, the small part of you that had senses that nothing more is going to come of this conversation.

Out in the hallway, you consider what you should do next.

Emma +15

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