Disclaimer: I own nothing except a few broken hair ties, two pairs of earrings and a case of Snapple.
And now for the story:
"Jesus H. Christ. I can't fucking believe it."
"What?"
"None of your fucking business, that's what."
"Uh-huh."
Skittery resumed reading Newsweek. He didn't have time for any of Race's pissy bullshit today. He needed to find an article that didn't bore him to tears to present to his journalism class in less than an hour.
Another ten minutes of Newsweek scanning proved fruitless, pointless, and above all, frightfully dull.
"Screw it." Skittery mumbled to himself. "I'll just skip the damn class." Journalism was never really his strong suit anyway. He was much more interested in politics and law. He thought journalism may be a good supplement to his major, but so far it was proving itself to be quite difficult.
Skittery threw down the magazine. Since he now had a few hours to kill before his next class, he might as well try to find out what had gotten into Race.
Racetrack was standing in front of the window looking out onto the quad, sipping a glass of milk. He had on only his old, plaid boxers and a beater. With his short stature, poor Race was often mistaken for a younger brother of a student. That is, until he opened his mouth. It wasn't that his speech was particularly intelligent- it was filthy. He wasn't very good at making decent first impressions, something that Skittery could personally attest to.
Flashback
"Hi, I'm Skittery and –"
"Hi yourself, cocksucker. Where can I put this goddamn box down? It's fucking heavy!"
"Um, you can just put it down anywhere. I'm Skittery and I guess I'm your new –"
"Roommate. You're my roommate. I'm not a dumbass."
"Um, okay. So, I'm Skittery."
"You've told me that three fucking times already!"
"So, um, what's your name?"
"You can call me Racetrack."
"Racetrack? That's an interesting name."
"It's my nickname, idiot. Jesus, are you always this stupid?"
"Um, so how'd you get that nickname?"
"What do you want, my fucking life story? I'm Racetrack, named thusly because I gamble way too much. I like to get drunk. I don't like pickles or olives, but I do like peppers. I've never been to Mexico, and I don't plan to go anytime soon. I got kicked out of two high schools for running gambling rings and I'm here because I'm fucking the dean of admissions."
Later, Skittery would learn that Racetrack was at college on a math scholarship and had never received so much as a detention at his prestigious high school. But for the moment, he was terrified of Race.
All in all, the first impression sucked.
End flashback
Racetrack stood silently in front of the window, still holding his now empty glass of milk.
Being Race's roommate for over five months now, Skittery was used to his idiosyncrasies. It was not unusual for him to wake up in the middle of the night to a loud shouting of "fuck, fuck, FUCK!" emitting from Race's desk as he was attempting yet another seemingly impossible math problem. Skittery was used to the empty beer bottles littering the minuscule dorm. He was used to the threatening calls from bookie, screaming that they needed their fucking money now, goddamn it. But a quiet Race? This was new. This was weird. Something wasn't right.
"Hey Race,"
"What?" Race snapped, turning to face Skittery.
""What's up with you today?"
"I told you, none of your fucking business."
"Come on. You've barely said a word since you woke up."
"Fine, you want to know? Will you leave me the fuck alone if I tell you?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Spot would've been 19 today."
Race moved from the window to his bed, lying back on the dirty clothes covering the unmade sheets.
"You never told me you had a dog. I used to have a little yorkie named –"
"He wasn't a dog, you stupid fuck. He was my best friend."
"Oh." Skittery was having one of his patented awkward moments. "You never mentioned him before."
"No shit."
"Um, okay. Well, I've got to go to the –er- library for some book, and then I've got my Latin class."
"Whatever."
Racetrack closed his eyes for a midmorning nap as Skittery grabbed his ratty, blue backpack and left.
Later...
Skittery searched the unfortunately sparse cupboard for something to eat. It was late and he was starving. Just as he was about to choose between half a strawberry Pop-tart and a handful of stale chips, Racetrack stumbled in.
"Hiya, Shkittery." Racetrack slurred.
"Race, what the hell? Did you eat all the food?"
"Maybe I ate it." Racetrack giggled.
"You're drunk, aren't you? Where were you just now?"
"I was at my shatistish class."
"Your statistics class? Jesus Christ, Race, it's past midnight."
"Okay, Mom. I was drinking, drinking, getting really fucking drunk." Racetrack flopped down on the nearest available surface, which just happened to be Skittery's bed.
"C'mere," Race motioned for Skittery to join him on the bed. " I wanna tell you a shecret."
"Oh, good lord." Skittery thought to himself. Nevertheless, he sat down on the bed next to Race. Race propped himself up and cupped his hands around Skittery's right ear.
"Remember my friend, Shpot?" Race whispered, barely able to produce coherent speech. "We had been best friend since we were nine. Then, three yearsh ago, he said he liked me. Like, liked me liked me. I called him a faggot and told him to fuck off. I didn't know what else to say. An' I didn't know what to do..." Racetrack nodded, waves of sleep starting to overwhelm him. He put his head down on the pillow. They sat there in silence for a minute; a loud snore broke the quiet.
This left Skittery in quite a predicament. Racetrack was now deep in a drunken sleep on Skittery's bed. Skittery would rather die than sleep in Race's crusty, unmade bed. Damned if he would sleep on the floor, that was just as disgusting.
Oh well. If he couldn't sleep, at least he'd be able to catch up on some reading.
To Be Continued...
Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. I can't promise an update anytime soon, but I'm going to be periodically working on the story. It was originally scribbled down during Biology last year; I recently found it in an old notebook and fixed it up a bit.