Fiendish Play (2 page)

So, since my...I’m going to go with the term, ‘supportive’ parents, insisted I focus on my final year of study, they also provided me with enough money to cover this year’s rent, tuition and expenses. I wasn’t the type of guy to look a gift horse in the mouth, and gracefully accepted their terms on finance. They were the best kind of parents after all. And they just wanted me to follow my dreams without any added pressure or stress of worrying about money. I guess you could say my parents were also pretty well-off. Okay they were rich, but I’m not the type of guy to boast about their fortune. As a family, we lived modestly. They didn’t believe in being indulgent in the spoils of life. I think they disliked the kind of attention that wealth brought to people and they liked to live quietly in the shadows of high society. It was something that rubbed off on me too. Not being swept up with the idea of money. It was also probably why I followed my heart with my art rather than studying something that would give more bank. I had to appreciate their outlook on life in that sense. I had no regrets or reservations about what I wanted to do as a career. Even as a boy, I liked to create things with my hands, especially using the elements of wood and steel. My mother was an artist too, but used paint. It was nice that I inherited her same kind of passion and creative spirit. Although sometimes, I wondered what I inherited from my Dad. My real Dad. My mother says that not only am I the spitting image of him, but that I think the same way as him too. Far too fast and with too much complexity. She said when he was alive, he was a financial advisor in New York and that big companies sought out his knowledge and expertise in business. “
So smart
,” she would say. “
So charming
.” I could always see how much pain it causes her to bring up his memory. Her love for him that was real once upon a time is always obvious in her face and in her voice. My mother didn’t wear her heart on her sleeve, but her past. And as sad as it is for me to see that grief, it’s always given me some kind of peace in my head. I guess I do need to see her miss him to know how great a man he was. It gives me hope that maybe I too, can become just like him one day.

My living situation was the other influencing factor in my mother finally heeding to my year away. When she learned that one of their business acquaintances had a son who was starting the same college at the same time, and needed a roommate for his off campus apartment, she said it was an ideal fit for me. Of course I agreed to live with the guy if it meant they would let me go without the added guilt trip. In the end, and after much reassurance I would be back after the year, they sent me off. My mother crying in my Dad’s arms, and me feeling like I could finally breathe for the first time in my life. It wasn’t that I resented my parents’ love and protection. I would be a fool not to be more than appreciative for what I had. It was just that I was a guy, and independence and freedom was an important part of really finding out who I was and where I was going in this big round world. I couldn’t help but crave the distance from them.

I sent ahead some boxes filled with my gear a few weeks in advance to my new off campus apartment. I was told it all had arrived safely as well as my chosen mode of transportation. I had that shipped across to the States as well. My only other worry was that my new roommate was a decent guy. The last thing I needed was to be living with someone who partied too much and brought his lifestyle home with him. Hell, I could get swept up in that lifestyle too. I was just as hot-blooded as the next guy, and loved to have a good time, so I didn’t need the added temptation being dangled in front my face when I knew I had to focus in my final year. He was a freshman after all. Having fun was like an extra subject added to the freshman label and honestly, I don’t think I could resist the fun and debauchery if it was all around me. Hopefully the guy wouldn’t become a distraction.

When my cab pulled up in front of the two-leveled apartment complex, I could see my motorbike parked out front near the garage. I sighed, feeling relieved that my girl made it here in one piece. My new year was off to a good start. I took the stairs to apartment two. I liked that we were on the second floor. There was a decent view of the lusciously green woodland not too far away. Being able to see trees filled me with a calming effect. It was a weird companionship I had with wood. It both inspired and grounded me.

When I knocked on the door, it was opened by a fresh-faced Italian-looking guy with black hair, some facial scruff and a wide grin. We were pretty close in height and body size too even with him being a few years younger than me. The guy must have worked out as well. My mother had shown me a picture of him online before I left so I knew instantly he was my new roommate.

“Marcus Voltaggio,” he said, reaching out and shaking my hand. Already I had a good feeling about the guy. He seemed warm and friendly and it looked like he recognized me as well.

“James Riley,” I said back. “Thanks for letting me stay here this year.”

“Hey, no problem,” he said opening the door wide and letting me walk in. “My parents insisted on having you live with me when they found out you were coming over and going to the same college. It’s funny because the way they talk about your parents, it’s a wonder we haven’t met before.”

I nodded. It was true what he said. The way my parents spoke of his parents, it sounded like they were lot closer than just ‘business acquaintances’. They knew a lot about Marcus, his schooling, where they all went on holidays. It felt like they were definitely friends. I guess with my parents travelling so much, they never got around to introductions.

“Yeah, I get that impression too,” I said in agreement.

I looked around the apartment. There were a couple of leather couches, a decent sized plasma television in the corner and a small round dining table with four dark timber stained chairs near the kitchen. There was even a pot plant near an open window, which looked completely out of place for a bachelor pad. I was assuming the feminine touch was probably a gift from his Mom.

“So welcome to our humble abode,” Marcus said, closing the door, and walking past me, pointing around the apartment. “So my room’s on the left. Yours is down the hall there.” I followed him to a door and he gestured inwardly. “Your boxes are already in your room along with a bed and sheets. My Mom told me that you are doing art and that you are working with wood and nails and those kinds of materials. That true?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“That’s cool. The artist thing I mean. This is actually a three-bedroom apartment so I’m fine if you want to use the third room for your art stuff. I don’t need it and I don’t want another guy in here.”

I followed him back through the lounge and to the kitchen. I stopped near the breakfast bar taking in the space, thinking about what he said. “That would be great actually. Being able to do my work in the third room. Thanks a lot.”

“No sweat.” Marcus stood near the fridge in the kitchen, opening it wide and showing me inside. There were at least three rows of it filled with beer. “Now I don’t care about sharing food, but if you do take my beer, I hope you’re the type of guy who replaces what he drinks.”

My head couldn’t help but take inventory. In a matter of seconds I had counted at least fifty cans of beer. Already I was beginning to worry about this guy’s extra-curricular activities.

“That’s not a problem...replacing what I drink,” I said, assuring him I wasn’t about to deplete his stockpile.

Marcus rubbed his chin with his right hand, and used the other to hold onto the open fridge door. “Uhhh, I can’t think of anything else. I tend to make things up as I go along, so apart from the beverage refill, I don’t have any other expectations. You?”

“As long as this doesn’t become a constant partying frat house,” I said pointing inside the fridge, “then I’m all on board.”

“Oh this.” He turned and pointed to the rows and rows of beer and then began to laugh. “Nah, don’t worry. It’s just my very first fridge on my own, and I went a bit crazy filling it up. Don’t let this scare you. I’m not an alcoholic or anything. I prefer to go to parties than bring that kind of scene back here. I hate cleaning up. Oh, I should probably mention I’m pretty lazy too. Well, that’s what my mother tells me. She also says I’m not focused, I get too distracted, I think about girls too much...” He shook his head, lost in thought, standing in front of the open fridge like his mind was going down a list in his head of everything he was nagged about. It sounded like his Mom was pretty hard on him as well. Then he blinked a few times like he realized he was back in this reality where he was finally free. I think we could both relate to that feeling. He slammed the fridge door shut, and drew in a breath. “So, are we cool then?”

I glanced around the apartment once more. I felt comfortable, relaxed and most importantly — I was on my own. I had a good feeling that this year would change everything for me. Here, in a country far away from my parents’ worrying eyes, I would be making my own choices. My own decisions. There were new people to meet, and new opportunities. Calmness had already settled into my skin.

“Marcus,” I began, walking past him, opening the fridge and grabbing a couple of beers. I tossed one to him, cracked mine open and took a big open-minded mouthful. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

{3}

So guess what? My new roommate Marcus...is a talker. Within the first few hours of unpacking some boxes and settling into the apartment, he had shared with me, in long drawn-out graphic detail, his list of his high school girlfriends that he had banged, that he had been captain of his high school soccer team which had won the state championship, and that he was here at Cloverley as pre-med, or as he put it, studying ‘female anatomy’. He had already been scouted by a few fraternities and encouraged to pledge with them, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to commit himself to anything like that. He certainly fit the mold of a fraternity type of guy, especially given his likeable personality, his looks, and sporty background, but from everything Marcus was telling me, it sounded like he didn’t want to be tied down to anyone or anything. “
Smart guy
,” I thought to myself. It would’ve been the same decision I would make for myself too, especially after all the years I’ve had to listen to my parents speak about those types of groups with such over the top condemnation. A ploy to make sure I wouldn’t be stupid enough to be lead astray as well.

But the guy talked so much, I think at one point I actually switched off, because the next thing I knew, I had agreed to go to some party on Greek Row to meet up with some new friends of his. He was still very open to the idea of mixing with frats and meeting the girls who ran with them. At the last minute, I tried to back out of going. It wasn’t that the idea didn’t appeal to me, but I had an early meeting in the morning on campus with my new art professor, and the last thing I wanted to do was to be hung over or late. That was not the first impression I wanted my greatest idol to have of me. Plus, I had to familiarize myself with the buildings and where everything was on campus.

But, I also knew the year would be a lot smoother if I put in some effort getting to know my new roommate, and so I agreed to go for a short while. I didn’t plan on having any more drinks, so I figured I could leave whenever I wanted.

“So...this is Betty,” Marcus said, lifting up the garage door on the ground floor of our apartment complex, revealing an old restored Mustang, (in excellent condition I might add). “It was my Dad’s once,” Marcus said eyeing it like it was his first time with the car. He obviously had a lot of appreciation for fine motor vehicles. That was another thing we had in common. My step-dad was a car lover too and gave me a lot of insight into luxury sports cars and how to drive them. He was an excellent driver and had taught me well. I loved my motorbike, but I was still very skilled with a stick.

“He used to call it Cherry, I think,” Marcus continued, tilting his head, like he was trying to remember the story, but shook it quickly and shrugged his shoulders. Clearly he had forgotten all about the car’s past now that it was his.

“Why did you change it to Betty?” I asked curiously as I climbed into the passenger’s seat.

Marcus grunted a laugh at himself. “You ever read
Archie
comics?”

“Once or twice,” I said. I was sure I picked up a few comics while I was growing up in Australia...or was it London? I couldn’t recall, but I knew of the characters in them.

“Betty is fucking hot! Just like my girl here. I guess you can say I have a thing for blonds.”

“Ahhh,” I said, the word coming out as a sound so he knew I got it. It also explained the yellow racing stripes on the black shiny exterior too. Nice touch.

Marcus started the car and the engine purred to life. We started along a road for a few minutes near the woodland I was eyeing earlier before it swung into the small town and towards the campus. Our apartment wasn’t far from the college at all. I was taking mental notes as we drove. It seemed easy enough to remember for tomorrow.

“So, you’ve been living in France huh?” Marcus yelled at me, cutting through the sound of the engine, breaking my train of thought.

“Yep,” I yelled back.

“Which means you know French, right?”

I wasn’t quite sure where he was going with the line of questioning. Perhaps he was about to ask about my accent. Having been born in Australia, then living in New Zealand and then various places in the United Kingdom, English was certainly my first language, but when my family moved to France, I was surprised by how easily I picked up French as well. My mother told me it had something to do with how intelligent I was, like my real Dad. But now my voice was a very odd mix of an Australian and New Zealand English accent with a hint of something laced in French. I guess to an American it would have been a weird combination.

“Yeah well, that is the language people communicate with over there.”

“I just mean…you speak
French
.” Marcus began nodding his head up and down like I was supposed to understand his double meaning. Which I didn’t. He kept grinning at me like an idiot, eyebrows raised. Perhaps this was some weird American thing I was missing completely.