Page 22 of Almost Ours

By Friday night of my first week, I’d worked out nobody else had a clue what they were doing either. Some of them were just much better at pretending.

Everyone is downing drinks, knocking back shots, grimacing, and then carrying on as if they aren’t feeling sick and half-cut. Everywhere I look, people are introducing themselves for what must be the fiftieth time. Conversations begin with What's your name? Where are you from? What are you studying? before somebody inevitably suggests doing more shots together.

I can’t tell if everyone's genuinely having the time of their lives or whether we're all performing some bizarre Freshers' Week ritual where admitting you're overwhelmed is strictly forbidden.

“Lincoln Uni!” the pound-shop DJ yells. “Are you having fun?”

The roar that answers him is deafening. Glasses are raised into the air, people whistle loud enough to make my ears ring, and somebody near the bar starts chanting something that catches on straight away.

I look over at Brooke, who seems completely dismayed, carefully tucking one of her brown curls back into place. “This was supposed to be one quiet drink!”

“It still can be!”

She gapes at me. “Ruby, there are about four hundred people in here! Do you know how long my hair took today?”

“I know. How do we make it stop?”

“More importantly, how long do we have to stay before leaving isn’t rude?”

“We’ve not actually spoken to anybody yet,” I point out.

Brooke wrinkles her nose. “With good reason.”

A girl bopping past us gives Brooke a huge smile and says something neither of us have any hope of hearing. Brooke smiles politely, nods along and shouts her own name back at full volume. The song changes before any other conversation can take place and the random girl throws both arms into the air, dancing with such enthusiasm that one of her elbows narrowly misses Brooke's face.

“This is why I don’t leave the house!” Brooke screams, throwing herself backwards to avoid being taken out by an enthusiastic rendition of Mr Brightside.

The girl doesn't apologise. She doesn't even seem to realise she's nearly rearranged Brooke's face as she disappears into the crowd.

“Oi, girls!” A blonde I vaguely recognise from our corridor comes barrelling towards us, weaving between people with two drinks in one hand and no regard for anybody in her path. “The weirdest thing just happened to me!”

Brooke points dramatically at her ear. “Can't hear you!”

“I SAID—”

“WHAT?” Brooke screams. “IT’S TOO LOUD!”

The blonde points across the dance floor. “MY—”

“FRESHERS!” the DJ bellows, somehow even louder than before. “MAKE SURE YOU INTRODUCE YOURSELVES!”

The blonde gives up, laughing as she throws her hands in the air, screaming. “I AM ABI LANGFORD!”

Beside me, Brooke just stares at the room in complete disbelief as people scream their own names, “My God.”

We'd only come down for one quiet drink after bumping into each other back at halls, both of us admitting we should probably try to meet new people. But in the short time it had taken us to order two drinks and find a table, the Student Union had descended into complete and utter carnage.

“This is hell,” Brooke shouts. “My actual worst nightmare.”

I look at her, dressed in black skinny jeans and a strappy top beneath her purple bomber jacket. “You don’t like clubbing?”

“No! My parents raised me to fear God and sticky floors.”

Neither do I, I don’t think. I’ve not really been and this isn’t shaping out to be the best of my experiences.

“Oh my God!” Abi gasps loudly, whipping back around towards us so quickly she spills her drink over her shoes. “I knew it!”

“Knew what?” I shout.