YOU TOO CAN BE A WASTE OF TIME | ✓

▬ 07: TREAT ME LIKE A DOG BUT DON'T BLAME ME WHEN I BITE

               Diwa huffs the moment she opens her apartment door. Her eyes pounce from my eyeliner to the rings on my nose and my snakebites. By the time they find my array of mismatched earrings, she's scowling like I've set out to offend her. I don't even wear odd pairs intentionally, but I always manage to lose one earring and don't consider that a reason to stop wearing the other.

'Can't you take some of that off?'

'We're not meeting the fucking prime minister. And even if we were, no.' I glance over the shirt and tie from our year eleven uniform she's wearing with a past-the-knee Massimo Dutti pleated skirt. 'Just cause you dress like a yuppie, don't expect the rest of us...'

My bite slackens when my eyes reach her socks. They're turquoise with... ducks on them. Five seconds ago, I would've bet all my belongings and Nicolás's Vauxhall that she exclusively wears grey ones.

Diwa steps aside to invite me in. The first to greet me is a reproduction of The Last Supper and, on the console table below it, three Santo Niño dolls in gold-embroidered capes. I stare at them, eyebrows rising to my hairline. 'Why the fuck've you got creepy church dolls? Have you not seen Annabelle?'

'No.'

'Fair enough. It were rubbish.'

Patience worn, she rushes me out of my shoes. Rather than leave them by the door, she makes me carry them, along with my jacket, to her bedroom. 'Why—?'

Snapping the door shut, she cuts me off. 'Want a brew?'

'Nah. Shit's disgusting.'

'Coffee?'

'Even worse. Sides, I've already had three Monsters on the way here.'

'Three?' she repeats, horrified. 'The last thing I need is you having a fucking heart attack in the middle of our competition!'

'Love how you're more concerned about losing than my potential heart attack.'

'I'm not your babysitter.'

'Sure act like it,' I mumble, pretending I don't intend for her to hear. My eyes circle the room before I pin them to hers, impatiently waiting for me as critical as they always are. 'I were tired, okay? Chill.' A prick in my chest stops me from torturing her further. Rude as she might be, it's clear her parents have taught her to treat any guest with enough hospitality to ensure they have summat to drink. 'You got any juice?'

Relieved, she nods. 'Gimme a second.' And she actually sneaks out of her room.

Why is she acting like this in her own home? Is this even her home? What if she's made me an accomplice in breaking and entering? I would make the perfect scapegoat, nobody would have a hard time believing I forced her into it. Maybe she's not even a pupil but a SIS agent planted here to catch me red-handed. Fuck. Fuck, fuck—

The room does scream Diwa, though: tries very hard to be posh but is too poor to make it convincing. Pastel pinks and purples, fuzzy textures, and a desk overloaded with textbooks. What I'd've never expected is for her room to be full of scented candles, but every surface has at least one crammed on it, the overall effect creating a mosaic of glass jars.

There are two options: a) she's secretly a Satanist, and b) candle hoarding addiction. Hopefully, the prior.

Dropping my things beside her bed, I move to her bookcase to pry the lid off one. It's unused. I check another, then another. None of the six at immediate arm's length have been lit once. Why keep scented candles around if you won't even use them? Headcase.