Foreigner

Chapter 7

Writing an apology letter on behalf of someone else on a Sunday evening—it's as ridiculous as it sounds. But here I am, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, leaning against one of the desks in my dorm room, typing away. The goal is to make it sound like a professional and distinctly American teenage boy wrote it. Unfortunately, I'm neither of those things.

The clock reads 10:15 p.m. Two hours past curfew. The room is silent and empty. Christian, my ever-elusive roommate, is doing whatever it is he does every day. It's like the guy is allergic to being here. And when he does show up, he either locks himself in the bathroom or collapses into bed, dead to the world, no matter the hour.

Maybe it's just me. Maybe he hung around more before I arrived.

I shake my head, brushing off the thought before it festers into guilt. It's not my fault. If I had any say in it, I wouldn't be here either.

I stop typing mid-sentence, my thoughts wandering. The apology letter isn't enough—this needs to be handled carefully, and that means taking precautions. A smirk tugs at my lips as a plan forms in my mind.

Sliding my laptop aside, I grab a scrap of paper from my desk and write a short, blunt message: "Simmons class. Be ready. No questions."

The words are simple, but they'll do the trick. They're vague enough to throw him off balance and direct enough to leave no room for argument. Oliver won't question it—not when I'm the one delivering the message.

Grabbing the note, I quietly step out into the hallway. The dormitory is mostly silent, the usual chaos of teenage boys subdued this late in the evening. Oliver's room is just a few doors down. I make my way there, my footsteps soft against the carpet.

Once I reach his door, I pause, listening for any sound inside. It's quiet. Good.

I crouch slightly, slipping the note under his door with a deliberate push. The paper slides smoothly to the other side, disappearing from view. For a moment, I stand there, staring at the door. Satisfaction washes over me. He'll see it, and he'll know not to ask questions. Oliver might be obnoxious, but he's not stupid.

Turning on my heel, I head back to my own room, the faintest grin still playing on my lips. The gears are in motion now, and I've just made my move.

¤ ¤ ¤

It's 5:47 a.m, and I'm running through the dark schoolhouse to the library on the third floor. I have to print out the letter I wrote yesterday and sneak it into Mrs. Simmons' classroom before the lessons start. I also want to practice basketball before the other students wake up.

The library is open 24/7 for some reason, with security guards patrolling it at all times. I guess it's open for those of us who can't stand our roommate and need a place to hide out, whether it's at night or at any time of the day.

The library itself is huge, having two floors and hundreds of bookshelves reaching the ceiling. There's a big roundtable in the middle of the first floor where people usually hang out. Right now, the place is empty. I don't even see any of the guards.

I walk past the empty front desk to the printing area. I choose one of the machines, connect it to my laptop, press some buttons, and listen to the printer come to life. It takes some time to warm up, so I just stand there, looking around with a dull expression.

I almost jump when I hear someone move behind me. I quickly turn around and see Christian sitting on the carpet-covered floor, his back leaned against the wall. His eyes are closed and face relaxed, looking as if he's asleep.

Has he been here the whole night? Did he sleep here?

Is he here because of me?

I shake my head. No, I didn't do anything wrong.