Oatmeal Effects

2 A.M. CRAVINGS & TROLLEY TALK

I don't usually wake up at two in the morning with an intense oatmeal craving, but I guess today is just one of those days. My stomach rumbles like thunder, and I shoot straight up in my bed. My head slams up against the ceiling ("I have to have the top bunk!" ditzy newcomer Lorelei had announced.), forcing me to lay right back down in a dusting of ceiling crust. I swing my legs over the side of the bunk bed, hopefully scaring the crap out of my roommate, Angela. I don't hear any screams. Apparently showering last night helped with the unbearable stench of my feet.

I climb down the rickety wooden ladder of the bed and sidestep through all the junk on the dorm floor. I'm not messy, just chronically lazy. I only step on a loose pair of earbuds and a paintbrush before reaching the storage bins in the corner. I open the blinds of the window in front of me, allowing some light from the streetlamps to filter into the room. The hair on my arms stands on end this close to the window - it's snowing out there. White particles of fluff float down onto the ground, just beginning to stick to the college's main street.

I dig a package of oatmeal out from the storage bin, along with a paper cup, a used spork, and a couple packets of sugar. After putting on my lime green robe, I stuff the aforementioned necessities into my pockets. I also stick my dorm key in with the sugar packets. Barefoot, I creep out of the room and into the hall. No one else, save me, should be out at this godforsaken hour.

The community kitchen should be right around the corner, but I pause. The sound of a bowl slamming onto the floor echoes through the hall, seeming to come from exactly where I'm headed. Whatever. A female serial killer would have little business in that kitchen. I carry on, but when I reach the door, it's locked. What kind of funny business could be going on in there? I'd call the situation spicy, but that's a little too much for my drowsy two-in-the-morning sense of humor.

I pull a spare bobby pin from my maze-like bedhead and stick it into the keyhole. I jiggle it around, hear the lock click, and put the pin in the pocket with my key and sugar. The door swings open. I walk in a bit but immediately regret the decision. There's someone staring right at me, and they're of the male species. He wears plaid pajama pants and an apron that reads "KISS ME, I'M 98!" accompanied by giant cartoon lips. There's flour in his raven hair.

"What the hell do you think you're doing in here?" I hiss. When he doesn't respond, I make a move for the door, but he gets there first. He shuts the door softly and locks it again. I run to the cupboards, snatch a butter knife and frying pan, brandish them in his direction, and fight to stay awake. This dorm, in no way, is coed. Boys found here in the middle of the night in locked rooms, I assume, soon find themselves in heaps of trouble. He leans against the door, but his hands are in the air.

"I'm only here to bake. No ulterior motives. Please put the knife and frying pan down, I'm not going to..."

"Then why did you lock the door?" I don't let go of my kitchen weaponry.

"This is clearly not a coed dorm, and I didn't want anyone coming in."

"But," I continue, exasperated, "why are you here in the first place? Are you even a student here?"

He laughs, like this situation is somehow hilarious. "I stay in a male dorm just a block over. All the kitchens there are full, and this is the closest dorm I know has available kitchens." I lower my makeshift weapons, but I don't abandon them completely. Not yet. Something's off.

"How could all the kitchens in your dorm be full? They're on every floor, and it's the middle of the night. No one in their right mind would be cooking right now." The words spill. According to my statement, the sanity of the two of us is now in question.

"Your sense of logic is outstanding," he says, lowering his arms. I raise the frying pan, and those arms go right back up. He continues, "There was a project assigned in the creative writing class that involves extensive baking. Baking, it turns out, takes a lot of time. I didn't really know that, and neither did many of the other boys in that class. A lot of us are in that dorm, and there are only so many ovens... I went to CVS, bought my baking supplies, took them here, locked the door, and you know. I started baking." He points to the mixer, bowls, spatula, cupcake foils, and spilled canisters of flour and sugar resting on the granite counter right behind me.