Bubblegum Serenade

Your Favorite Number Says More About You Than Your Name

Eevee scowled, shoving the key into her pocket. The heavier the key, the richer the place. Her Pa's motto, which basically meant the heavier responsibilities you have the richer opportunities you get, from the opportunist father himself. Well, dad, thanks for being so rich that I never had to work a day in my life.

She was being petty, and to put it bluntly an ass. She wasn't groomed into a rich family with some estate where there was a guy whose work was to wipe the engraved initials clean every weekend. Her dad was a fighter—clawed his way up the ladder, from rags to riches. She was blessed in a way that she never had to taste the absence of that blessing, therefore no matter how much she prayed, she still felt like she was taking it for granted.

University of Saint Seer Alliance's dormitory corridor stretched as long and wide as the eye can behold. The fancy title didn't save it from the typical student decorations that hammered every door,  one specific door had a dangling piece of wood carved with the letters FUCK OFF! while the door next to it had a sticky note saying You Matter, Eevee wondered if the doors were having a conversation. She kept walking, intruding on the doors' conversations, until she reached back to the reception hall. Square one.

"Good morning," she said in a low voice. Not.

The chair that was empty minutes ago was now occupied with a bulky guy. If this guy farted, I'd probably faint from the sheer force of his muscles rather from smell.

Dorm Manager, the card on his shirt declared. From the looks of it, he's a student working part-time. "Is it?"

She placed a hand on her hip. "It is morning."

The dorm manager stared at his wristwatch, and sighed so loud, like a wind blowing out of a mountain.

"I gotta stop pulling all-nighters." He said.

Eevee didn't interfere with his oral conversation with himself, in fact she was amused, people who talked to themselves were either amusing or insane. Or both.

"I can come back later if you're tired." She said, in a chipper tone.

"It's fine, so sup?" He turned his attention to her.

"Room. Key. Won't open." She said a-matter-of-factly.

"Maybe it's the wrong key," He replied.

"No, shit." She slammed the key on the glass table. "Look, I smell and this stupid error is separating me from that comfort."

His nose crinkled. "Calm down, we get this problem all the time."

She calmed down. He began spinning his hands over the keyboard, the sound of the search bar crackling in the air.

"The room isn't yours." He said, bluntly. He even had the audacity to push back the rim of his glasses.

The color drained from her face. More from lack of food in her stomach than the desire to end this guy's existence. "Like hell it isn't, check again."

He gave her a look of stop wasting my time but clicked refresh nevertheless.

Same result. Same reaction.

"Room 555," she pointed to the corridor, as though her finger was long enough to poke at the door, then pointed at herself. "My favorite number. I know I reserved it!"

"Your fave number is 555?" He gave her a judgmental stare.

"Just five." she replied, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"So it's not your favorite number." He replied.

This was the last straw. "Your point, exactly?"