My roommate, Jess Price, was absolutely convinced that every male in existence fancied her. From the fittest guy in our department to the old security guard, all of them, she believed, were at her feet. She’d created several WhatsApp groups full of admirers, posting heavily filtered selfies daily. And on top of that, she had no problem trashing me while insisting I give her my brother’s contact info. “Your brother seems to have a thing for me. Pass me his WhatsApp, I might as well have a bit of fun with him.” A senior once glanced her way, and Jess took it upon herself to snatch his laptop, claiming it was a love token. “Of course, he gave me his laptop. So what if I wiped all the data? He won’t mind; he’s smitten.” The most popular guy in the department had heard all about her, keeping a safe distance, yet she had her own twisted narrative. “Why would he avoid me and not others? Obviously, he’s shy!” Eventually, she crossed the line by going after the rich boyfriend of a spoiled daddy’s girl. That bloke wasn’t having it. “If I don’t give you a proper smackdown, it’d be an injustice to the mess you call your love life.”
I missed Freshers’ Week Bootcamp because of a minor car accident. Fortunately, the injury wasn’t too bad—just some swelling on my face. George, my brother, couldn’t help himself: “Your face looks like a painter’s palette—probably best to stay indoors for now.” But when I finally sorted out all my paperwork and arrived at Ashcroft Halls, his face was the one with red and blue streaks. “I don’t like speaking ill of women, but you’ve got an odd one in your flat. Keep your distance.” I laughed at his overreaction and shooed him away, then eagerly pushed open the door to my new room. “You’re Holly Sutton?” A girl’s eyes scanned me up and down. “Uh, yeah, that’s me.” “Give me your boyfriend’s WhatsApp. Though, tell him not to get his hopes up—I’m not interested in broke blokes. It’s all about their effort.” My boyfriend? What on earth? The girl covered her mouth and giggled. “Can’t blame you. It’s my overwhelming charm. Every man fancies me—it’s exhausting, really.” I was completely dumbfounded. “Wait, you’re saying my brother… fancies you?” My nephew’s already old enough to go on errands, love. Also, my sister-in-law, Emily, is a former beauty queen. “Your brother? You’re so ugly, you look nothing like him. Are you trying to save face by lying to me?” Okay, I admit George is a bit on the handsome side, but as the son of a factory owner, he spends all day in the workshop, not exactly dressed to impress. And here I was, with bandages on my face, swollen eyes, looking like an absolute toad. “Whatever, just give it to me. I don’t have time to waste on men like him.” “Wait a sec, why do you think my brother likes you?” I finally asked, unable to hold it in any longer. She huffed. “Your brother’s gaze lingered on me for ten seconds. Then, he looked straight into my eyes and said thank you. If that’s not a blatant invitation, I don’t know what is!” Mate, your eyeliner looks like it’s drawn with two thick ropes, and your lips are blood red. The fact my brother didn’t run away screaming is a miracle. I watched as she held out her phone with two fingers, as if she was doing me a favor. I slapped it out of her hand. “You’ve got some nerve! Did you get delusional after a pint? You’ve got a death wish if you think you can mess with me. What, did you walk straight out of surgery and forget to empty the rubbish in your brain? My sister-in-law could roll out of bed and still look twenty times better than you. Seriously, grab a mirror from Primark and have a reality check!” My tirade left everyone in the room frozen. I shoved past Jess and headed to my bed. Only to discover that my anger had hit a whole new level. My bed was covered in clothes and dirty socks—it looked like a landfill site. “Whose clothes are these? Clear them off, this is my bed.” Someone gave me a nudge, signaling with their eyes. “That’s Jess Price’s stuff.” “Jess, come clear your things.” I repeated. Jess snapped out of her daze and glared at me like her eyes were on fire. “You’re new here and don’t know the rules. At home, my mum always cleans up after me. I don’t do chores.” I looked around and saw a few sympathetic faces. Clearly, they had been dealing with her nonsense for quite some time. “You don’t do chores? Fine, I’ll handle it.” I rolled up my sleeves, gathered all the clothes on my bed, kicked open the door, and tossed them into the hallway. Someone had just mopped the floor, so the clothes landed in puddles. Couldn’t have timed it better. Jess’s mouth dropped, and she let out a high-pitched scream. “You’re mad! That was my favorite outfit!” “Was it? Well, that’s just brilliant, then,” I replied, shaking out my wrists, feeling thoroughly satisfied with myself. Jess was still screaming and hopping about, probably gearing up to hit me. But at 5’8″ and a regular at the gym, she quickly thought better of it. She glared at me one last time before stomping out of the room. A few minutes later, Mrs. Baines, our halls manager, arrived.
“She threw all my clothes on the floor! That dress alone costs over £200! She should pay me back—or get expelled!” Mrs. Baines turned to me, “Why did you throw her clothes out?” I smiled. “They were on my bed, which makes them my stuff. I could burn them if I wanted to.” “See, Mrs. Baines! She’s a troublemaker! No respect for you at all!” I smirked. “If you respected Mrs. Baines so much, why didn’t you tidy your clothes up before now? You knew I was moving in today, yet you dumped your stuff on my bed. I took it as a gift—shame I don’t wear trash.” Laughter erupted around the room. Jess’s face turned beetroot red. “Well, you shouldn’t have thrown them on the floor. You’re not the one cleaning up, where’s your sense of decency?” I cursed silently. “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to clean up. What’s your problem?” I opened my suitcase, grinning at Mrs. Baines. “I haven’t unpacked yet—too much rubbish around. Might as well clean it all at once.” I proceeded to scrape the remains of someone’s watermelon rinds and discarded seeds from the table and threw them onto the pile of Jess’s clothes. I even gave it a couple of stomps for good measure. “Press it down—makes it easier to clean,” I said, smirking. Now the whole lot was drenched and covered in food. Useless. Jess let out another wail, her face drained of colour. “That’s enough!” Mrs. Baines said firmly, turning to Jess. “You all need to learn to live together. Sort these things out between yourselves.” After Mrs. Baines left, Jess shot me a venomous glare. I raised my head and said coldly, “Stop glaring—your contact lenses are slipping.” The other girls, finally free of Jess’s tyranny, were more than happy to help me unpack and introduce themselves. Jess, on the other hand, retreated to her bed, sulking behind the curtain. I still needed to pick up a few things, so I asked the girls for directions and headed out, mask and baseball cap on. It took me about half an hour to find the Sainsbury’s they mentioned. As soon as I walked in, I could feel the unfriendly stares. When I went to the checkout with my items, a guy cut in front of me and sneered to his mate: “See, even ugly bints go psycho.” “Course they do, mate. No blokes like her, so when other girls get attention, she just loses it.” Even I wasn’t thick enough not to realize they were talking about me. Bloody hell, it felt like I was in some twisted reality show where every episode was a new challenge. I slammed my items down on the counter and wedged myself between them. “What’s the gossip, then? Mind if I join?” They both looked shocked, stepping back involuntarily. I used the opportunity to slip in front of them, grinning. “Ugly girls are meant to be psycho, right? You two look like you know all about it.” Their faces turned a deep shade of red. “Who the hell are you calling ugly?” “You two, obviously.” They were left speechless. One of them, clearly more cocky than smart, rolled up his sleeves like he was ready to fight. I wasn’t having any of it. I grabbed an apple from my shopping bag and crushed it in one hand. Juice splattered everywhere, dripping down my fingers. I shot a glance downwards, and suddenly both blokes clamped their legs together in panic. “Bye now, boys!” I said cheerfully, striding out of the shop. It was clear this hadn’t just come out of nowhere. When I got back to the flat, I pulled Alice aside and asked if there was some sort of group chat I didn’t know about. She confirmed there was, and soon enough, she opened it up for me to see. The second I glanced at the screen, I was flooded with a barrage of disgusting images and hateful messages. It turned out Jess had been posting edited pictures of me, painting herself as the victim of some grand bullying conspiracy. One of her latest messages read: “I don’t even know what I did to upset her! I just asked if she wanted to grab lunch, and she smashed all my makeup. I’m honestly scared.” The photo beneath it? A close-up of her tear-streaked face, long lashes glistening with tears, her pink cheeks smudged with mascara. Just peeking into the corner of the shot? Her legs, perfectly positioned to look long and slender. Most of the group was made up of guys, and they were falling over themselves to defend her. The whole lot of them were calling me every name under the sun, especially attacking my looks. I asked Alice to add me to the group. Time to go to war. TouristA: “@SunsetInLA, you’re the kind of bloke who wipes his greasy face with a dingy old towel, scarred with acne, all while eating a six-quid ready meal. You steal someone else’s selfie for your profile pic and then go commenting under every pretty girl’s post, ‘Wanna cry in my Ferrari?’” TouristA: “@MountainMan, no girls like you, your mates laugh behind your back, and you scrape together £13 in your bank account, buy a takeaway, and use your last quid to pay for a three-day Netflix trial. Screenshot the receipt and post it to Insta: ‘You’ll never understand my pain. You don’t deserve my loyalty.’” TouristA: “@LongLegsYouCan’tTouch, your love’s like those flyers people hand out in the street. Everybody gets one. Your bank account? About as consistent as your morals—sometimes full, but usually empty.” TouristA: “@ChooChooMaster, you’ll drink yourself stupid tonight and try to pull anything with a pulse. You fancy yourself a ladies’ man, but mate, look in the mirror—what kind of salad do you think you are?” The group chat blew up. SunsetInLA: “Who the hell let this one in? Come out and say your name if you’ve got the guts!” MountainMan: “Oi! I never buy the three-day trial! I get the full month, you twat!” TouristA: “@MountainMan, what kind of bin bag do you use, mate? You can stuff a lot in there.” TouristA: “@SunsetInLA, I don’t hide my name, mate. Your daddy’s here.” The chat descended into chaos. Finally, Jess—going by the name SpanishSunset in the group—spoke up: “See, guys? This is exactly what I have to deal with. She’s bullying me like this all day, just like she did earlier.” SunsetInLA: “Don’t worry, Sunset. I’ve got your back. TouristA, how about we meet face-to-face and see if you still have the balls to insult me?” TouristA: “@SunsetInLA, if I insult you in person and you don’t get it, shall I carve it on your gravestone?” ChooChooMaster: “SpanishSunset, don’t cry. She’s just jealous because you’re beautiful. You’re everything she’ll never be, so she lashes out. Proper backup girl.” TouristA: “@ChooChooMaster, you reckon everyone’s a spare tyre because you think you’re a jack. Ain’t no one calling you, mate.” Alice was practically on the floor, laughing and giving me a thumbs up. My fingers were flying across the keyboard at this point, nearly sparking fire from the speed. The group was in absolute shambles. Only a few stragglers managed to spit out some feeble insults, but they were met with more of my jabs. Finally, the chat quieted down. Jess, or SpanishSunset, sent a voice message: “Please stop being so mean to everyone. I’ll apologise, okay? Just take it out on me from now on. They’re my sweet boys, I don’t want them hurt.” What a pure and delicate little flower she was. Not. TouristA: “@SpanishSunset, is your family in the antiques business? You call everyone ‘darling’?” TouristA: “@SpanishSunset, you think you’re so desirable, but honestly, you’re cheap and overused.” TouristA: “@SpanishSunset, with all these backups, your car must be an absolute wreck.” Suddenly, a notification popped up. TouristA had been booted from the ‘We’re All Mates’ group. Well, I’ll be damned. They kicked me out when they couldn’t handle the heat. Did they really think I’d just let it go? I flipped out of bed like a gymnast and yanked open Jess’s curtain. She froze, hands still poised over her phone, clearly typing away in the chat. Her entire body went rigid.
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