chapter 7

In the morning, warm sheets swallow her face, and she can't feel her body. It floats somewhere else. She wonders what time it is. The digital clock sits on the bedside table. 10:49pm.

She jolts out of bed on a shock of panic and digs furiously through her pile of clothes on the carpet. She rips a shirt out of the mess, shoves it on, then hauls herself into the nearest pair jeans. She can't seem to close the buttons right now, so she will do that later. Only she forgets to. She looks out the window, at the cold blasting of the wind. A hoodie lies nearby. She slips into it and pulls the zipper up. With no time to see herself in the mirror, she hacks at her teeth with a toothbrush, spits the paste out, chokes her hair into a hairtie, then kicks her feet into some shoes.

By 10:51pm, bag in hand, she throws a goodbye at her gran and flies out the doorway, slamming it behind her, leaving the old widow to stare after her vanishing granddaughter, standing alone, bowl of breakfast steaming in her hand. Gran was going to offer it to Melissa. Gran blinks, then retreats to her chair, and becomes still again to face another day alone.

The sliding doors to the street part, and Melissa strides forth, powering down the sidewalk with an unbuttoned fly.

She has an introductory workshop which will begin at eleven. Good thing university is only ten minutes walk away, or five, going as fast as she is; she will be there just as the workshop begins.

She waits by the traffic lights among the morning throng for the pedestrian sign to flash green. As she stands, she pants, sucking cold air into active lungs. Once she reaches the entrance courtyard, she cannot seem to keep up the pace anymore. Her calves ache, her knees throb, and the soles of her feet threaten to cramp.

Marchestern West, Melissa's destination, is a old, tall building with one elevator and nineteen stories. Alone in the silent foyer, she strikes the call button. She waits, trying not to breathe so loud as people walk by. She looks at her watch; 11:05pm. Not much time left. Where is the lift? She looks at the floor-number panel. Blank. It displays no number. Melissa frowns, glancing around. Then she notices for the first time a sheet of yellow paper stuck beside the call button.
~ lift temporarily out of order... please use stairs... apologies for any inconveniences ~

Melissa's shoulders slump. She needs to get to floor three. But that's not so bad. To her left is the wooden door with a lopsided handle and ~FIRE EXIT Please Do Not obstruct~ in bold red. Adjusting her bag on her shoulders, she pushes it open and mounts the stairs. One foot at a time, her footsteps echo up into the vacuous concrete stairwell, nineteen levels high. She swings left to ascend the next flight. Distant chattering above bounces down to her. Somewhere, the squeal of a door. Opening, or shutting?; she cannot hear their footsteps to tell her; her own heavy breathing is all she hears. Hand on the rail, she reaches the top of the stairs, a door labelled 'ONE' looming before her. For a moment, she rests. Then, following the rail's guidance, she swings left and mounts the next flight. She is halfway up, and her knees are weak. She rounds another bend, ascending the next. Sweat is damp in her armpits, and her face feels hot. She steps, and steps again, her kneecaps straining to straighten, and once she reaches the head of the flight, she stares at the door with the letters "TWO" upon its face. This is not three, not yet. But she likes how the O is faded on the TWO. Faint graffiti taints the O's inner ring, and a half-assed attempt to wash it off has scraped half the O off with it in the process. Melissa can barely breathe. She tries to make smaller breaths so she is not so loud, but it only makes her see grey spots, and feel light headed. Face flushed pink, she turns and sets her feet on the second to last flight of steps. She looks up and sees their end, wondering what is wrong with her. The tops of her thighs tense painfully as she puts one foot up past the other. Halfway up, someone passes her, going down the other way, and she envies them. But the threat of humiliation sets power in her bones to act as if she is fine, and ascend the last steps. When the person is gone, she grabs the handrail, hauling herself up the rest of the way. Stepping onto the final floor, she shuffles towards the door labelled "THREE", and pushes it in.

Her whole body is hot, and she is panting. She can feel the sweat underneath her hoodie. So she takes it off, and the air sweeps in under her shirt, the thin film of sweat cooling the air as it runs upon her skin.

Melissa slings her bag off her shoulders and hauls it in one hand as she travels down the corridor, looking for room 3-09. She finds it and enters.

Room 3-09 is spacious and carpeted, populated by portable desk-chairs arranged in a loose semi-circle facing the whiteboard. Students sit waiting for the workshop tutor in silence. One or two talk with each other quietly about what they did in the holidays. Melissa's footsteps approach the door, and a few bored eyes turn to watch a girl, who would otherwise be smoking hot, pace across the room and slump onto a chair. She breathes heavily, adjusting an ill-fitting tank top that either exposes chubby hips when she pulls down the font, or shows the plop of her pooch onto her lap when she tugs down the sides. She seems to give up and let her muffin top sit over her waistband. Most eyes wander away; those that linger do so in slight disgust.

All through class she keeps her arms folded across her waist in vain attempts to hide herself. When class ends, she makes sure she is the last to stand, so no one can see how badly out of shape she's grown.