The Worthington Group (1)

Friday night. The Student Union was a lively racket, well into the big Halloween-do. At the entrance it looked as if Peter and Robin weren’t going to be able to join the party. They had come as Robin and Peter, wearing each others' clothes. The bouncer was having none of it.

 “No admittance without a costume”, he said, barring them with his arm.
“This is a costume: I’m him”, Peter pointed to a sniggering Robin.
“What!? You .. Sorry doesn’t count.”
“Listen, I’ve come as Robin: a dude much scarier than any of them”, said Peter indicating past him and into the room.
“Hey you!” Robin punched Peter’s arm.
The bouncer took a deep breath.
“No, sorry. You need to make an actual effort. Now, on your way. Next!” He looked beyond them to three vampires directly behind them.
“An effort! Do you realise the effing effort it takes to put on his smeggy Y-fronts!”
They both laughed and joshed each other.
The steward tensed to get heavy with the little queers. At that the head-steward appeared at the door to see what the hold up was. The queue behind them of assorted Potters, Blues Brothers and Daenerys’ were getting bigger and restless for their monster mash. It was backed up out into the stairs.
The bouncer tried to explain the hold up to her. After getting a blank look, he gave it another go. At the third attempt the head-steward eyed Robin and Peter up, still not quite understanding. The stewards were becoming impatient and annoyed at each other, as they didn’t quite seem to be talking the same language. Jon Snow heckled them from the queue, “Hurry up, Winter is Coming and I need a pint!” The queue burst into laughter.
“Look”, she said to the bouncer, ”just get them inside. And the rest of them. This stairwell’s a death trap!”
So in they went, Robin bowing theatrically as they passed him.

 Once inside and with a beer in his hand, Peter looked to see if she was here. For he’d thought of little else since their English Tutorial that morning when she had sat beside him.
“It’s pure freezin oot there”, she’d said and put her hands onto his neck.
“Ohh!” he jumped at the icy jolt.
“Do ye mind if I heat these up in yer pockets?”
“Ehh.. No! I mean: help yourself!” replied Peter trying to remain calm as his face lit up like a belisha beacon .
She put her hands into his fleece pockets. Peter felt his face radiating to the room. The other five students were studiously not watching. After about a minute she took them out and rubbed them together.
“That’s better. I can at least haud a pen noo. Unless you’ve got something else I can haud oan tae..”
The tutor came rushing into the room.

“Morning! Morning! A fine day to brace ourselves for a struggle with the Romantics! What would a Burns or a Blake make of such a clear corn-flower sky?” He looked eagerly at Tracy.
Peter felt conspicuous with his beaming face. She leaned over and whispered to him, “Are ye goin' tae the Union thenight?” Her hand was on his arm.
“Eh.. Yes. Too right.”
“Brilliant! See you there..”
The tutor coughed and looked at them.


Peter missed his following lecture to rush back to his flat to tell Robin.
“She came on to you?”
“Yip! Put her hands in my jacket pocket.”
Robin frisbee’d an imaginary object to the corner of the room. They followed its trajectory.
“Hoopla!!” they both shouted as it apparently landed, then high-fived.
Peter had obsessed over Tracy McNulty since the end of first year. Second year brought a shared tutorial, which was wonderful and terrifying for him. She scarcely even looked in his direction or at anyone else for that matter; an intensity always seemed to press upon her. She was very into her literature and theatre, someone said. He didn’t mind: it gave him more opportunities for gawping at her slender alabaster figure, or so he imagined.