She was sitting on the wall of a large planter with a tree in the middle. She didn’t look up, not breaking her concentration from her sketchpad.
“Uh, I’m Jack. Hi,” he tried again.
“Not interested.”
“Sorry, you just looked like an interesting person.”
She sighed. “Look, buddy, I don’t... where are you?”
“Down here,” Jack said, not for the first or the last time. She followed the sound of his voice, eventually finding his tiny form. Jack gave a slight wave.
He could see her eyes glaze as she went through The Process: trying to figure out if she was hallucinating, wondering if she was dreaming, searching for something to say, etc. He’d seen that look as much as his own reflection.
“You’re not hallucinating. There really is a three-inch man at your feet. I’m Jack.”
“Uh, Brooklyn,” she said, reaching down with her pinky. You shook it. “Is this your first day, Jack?”
“Yep. I’m still trying to figure this place out.”
Brooklyn gave a slight laugh. “Same, and this is my third year. You need any help?”
“I was hoping to find a ride to orientation. Would you be willing to be that ride?”
“Sure.” She smirked. “You’re welcome to ride me.”
She lowered her hand, and Jack climbed on. She set him down next to her on the wall and picked up her artwork.
“I’ll be ready to go in like five minutes, just let me finish this real quick and then we can go.”
“That’s fine, no rush.”
While Brooklyn finished, Jack took the opportunity to get a good look at her. She had long brown hair which almost reached her waist, framing her face and intense brown eyes. She had (comparatively) small breasts (though they were still huge to you) and a magnificent ass. She was wearing jeans and a brown leather jacket over a black Metallica shirt. She wore little to no makeup —Jack couldn’t tell which— but she didn’t need it. Blushing, Jack realized his little trooper had made an appearance. He was suddenly glad she was focused on her art and not him.
“Ok, I’m ready,” Brooklyn said, closing her sketchpad. “It might be dangerous to carry you in my hand, so how about my jacket pocket?”
“Sure, anywhere’s fine. I’m pretty much indestructible. Believe, me, after 18 years, I know.”
She laughed, slipping him into a jacket pocket near her waist. It was shared by a large eraser almost half his height.
“Ready?” She called.
Jack poked his head out. “Ready.”
They headed over to the auditorium, where orientation was being held. On the way they talked about various college classes, with Brooklyn recommending some and not others. Jack listened, but he also made an effort to make his erection go down. He didn’t want to be caught with an erection in the pocket of a girl he barely knew, and he definitely wasn’t going to rub one out. After a few minutes of thinking about his turn-offs, it went away, to his relief.
Finally, they arrived at the auditorium. The receptionist was a little old lady who looked like she’d been there since the university’s founding.
“Name?” the old lady asked I’m a deadpan voice.
“Uh, I’m Brooklyn Calvert, bringing Jack...”
“Baker,” Jack chimed in, “Jack Baker.”
“Ok. Enjoy the orientation.” The old lady looked like she couldn’t care less about whether or not he enjoyed the orientation.
The orientation itself was pretty dull. Much of it was about the importance of community and respect and a bunch of other stuff no one cared about. It didn’t help that in the blistering August hear, it was pushing triple digit heat. Jacks mind wandered, but he snapped back to reality when he looked up at Brooklyn working on another piece and realized she wasn’t wearing a bra.
No big deal, he told himself. It’s a bra. Not like she’s naked.
Blushing, he turned back to the presenter and tried to focus, failing miserably.
After what seemed like an eternity, the presentation was over. All the new freshmen filed out with the same lack of enthusiasm that they’d entered with.
“So,” said Brooklyn, putting her sketchpad back in her bag and turning to face Jack, “What’s next?”
“Well, most of the freshmen are getting roommates now, but the university didn’t assign me a place to stay. I guess they figured I’d find one on my own.”
“Well, I have an apartment that I share with a roommate. If you’d like to stay with us you’re welcome to. You don’t look like you take up a lot of space, and I know Izzy’d love to split the rent three ways instead of two.” Brooklyn gave you an indecipherable look.
“Uh, sure, that won’t be a problem. We’ll just need to swing by the administrative building to grab my stuff.”
“No problem,” she said, smiling.
An hour later you were settling into your new apartment. It was a studio apartment, with Brooklyn and her roommate’s spaces separated by bookshelves. It looked like what he’d expected of an artist’s space: lots of art hanging, both Brooklyn’s and other artists. It was kind of messy, with dirty laundry on the floor and unwashed dishes in the sink.
“Sorry for the mess,” Brooklyn apologized, “We didn’t know there’d be anyone else here.”
“No worries. I’ve seen worse,” Jack assured her.
Brooklyn looked around. “I don’t think we have a space for you just yet, but I’m sure we can carve out something. Are you hungry?”
Jacks stomach rumbled loud enough to be heard across the ocean. “A bit.”
“I’ll get something started. Hey, Izzy!” Brooklyn called, “I’m making dinner! Want anything?” There was no response. “She must be in the zone. She gets like that when she’s working on her art.”
Brooklyn picked Jack up and carried you to the kitchen counter, where she set you down. She walked to the mini fridge and bent over to look inside, giving you another look at her gorgeous ass.
“She’s an artist too?” Jack asked.
“Mmhmm. That’s how we met. We took a ceramics class together, which we both hated. We kind of bonded through our mutual suffering.”
“Cool,” Jack said, since he had no idea how to respond to that.
Ten minutes later Jack and Brooklyn sat down at the table (which was just an old wooden crate) with a plate of eggs. Jack walked over to the plate and took a bite, making a face. They were over cooked to the point of being inedible, and there was enough salt in them to recreate the Dead Sea.
“Yeah, they’re not the best, are they. I’m not a great cook, but believe me,” Brooklyn said, taking a bite and mirroring Jack’s disgust, “Izzy’s worse.”
After dinner Jack and Brooklyn watched Netflix on Brooklyn’s iPad, since the tv had been broken in an indecent involving oranges, a candlestick, and a fuckton of butter. Jack decided not to ask.
At one point Jack looked up at Brooklyn, who was again drawing. Half an hour later she fell asleep, and her sketchpad fell next to him, showing a picture of Jack on her lap. He smiled, finally falling asleep.
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author