Doctor Who_ Beyond the Sun - Matthew Jones [6]
People talked about Tameka. In fact, they never seemed to stop talking about her. There were all kinds of rumours going around the first-year common room. Like Emile, she had been awarded a Krytell scholarship. Although, unlike Emile, she probably hadn’t copied her essay out of an obscure study guide. Despite being on a scholarship, she dressed for a New Paris catwalk, which only fanned the flames of gossip. She was variously reported to have made her money from drug-dealing, prostituting herself for her Jeillo pimp – Emile had even heard someone whisper that she was the Cat’s Paw, the intergalactic thief who was terrorizing the art world. The rumours were the twisted and cruel words of the jealous. But if the sly comments bothered Tameka she didn’t show it. He watched her activate the lock on her case and it opened with an expensive sigh. She pulled out a carton of orange juice, a neat Krytell Stowaway with detachable speakers, a well-thumbed hardback called Down Among the Dead Men and a huge bottle of duty-free tequila. And then she turned to where Emile was still lying on the floor and pushed her sunglasses up on to her forehead. Her eyes were paradise blue. The colour of tropical sea in phoney touched-up holiday simulations. They had to be retinal stains. Nature just couldn’t produce colours like that.
Particularly not for Hispanic girls.
‘Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?’ Tameka asked in her husky voice.
‘Er’ was all he could manage. He climbed awkwardly to his feet, adjusting his waistcoat a bit selfconsciously. Next to her, his carefully chosen clothes looked like Share Wear.
‘Ernie, isn’t it?’
‘Emile,’ he said, completely devastated.
‘Emile. Right. We shared a desk in that introductory lecture. Have some tequila.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m not supposed to drink.’
‘Jeez, are you in rehab already? You’re so young.’
‘I’m not young!’ he blurted out, feeling foolish again. He wasn’t really sure what she meant.
‘I’m not in rehab. At least, I don’t think I am.’
She seemed to find this funny for some reason, laughing warmly. He noticed that some of her scarlet lipstick had stuck to her perfect teeth. ‘Somehow I don’t think you are either, Emile.’ She poured two generous measures and then added the tiniest amount of juice. ‘Here’s to our first field trip. To Emile, Tameka and Bernice.’
‘Who’s Bernice?’
She rolled her heavily made-up eyes. ‘Hoo boy! Did you come down with the last shower or what?’ She tossed the book over to him. He spilt half of his tequila trying to catch it, which was maybe just as well because the fiery liquid was already burning a hole in his throat.
The name on the dust jacket was Bernice Summerfield, Ph.D.
‘She’s only our tutor. Didn’t you read the First-Year Handbook?’
‘Does anyone?’
Tameka shook her head. ‘Sheesh, I don’t know why guys like you bother going to college.’ She leant over and directed his attention to the back flap of the jacket. There was a photograph of the author and a short biog. The woman in the picture was in her early thirties, attractive in an awkward, angular kind of way. Her hair was dark and short, and she wore large hooped silver earrings that Emile knew for a fact had not been fashionable for at least five years. However, the most striking thing about the picture was the woman’s expression. Unlike most academic portraits, which radiated dignity and dustiness, Professor Bernice Summerfield was staring madly out of hers, grinning from ear to ear like a woman possessed.
Emile liked her immediately.
‘Is it any good?’ he asked, not bothering to open the book. He knew he wouldn’t understand a word of it anyway. Academic books were full of