Room 331: A Postcards from Paris Prequel: Postcards from Paris, #0

By Rebekah Dodson

I will never forget the day I walked into Room 331. New school, new town, and I was way out of my league. I'm just here to study journalism, keep my head down, and maybe one day I'll get to intern for a big magazine. But then there's her -- Rochelle Addams. She's everything and nothing I ever wanted, and my head is spinning. Ro is quiet, mysterious, and haunted, and she's changing my world. She showed me what it was like to love with all my heart and soul, look at life a different way, and burn with jealousy. She's been through hell and back and I'm still here. God help me, I can't tell her how I feel. Will I ever be able to? Will things ever go back to what they were in Room 331, or are we doomed to play this game, her and I, of love?
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebekah Dodson
• Release date: Oct 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386760948

Rebekah Dodson

Rebekah Dodson is a prolific word weaver of romance, fantasy, and science fiction novels. Her works include the series Postcards from Paris, The Surrogate, The Curse of Lanval series, several standalone novels, and her upcoming YA novel, Clock City. She has been writing her whole life, with her first published work of historical fiction with 4H Clubs of America at the age of 12, and poetry at the age of 16 with the National Poetry Society. With an extensive academic background including education, history, psychology and English, she currently works as a college professor by day and a writer by night. She resides in Southern Oregon with her husband, two teenagers, and three dogs.

Book preview

Chapter 1

ISN’T IT WEIRD, THIS thing we call love? In grade school, we think it’s a note passed across the room from a cute girl, and in high school it’s a dance on the prom room floor. But in college, it’s something different. It makes you who you are, changes your perspective on the fabric of reality. She showed me both the dark and brilliant side of life, and now I know I have never loved someone so much as I did her. I’m an old man now, closer to fifty than I’d like to admit to you, but throughout my life there was only ever her. She was the clarity in this world gone mad, and she was there when I needed it the most. Even though she broke my heart, I’ll never forget the first time I met Rochelle Addams in Room 331.

I REMEMBER IT WELL: my first day at a new school. I had changed my major, moved out of my parent’s house, and decided that it was time to start living life my way. My first class, Intro to Journalism, was in the largest classroom on campus, an auditorium converted to hold a hundred or more students. The sheer size of it was daunting, from the vaulted ceilings to the worn blue auditorium chairs that escalated from the center seating. I only froze a minute before I launched myself into the brightly lit classroom. New term, new major, new day. Everything was about to change.

In Room 331.

Groaning, I saw the auditorium was filling quickly as I pushed through the double doors. Popular class, I murmured to myself as I looked around for an end seat that wasn’t occupied. College students of every size, age, and skin color flooded through four separate entry ways. The din of greeting friends, slapping each other on the back, and rustling notebooks and paper filled the room. I scanned each of the ten rows, nearly twenty seats across, for an end seat. I needed that end seat. I was too tall to sit anywhere else, and the thought of pressing my knees into the harsh metal seat in front of me for the next ninety minutes of lecture was too painful to consider.

The seats in the auditorium classroom were raised to see the stage better. I took the stairs two at a time, spotting an end seat next to a blond-haired girl. She didn’t turn her head and look as I approached. The first thing I noticed about her, and I wanted to kick myself for being so shallow, was her ample swell of breast above her thick waist and thighs that took up most of the room in her seat. I shrugged, convincing myself that it was the only end seat available. I even took a minute to give myself the mini-talk I usually did–Maybe she’s nice with a great personality, I thought. A purple plaid backpack sat in the end seat next to her. Her head bent over a notebook, her long hair obscured her face.

Ahem, is this seat taken? I asked, clearing my throat and fighting the nervousness that flushed to my cheeks.

Without looking up, she moved her backpack and said quietly. No.

As I eased into the narrow seat built for someone with a much smaller frame, I turned to look at my seatmate. Her hair was like golden waves with a few dark highlights here and there, flipped out in a trendy style and really quite attractive. Just below her hair I averted my eyes from her low-cut halter top where I could see both her wrists, wrapped in six inches of different colored bracelets. The bracelets were a mix of wide leather bands, some with charms and some with etched writing, and those damn rubber ones that I remembered an old girlfriend wearing in high school. Her pen flew viciously across the lines as I waited politely in the aisle, students pushing past me in a rush to find a seat before class started.

I cleared my throat and tried again to get her to look up. There was nothing worse than not making friends on my first day.

I’m Elijah Baker, I said, offering my hand. I figured abruptness worked the best.

She looked at me again, and I didn’t miss her annoyed frown. She shook my hand with a limp wrist, the bangles on her wrist clattering together, and said, Rochelle. Rochelle Addams.

Nice to meet you, I said, but not before she only nodded and turned away from me again.

How are you? I asked. My mother had always taught me to be polite. Her rude demeanor confused me—and even though most would dismiss it, I always saw it as a challenge. I wasn’t going to give up on this mysterious girl.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, looking up at me with a frown. Besides her size and shining hair, the next thing I noticed was her rosy cheeks, set under eyes that were as cold as steel. We exchanged a glance for a moment before she finally asked, Why do you care?

I didn’t quite know how to respond. I cleared my throat and shrugged off my backpack, tossing it to the concrete ground under us. At the same time, she reached out and grabbed the purple pack and tucked it between her feet. Only then did I notice the black and white zigzag lines of her full skirt that dropped to the floor.

Crowded class, I murmured, unzipping my pack and pulling out a notebook similar to hers.

Yeah, it’s Journalism 101, it’s required for all freshmen. What did you expect? She spoke so softy I had to lean closer to hear her. She was still focused on her notebook.

The two hands on the clock announced the ten o’clock hour. The slight whir of the projector screen whistled throughout the room as it unfurled above the shiny wooden stage. The din in the classroom died down abruptly, as they do when the professor mysteriously appears. The professor, a short squat woman with graying black hair pulled in a messy bun above her head, stepped behind the podium. A visual came to life on the screen, announcing the professor’s name, date, and a welcome message for JOUR 101.

Are you a freshman? I whispered to my seat mate.

No, she answered. Senior.

Then why are you here?

She blinked at me.

It’s, uh, a freshmen class, right? I tried again.

She sighed and flipped her notebook to a blank page. You don’t look like a freshman, she whispered finally. I’m here same as you, probably, I needed this class.

I just transferred in from State, I told her, trying to coax her into conversation. I just switched majors. I’m a junior.

Aha.

Her noncommittal answers bothered me. Conversation and making friends had always come easy to me. I tried again, as the teacher droned on about the syllabus. Two assistants, one in overalls and a plaid shirt buttoned around her waist, and a young man in a polo shirt, were circling the room with a stack of handouts. What’s your major?

Journalism.

Me, too. Just transferred.

You said that already.

Ah, so I did.

She sat her pen down heftily and looked at me, pushing her wispy bangs off from her head. Look, you seem nice and all, Elijah, but I’m paying for this class, so I’d really like to hear the lecture, okay?

Shocked at her blunt whisper, I smiled a little and just nodded. I turned back to my own notebook for the rest of the class.

Maybe the next class would go better, because my first day in this new city and new school was just off to a rocky start. I told myself at least I gave her a chance. Usually I didn’t give a thought to girls like her, you know, the bigger ones, or the time of day. Too much drama in my experience, and that made me run the other way. Still, there was something that intrigued me about Rochelle.

As the teacher clicked through her presentation on the introduction of writing in journalism, the thought crossed my mind that the girl next to me was some kind of militant, man-hating lesbian. I certainly knew a few of those at my last college; always determined to prove their self-worth by bringing others down.  The flash in Rochelle’s eyes had told me something different. Her surprise at my introduction was hidden under a tough shell to crack, a wall she put up against getting to know anyone.

Hmm, a challenge. I rather liked that.

As soon as the minute hand swung around to a quarter to the next hour, the professor wrapped up with reading assignments. As soon as the students began to disperse, Rochelle hurried to stuff her notebook and pen away, and stepped over me quickly, not an easy task considering her size. I scrunched up in my seat as much as I could, and thought I heard her murmur, Excuse me but I couldn’t be sure. I turned and watched her flee the auditorium, her long skirt accentuating the swing of her wide hips as she climbed the stairs leading to the door.

Just before she pushed through the door she turned and smiled at me. I waved.

This term was already full of possibilities. I suddenly made it a goal of mine to find out more about this mysterious girl. Quiet and socially awkward, but her smile was bright and happy. What could I discover about this college girl that would unlock her secrets?

MY NEXT CLASS, ADVANCED Chemistry, was across campus, and after going to the wrong building twice, I finally found the right one. The class was at the end of the hall, and I hurried, already a full five minutes late. I squeezed through the narrow door to two rows of four tables, four chairs each, separated by an aisle. The professor, a tall thin man with thick glasses on top of his head, frowned at me and asked my name. I gave it, and he made a check mark on the sheet in front of him. Take a seat, he said, frowning at my lateness, despite my apology. Out of the eight desks, four students were already squeezed around seven of the tables. And there sat Rochelle, by herself. I decided to join her. Our rocky introduction or not, she was the only person I knew, and all the other tables were already full.

You again? She whispered, looking up from her notebook. From first glance, I could see it was filled with formulas and scientific quotations.

It’s the first day of class and you already have notes? I ignored her question and pulled out the chair next to her.

Yeah, from last term.

Can I see? I asked as quiet as I could.

She slid the notebook towards me and tapped her pen on the table a few times.

It was annoying me, so I reached over and snatched it out of her hand. I wrote in the margin, these are really good notes.

It’s kinda my thing.

Journalism and science? Are you a secret genius?

I guess so. Happens when you’re homeschooled.

Wow, that’s awesome, I wrote, though we were quickly running out of room on the page. I really meant it. Public school was awful; even with my wide social circle I still had to deal with bullying and other horrible things. She was pretty damn lucky.

Not really. Now pay attention to class or you’ll miss something, she wrote, grabbing the notebook back in front of her.

I pulled out my own notebook and sat up straighter to pay attention. I didn’t know why I was suddenly trying to impress her–she wasn’t my type at all. I liked my women thin, athletic, and on the short side. This tall girl with a wide waist and breasts that looked like she would topple over was certainly not a thing of beauty. But she seemed to know her stuff, and chemistry was a hard class to tackle.

When class ended, I stopped her before she could hurry away again. Hey, do you want to be study partners?

She shrugged, pulling her hair behind her and snapping a black plastic clip around the bouncy waves. I guess.

What are you doing right now?

What does it matter to you?

You have to eat sometime, and it’s almost one o’clock. Wanna grab a bite in... I trailed off. Where do you eat around here?

She frowned at me. I expected a smile, but realized she’d turn me down, for whatever reason. Before she could refuse, I said, Come on, we can talk about chemistry.

She shrugged. I’m going to grab a sandwich, you can come if you want, I suppose. It’s in the Student Union, the building at the top of the hill. For the second time that day, she hurried out of class, not bothering to know if I was following her.

Weird, I thought. I knew a couple of homeschooled kids in high school; they’d been a little off, for sure. Most of them had been in lower level classes, like introductory math, my weakest class. They were almost always shy and awkward. Rochelle, so far, seemed brilliant, although she obviously had far to go on the friendly side.

I kinda liked it, to be honest, and there was something rather enticing about it. My entire high school and college experience, so far, had no shortage of women. I was nothing special–captain of the chess team and vice president of drama club. I had played soccer for a few years, making captain of the team just before I graduated. I