A giggling couple connected from lips to hips comes tumbling down the hallway. They’re walking by Braille, bouncing off the walls as they stumble toward me, refusing to break their kiss long enough to even watch where they’re going. I pretend to be looking for the bathroom, in case they notice I exist. They make it to the last room on the right and practically fall inside. Note to self—skip that room.

My palms are sweating and I’m desperately trying not to seem nefarious as I slip into the first bedroom on the left. It is a mild disaster. It smells like a used gym towel and dirty clothes are covering about three-quarters of the floor. I do my best to step over them, but give up when I have to choose between stepping on a sweatshirt and trying to jump the five feet to the next open spot. I search the room, looking for anything that might have someone’s name on it. There’s a backpack on the ground by the desk and I dive for it. Pulling out an old essay, I read the name. Andrew Edwards. Damn. Wrong room.

I crack the door and peek out into the hallway. The coast is clear, so I slip out. Nerd ninja powers, activate. I move on to the next room. The door is locked. This plan isn’t working out so well. I move on to the third door and am relieved when the latch opens. I shut the door behind me and lean against it. I don’t know how James Bond does it. My hands are shaking from the adrenaline at this point. I close my eyes and take a long, ragged breath in through my nose and out through my mouth. Breathe, Elizabeth. Just breathe.

A pungent scent burns my nostrils. It smells like a can of body spray exploded in here. I cough, covering my nose and mouth with my hand as I choke on the faux manly smell. Yep, this has got to be Monte’s room. It reeks of douchebag. I make my way over to the desk where his laptop is charging and flip through the textbooks and papers littered there. Nothing. I search the bag on the ground. Nothing.

In a panic, I text Jackie.

Me: There’s nothing here!!!! I’m screwed.

DominaTrix: Take a deep breath and keep looking…desk drawer? Check for Post-its.

A deep breath is not possible in this cologne fog, but I keep going. I search his desk drawers. Still nothing. Desperate, I search his nightstand. Only a half-empty bottle of lotion and a box of condoms. Trojan Extended Pleasure. Guess little Monte’s got a hair trigger. Gag.