Chapter 11
“YO!” AHMED SHOUTS AT Nguyen, P é rez, and me when he catches us coming out of the University Center at the same time he’s rushing out of the engineering building right across from us, running through more students and grass and palm-tree-lined medians.
He gives each of us a handclasp, hug combo, dapping down the line, before we start our slow walk to our next class—and our first exam of the year—all of us wearing the same bold blue Islander Soccer tees and some kind of black gym short.
The only real difference is the footwear, from Nguyen’s Nikes that had to have cost some kind of three-digit number of dollars, to P é rez’s worn-in Vans, Ahmed’s Birks that he swears are actually a fire fashion choice, and my go-to white Crocs (that he says tank any opinions I might have about what he wears).
Did not plan this. Swear. No one told us to wear the same shirt today. But maybe that makes this worse. Shows that we’re getting closer and closer every day to a sharing-the-same-brain-cell type of relationship.
“Quiz me,” Ahmed says. “I need to get my mind into Nutrition mode. Ask me something. Oh, and did someone get me a—”
“Here,” Nguyen says, tossing him a fat turkey and avocado wrap.
“Savior, bro.” Ahmed tears apart the plastic and takes a huge bite, looking at us as he chews and waves his free hand in circles, like, even though there’s no way he can talk right now, he asked to be quizzed and he’s still waiting.
“Three keys to a healthy diet. Go!” P é rez says, turning to walk backward past white and orange-brown brick buildings so he can face our roommate.
“Mah-ay-on, ba-ans, va-rye-eh-ee,” he answers, his hand hovering over his mouth so he doesn’t spill turkey, lettuce, and tortilla everywhere.
“I’ll count it. Tell me the differences between high-intensity interval training and sprint interval train—”
“You ever heard of Risieri Frondizi?” I ask Nguyen, ignoring the last-minute study session happening next to us.
His head goes back and his brows furrow when he turns to me, looking lost and a little mad about it. “Ever heard of what ?”
“Risieri Frondizi.”
“Is that … a pasta?”
“No, it’s a person. He’s a person.”
“Is he a nutritionist?” P é rez asks, sounding halfway to panicking. “Did we learn about him? Is he going to be on the test? Ahmed, where’s this guy in your notes?”
“There’s no way that’s a real name,” Nguyen adds, shaking his head at our teammates shuffling through pages of Ahmed’s notebook, trying to find him.
“So you don’t know who he is.”
“What? Should I? Is he an Italian goalkeeper? His name sounds Italian.”
“For real, he sounds like if Santa Claus worked at Olive Garden.”
“You really just say whatever the fuck pops in your head, huh, P é rez?” Ahmed asks, almost looking impressed before taking another huge bite of his wrap.
“I don’t know where he’s from. Probably, though. Not about the Olive Garden thing, but about the Italian thing. And I wish he was a footballer. That’d make him a lot more interesting. He’s a philosopher.”
“Why the fuck would I know that?”
“I don’t know. You’re a Political Science major, and you’re taking Intro Philosophy too, so I thought maybe there was a chance his name would’ve crossed over into one of your classes.”
“Nope. Sorry.”
I let out a sigh, following my boys as we walk inside Island Hall, Nguyen and I taking the first set of ottomans we find and the group of us enjoying the next couple of minutes before we’ve got to keep going to class.
Nguyen’s silently looking over his own notes while Ahmed holds the quarter of his wrap he’s got left near P é rez, giving him a bite.
Both of them are standing in that default futbolista stance, hips to the side, a little zesty and perky, and free hands at the waist. Seconds later, I hear Kat come up, giving everyone high fives and me a quick knee tap.
And I let my head fall back, closing my eyes, letting the voices of other students heading in and out fade to muffled sound.
I’m not bothered that Nguyen didn’t know who this guy is.
I was expecting it. But I am bothered by this semester project Coolidge has us doing.
This morning, he spent the first few minutes of class walking around the room, dropping pieces of paper with the name of a philosopher and the title of one of their works and telling us about the massive chunk of our final grade the paper on them is going to count for.
So, when I should be focusing on what essential nutrients are, I’m only thinking about this guy who probably, maybe, might not even be alive anymore, and how he’s got my future in this class in his hand.
Coolidge gave me a hint. As I was walking out, he asked me to stick around for a minute, telling me about how everyone got a different name, a different work.
That, for some people, it was random, and he’s just hoping they’ll at least enjoy reading about them (couldn’t be me).
But, for others—and the way he stressed others made it obvious that I was included in this part—he was intentional about who we (I) got.
“Frondizi and On the Nature of the Self are fantastic. I think you’ll enjoy them.
” The smile he gave me at that was the same as when he asks me any question he knows I’m going to hate or struggle with (which happens nearly every single class at this point).
“Or, at the very least, I’m looking forward to how you disagree with him.
And, maybe even surprisingly, the ways your first few months of college life reflect exactly what he’s getting at.
Might make you realize that he’s got a few points. ”
I was doing some real act interested and nod along performing there. Could’ve been handed a double major in theater for it.
“The young man who came into this class knowing everything there is to know about himself and the philosopher who says maybe we don’t; maybe there’s always something new to learn. This is a paper I’ll be excited to read in December.”
At least one of us is excited about it.
It’s like the guy sees me as his own personal challenge.
And I know, like Vale said, it’s because I’m one of his favorites.
But being a favorite doesn’t automatically mean I’m getting thrown an easy A.
If what he thinks about the essays ( plural , as in way more than anything else I’m being asked to do in my other intro courses) I’ve written these first couple weeks of the semester says anything, it’s that the opposite is true.
I’ll get a solid B but with notes and notes of comments asking me for more, telling me that it feels like I’m only scratching the surface of my thoughts.
That it feels like I’m scared to actually dive into my brain and heart and see myself and my values.
I’d call it just being concise. Able to give him enough of my thoughts to check off the point of this class and show my work as clearly and to-the-point as possible.
Some people might congratulate me for that.
My math professors would. And Crowley, who’s teaching my Child Growth and Development course, for all of us with education concentrations attached to our majors, is always like, “Concise not loquacious.” And when I figured out what loquacious meant, I was like, yes, exactly.
“Yo, Gabo,” P é rez calls, him and Ahmed stretching their arms in the air. “Test time, papi. You ready?”
“Yeah, for sure. Let’s go get that A, boys.”
“And then celebratory pizza tonight? Thinking about Italians makes me want pizza. Kat, you down for pizza?”
“Fuck yes,” they say in this excited almost-moan. “After-practice pizza sounds perfect.”
“Sure,” I say, lifting my arms up for a stretch of my own. “Whatever you want, bro. We get through this, and pizza for dinner.”
“You’re really about to have me cussing you out in front of this whole beach, Pineapple.
You want that? You want me to make a scene?
You want to be the reason that happens?” Leana watches another bag go right into the circle of the cornhole board in front of her.
Two for two so far this turn. I look at her, all hot and bothered, and give her a smirk.
I let my eyes linger for a second, taking in how good she looks in her bikini. Even better with that pout.
“You said not to go easy on you,” I call back, getting into my stance, pulling the openings of my shorts up even higher, flexing the quads for her, my tongue sliding across my lips as I focus, and then—accounting for the wind going …
south? east? —I toss my last bag, watching as it lands with a smack on the board, slides up, and falls into the hole with its friends.
“?Recuerdas? What happened to that? What happened to ‘I’m going to kick your ass at this game, so I better not catch you letting me win’? ”
The way her shoulders rise as she inhales and lets out a bothered groan and crosses her arms over her chest, fully over my shit, nearly makes me start laughing.
And when she sees me trying my best to hold it in and whines, “Shut up,” before I even say anything, I’ve got to let that laugh out, all cackle-y.
Which only gets her running over to me, throwing her beanbags at my chest, smiling now as I start telling her, “Ya basta,” and “Watch out,” when one hits me way too close to my dick, my hands held out, trying to block the rest of the bags.
“How’s that for kicking your ass?” Leana asks, our bodies now only an inch apart, her hands on my chest, rubbing up my shoulders and connecting at the back of my neck.
And then she leans into what was left of that space, standing on her tiptoes so she can reach my lips.
We don’t do a lot of kissing. Usually the mornings we hang out—at least, after our runs—are pretty rushed and we’re prioritizing getting our mouths at other parts of each other’s bodies.
And no complaints there. I’m very happy with that.