Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
I’ve got Alex on a video call, my phone propped up against the wall. “You have any plans for Halloween?”
She’s still pissed we didn’t go to the last Dingbats game, another nail-biting win. At least that’s how Terrence tells it. While they were scoring goals, I had Maude pushing down on my back trying to get the most out of warm-up stretches.
I look up from the textbook I’ve been skimming. I figured American Literature would be a breeze, basically a high school review course. After three years of higher ed, I should know by now that there’s no such thing as an easy class. At best they’re annoying.
“I dunno…” I say to avoid sounding lame.
“So that’s a no.”
I grab my phone so we can make digital-eye-contact. “So, you have plans?”
“Oh yeah, going to hand out candy with my folks to the neighborhood kids. It’s going to be lit.” She scratches the back of her ear. “Do people still say lit?”
“Wow. Really embracing twenty-one going on forty-five energy. But that sounds fun. I think seeing a baby in a pumpkin costume would fix me.”
The dorm door bursts open. Terrence stomps into the room, wearing cheap sunglasses and carrying two handles of vodka like dumbbells.
There’s a bunch of rainbow disks at the bottom of the plastic bottles, recalling science projects about river silt.
A piece of computer paper with a dull box of Skittles is stuck to his shirt.
I almost forgot about the hockey team's group costume. Still confused how the costume looks so thrown together despite being planned. Terrence points at me with the neck of the vodka handle. “Rod. Taste the rainbow.”
“This feels like the beginning of a really bad porno.”
Alex giggles. Terrence lifts his sunglasses. “That Alexsandra?”
“No.”
Alex shouts over the phone,“Hi, Terrence! Getting lit tonight?”
“You know it.” Terrence gets right behind me and leans over my shoulder to get into frame. “Hey, if you want, you could tag along.”
“Can’t,” all her excitement seems to have melted away faster than a piece of chocolate left abandoned in some coat pocket. “I’ve already got plans.”
I roll my eyes. “And a boyfriend.”
Alex lifts a brow. “Bitter much?”
If Terrence wasn’t here, I would admit it.
Tell Alex about Christos’ cold shoulder that melts away once the sun sets and he’s off campus.
We don’t even text each other about sports or books anymore.
Just filthy messages that I can’t repeat.
There’s something wrong about getting a message telling me to use his mouth like my personal fleshlight and wishing he’d talk to me about birds…
It doesn’t help that I respond in kind, letting him know he is absolutely, 100% mine to use whenever I please.
An unrealistic fantasy I wish was just 1% sure.
Before I can respond to Alex, I get a call from Marcus.
“Gotta go, talk later!” I blow her a kiss. She makes a kissy face back right as I hang up to answer Marcus’ call.
He’s got on an intricate wizard hat and lush robes that look heavy and cozy. “Pondering the orb all by yourself tonight?”
“Dude, you look sick!” Terrence says. He leans to one side to make room for a vodka handle. “I’m making potions.”
“Nice,” Marcus gives him a sharp-toothed smile. “You convinced Rod to leave the dorm yet?”
“Nah, I gave up on dragging him to parties this year.” Terrence ruffles my hair. “Can’t separate the beast from his forest. His color-coded domain. The schedule to rival all schedules.”
My hair is so dry that if he keeps rubbing it’ll start a fire. I push his hand back. “Drinking that much sugar would give me the crash of the century.”
Marcus asks, “You got any breaks in that color-coded domain of yours?”
“Sure.”
It’s not a complete lie. The Grand Prix is before Christmas, so I’ll take that off. Spending time with family isn’t the most relaxing thing in the world, but it’s something. Maybe I’ll eat some sugar cookies.
My nightly texts with Christos aren’t officially on the schedule, but I count those as breaks.
I have to turn my brain off to enjoy the full experience.
As confusing as our situation is, it does recharge me.
A shot of dopamine to block out all my responsibilities and lull me to sleep.
I wonder if he feels the same or if I’ve become more a nuisance than a wanted distraction.
Would it kill the mood if I asked? Hey, what should I call you besides cockslut? Boyfriend? Situationship? Are you seeing other people? Because I’m not. But that opens up a whole lot of doors I won’t be able to close—and, still, I’ve got my hand on the knob.
Terrence gestures at the phone with the handle of vodka. “Meet me at the fountain in like an hour if you want to get fucked up.”
“A wizard is never late.” He hangs up.
It’s only when Terrence leaves that I start to question the schedule I’ve treated like a canonical text.
I move things around, trying to slot tonight’s study time into a different block, the act itself eating into my studies.
I open up my texts to confirm I have my coaching sessions with Maude right.
I do the same with the rink time I’ve requested from Christos.
Our messages from the last two weeks are sparse. I request a time slot, he sends me a thumbs up emoji. I scroll all the way back to the message from the game. “Good luck.” Still no response.
I drop my phone onto the desk and try to get back to studying. The words slide off my brain—I switch subjects, switch from studying to outlining my final paper, draft an email to my advisor…
Dear Susan,
I think I lost the ability to read with an ounce of comprehension.
I would love to blame this all on some bender, but I haven’t had a sip of alcohol in months.
How am I supposed to connect to our great American authors without being a bit of an alcoholic?
How did these guys write such masterpieces while being blasted on moonshine? I’m crashing out.
Maybe I need to bite the bullet and change my major to sports communication. I know ball.
Do you have any open office hours?
Below my window, a party of students walk past, talking way too loud.
My window is already shut, but I double-check it’s locked.
They’re all in sparkly fairy outfits, wings fluttering as they parade through campus.
They aren’t even being subtle with their solo cups.
A girl at the front of the line exhales a thick vape cloud before passing it back down the line.
I’m tempted to open my window just so I can slam it shut. I grab my jacket. There’s no way to fail a mental health walk. The parade of intoxicated college students is as obnoxious as it is entertaining.
I pop into the library, expecting to find over-achieving nerds with their noses in books.
Instead, I walk into a crime scene. They’re doing some murder mystery scavenger hunt.
While people scurry around for clues I linger at the tape outline of a body.
There’s barely a winter chill in the air, but here I am feeling like Scrooge amongst all this whimsy.
Already on the edge of campus, I head into town, passing by kids in costumes carrying pillowcases full of spoils.
Every porch is decorated, some going all out with animatronics and spiderweb-covered bushes, while others boast a single carved pumpkin.
I think I prefer pumpkins. The ones with sharp triangle eyes and uneven mouths are my favorites, especially when they sit between more mature and manicured designs.
Somehow, I end up in front of Christos’ house. A big, fuzzy spider hangs from the top of the covered porch. I get closer, finding I have to stand right under it to ring the doorbell. And I do in fact, ring that bell.
Christos opens the door, holding a bowl of candy. His brows lift, but he makes a quick recovery. “Aren’t you a bit old to be trick-or-treating?”
I reach into the bowl, riffling around to try and find a candy I actually enjoy. It’s a lot of chocolate and taffy, the stuff that always gets stuck in the grooves of my teeth. Hard to have a cheat treat when it lingers in your mouth for so long, the guilt eating away at more than my enamel.
Empty-handed, I pull my hand from the bowl. We’re left staring at each other. “Can I come in?” I point up at the cheesy spider decoration. “I’m about to be spider food.”
He opens the door wider before leaving the candy bowl on an actual end table, not boxes.
I wait till his back is to me before entering, being a good guest, and shutting the door behind me.
There are still a few boxes shoved in corners.
No TV stand—but the couch has a new blanket, and at some point, he hung up a coat rack where his familiar Dingbats windbreaker hangs.
With his back to me, he says, “You have to go, Roderick.”
“I just got here?”
He lifts a hand and I can so easily picture it running down his long snout. “Why are you here?”
“I don’t know…” I admit. “I was studying—trying to study— and getting nowhere, so I went for a walk and ended up here…” It’s the truth but it sounds like utter bullshit.
His tail is stick-straight, an intentional stiffness.
On the arm of the couch, I recognize a familiar tome. To Frost the Thaw. I pick it up, flip to the dog-eared page. He’s made progress. He’s still got 350 pages to go, but he hasn’t thrown it out the window which is commendable. “You’re still reading it,” I say absentmindedly.
“Roderick, I can’t have you here.” He marches over and reaches for the book. I let him pry my fingers from the hardcover, his touch tender despite his harsh expression. “If someone saw—” He looks past me at the windows covered with wood blinds.
“Should I go back to campus and message you instead?”
His throat bobs. He holds the book in front of him like a shield.