“It was in the middle of the afternoon,” he says flatly, “in the cafeteria.”
I turn away from him and give a stifled laugh to the sky. “Christ, Warren, I’m starting to think that you’re the police here.” I take another drag to buy myself time, to concoct another lie. I’m quick at it, dealing them out, stacking them up like a house of cards. I’ve had good practice.
And my father was the best of mentors.
“The Prohibition Unit had its trainee class come onto campus a few times, to hear Professor Starks’s lecture about sorcerer’s shine, and the magic of shine transference,” I explain slowly. “I must have grabbed a soda or something afterward.” At that, Warren’s face softens. It almost tempts me to tell him the truth. That I want my old life back so bad it hurts. That I want to go back in time and erase what happened, erase it all.
Instead I add, “But it’s nice to know you’re spying on me.”
“I’m not spying on you. I’m worried about you.” Warren looks at the pavement, stubs the rest of his cig into it. “I’m just not sure I understand anymore,” he says quietly. “I got it at first—tailing me till you got settled in the Unit, getting a taste of what could have been if your father hadn’t been indicted. But Alex, it’s been months since the trial.”
I study my cigarette, the way the white paper surrenders to the hungry cinders. “Is this an elaborate way of trying to tell me to get lost?”
Warren waits a second, another second. “Of course not.”
He looks back down O Street, which is now empty, save for an older gentleman walking his dog and a few students with bursting book satchels coming back from the library. “But tonight’s important to me. Sigma Phi’s going to choose their pledges this weekend, and I don’t want anything messing that up.”
I give him a glass smile. “Well, let’s make sure our boy gets what he wants.”
“I’m serious, Alex. Sigma’s president isn’t a joker, all right? Sam Rockaway takes his frat seriously, and he’s obsessed with sorcery. He’s been planning this criminal magic party since June. What happened the past few times I brought you around? That stuff can’t happen again.” A faint blush falls over his face as he mumbles, “Honestly, I didn’t even mean to tell you about tonight. It just sort of came out.”
That stings, not that I can entirely fault Warren for saying it. I don’t mean to be a pain in the ass, a liability. My nights trolling Georgetown with Warren always start all right—I feel comfortable hitting the town at his side, almost hopeful, like I’m getting to relive a warm, wonderful dream—but then something always goes wrong. Some ass says something that rubs me the wrong way, or I hit on the wrong guy’s girl. Last Friday I got into a fistfight with some arrogant junior who called me a “suit,” and I was dangerously close to transforming his varsity letter into a straightjacket.
I take another cigarette out, light the new one with the stub of my last. It’s a dirty habit, chain-smoking, but when I’m nervous I need to keep my hands busy. “Look, I’ll handle myself tonight, I promise, okay?” I tell Warren. “I’m not going to mess Sigma up for you. I’m just along for the ride. For a break from the grind.” I sigh out a flood of smoke. Then I add quietly, “Sometimes I just need to escape.”
I steal a glance at Warren. I want him to understand without me explaining any more. I want my friend of over a decade to tell me that everything’s okay, that no matter how many times I mess up, how desperate I seem, how dim my future’s become while his just keeps burning brighter—he’ll never leave me to flicker out alone.
But standing here under the streetlamps, the whispers of my life long gone disappearing like the crowd around the corner of O and 35th Streets, Warren’s face only shows pity.
He sighs, pastes on a false smile, and slaps me on the back, a fast, flippant gesture. “Okay, friend,” he says, “then we better hop. Sam said the performance starts at nine.”
We walk without another word down to 35th Street.
“Sam said to use his back door, in the alley.” Warren points us down a narrow, shadowed street behind the corner lot on 35th and O. The alley’s bordered on both sides with old homes that date back centuries, each painted in faded pastels, with sleepy back lots cluttered with trash cans. There’s a light on in about every third house, no noise but the sound of far-off traffic. In short, there’s absolutely no indication of a legendary sorcery party anywhere in our vicinity.
“You sure the crowd went this way?” I ask.
Warren pulls out a small piece of paper from the pocket of his trousers. He checks the address, then approaches one of the squat, shabby houses on our left, a two-story with smudged windows and chipping rose-colored paint. Two wooden Greek letters have been nailed over the entrance, the only faint scent of “fraternity” on the block.