Next to them was a table of football players, seriously big guys chowing down on plates piled high with ridiculous amounts of food. Unlike the girls, they were quiet and serious, maybe discussing the upcoming game, or wondering why coach had been so pissed off at yesterday’s practice. I had this weird urge to pick up my tray and join them, just so I could feel like I was part of the team again. I really missed that feeling.
There I was, people-watching and eating my omelette, and the next thing I knew my throat swelled up. And then my eyes started to water. I realized I was two seconds away from bursting into tears like a little bitch, right there in the Higg. I actually had to squeeze my eyes shut and take a few deep breaths to get a hold of myself.
Little by little I could feel the pressure letting up, the rubber ball dissolving in my throat. It was a huge relief. But when I finally opened my eyes, that douchebag Sanjay was standing right in front of me, watching me like I was a science experiment. There was nothing on his tray but an apple and a tiny container of yogurt.
“Hey, Brendan,” he said. “You okay?”
I hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks—he wasn’t hanging out with Dylan anymore—but it seemed to me that he was slightly less nerdy than before. New glasses maybe, or a different haircut. Cooler clothes. Something.
“Fine,” I said. “Just a little hungover.”
He nodded, but it was annoying the way he did it, like it served me right for getting drunk on a Monday night. Fuck him. I wiped my mouth and stood up, even though there were still a few bites left of my omelette.
“Gotta run,” I said. “Catch you later.”
I carried my tray over to the dish line and put it on the belt. I glanced back at Sanjay as I headed for the exit. He was sitting at my table, all by himself, reading a book and munching on his apple. He seemed totally fine, like he didn’t even know I’d ditched him.
*
Losing my shit in public like that was a wake-up call. I mean, I knew I was drinking too much and fucking up in my classes. I’d flunked a unit test in Math and gotten a D on my first writing assignment for Comp—What Does White Privilege Mean to Me?—a grade the instructor claimed was “an act of charity” on her part. I was having trouble in Econ, too, but that was mainly because I couldn’t understand the prof’s heavy Chinese accent. That afternoon, he was droning on about “sooply sigh” and “deeman sigh” when I started zoning out. But instead of checking Facebook or texting Wade, I decided to be constructive for once and make a to-do list, which my dad claimed was one of the Eleven Habits of Highly Successful People or whatever. It went like this: ? Homework!
? Pay Attention in Class!!
? No Drinking on Weekdays (if poss.)
? Call Mom
? Laundry!!!
? Way Less Super Smash (vid games in gen.)
? Bday Card for Becca!
? Return Dad’s Email
? Hang w ppl Besides Zack
? Break Up w Becca?
? Shave Chest & Balls
? Extra-Currics?
It had a calming effect to write it all down, to take my sense of impending doom and divide it into a dozen problems that could actually be solved, some more easily than others. I decided to start small, heading straight to the laundry room after class and washing every item of clothing I owned, plus the sheets and towels, which were pretty disgusting. It was a real morale booster, except that some of the white stuff came out pink.
*
That night I went to the library to do my homework, which I hardly ever did. I was trying to read this book about climate change, how it was almost too late for humanity to save itself, but maybe not quite, not if we all made a decision to change our wasteful lifestyles immediately. It was pretty interesting, but I had trouble keeping my focus. For one thing, I was sitting at a big table in the main reading room and the girl next to me was chewing her gum really loud. And this dude across from me kept sighing hopelessly as he erased the answers on his problem set, like he wanted the whole world to know he was struggling.
But all that was just background noise. What was really bugging me was the phone call I’d just had with my mom, which hadn’t gone the way I’d expected. I figured she’d be happy to hear from me, since we hadn’t spoken in a couple of weeks. But she kind of blew me off.
“I’m on my way out the door, honey. I have class tonight.”
“What?”
“I told you about my class. At ECC? Gender and Society, every Tuesday and Thursday night?”
“Oh yeah,” I said, though it was news to me. She’d been talking about going back to school for so long I pretty much just tuned out whenever the subject came up. “How’s that going?”
“Great. It’s really exciting to be back in the classroom.”
For a person who was on her way out the door, she had a lot of time to rave about her class. Apparently, the teacher was a really unique person, the students were super-diverse, and the reading was challenging and thought-provoking, exactly what she needed at this particular moment in her life.
“Cool,” I said, though it bugged me to hear her talking about college like it was the greatest thing in the world. I was the one who was really in college, and in my humble opinion, it was a mixed bag. Also, she was taking one fucking class. Try taking four, and then tell me how much fun you’re having.
“Oh, by the way,” she said. “One of the other students said he went to high school with you. Julian Spitzer? That ring a bell?”
I froze for a few seconds, trying to convince myself I’d misheard. But I knew I hadn’t.
“I remember the name,” I said, after a long pause. “But I didn’t know him that well.”
“He told me to say hello.”
I seriously doubted that Julian Spitzer had asked her to say hello. Unless he was fucking with me, in which case I couldn’t really blame him.
“Hey,” I said, trying to change the subject. “I got another email from Dad about Parents Weekend—”
“You know what, honey? I really have to go. I’ll call you back tomorrow, okay? Love you.”
*
Technically speaking, I wasn’t lying to my mom about Julian Spitzer. I really didn’t know him that well. He’d moved to Haddington in seventh grade, too late to make much of an impression on me and my buddies. In high school he was part of the skater posse. You’d see them cruising through town sometimes, zipping down the middle of the street in a big pack, like they didn’t give a fuck about oncoming traffic. I remember Julian standing up really straight on his board, hands on his hips, long hair streaming behind him like a girl’s.
I didn’t witness the incident at Kim Mangano’s house. I was upstairs with Becca—it was the first time we hooked up—in a bedroom that belonged to Kim’s little twin brothers. Meanwhile, Wade was in the kitchen, trying to talk to Fiona Rattigan, his on-and-off girlfriend who’d broken up with him a few days earlier. I guess she was ignoring him, and he got kind of upset. He grabbed her by the arm and wouldn’t let go. She said he was hurting her. A couple of people tried to intervene, but Wade told them to mind their own business.
He’s abusing me! Fiona said, in a really loud voice. I think she was pretty drunk herself. Somebody call 911!
Julian Spitzer happened to be in the kitchen, because that’s where the keg was. When he finished filling his cup with beer, he walked over to Wade and tossed it in his face.