Chapter One
Ollie
Slater slams his long body between Mikey and I on the ratty sofa with an 'oomph' of exhaled air.
"I'm screwed!" His face is twisted in dismay as he plucks the joint from Mikey's elegant fingers before sucking in a heavy drag.
The motion highlights the strong bones of his face, his deep-set brown eyes narrowing as the smoke rises. I'm a little surprised -- Slater doesn't normally indulge in anything stronger than light beer.
Slater and I were roomed together in our first year and have a strange relationship. We're not alike, not really, but there's something deeper there that connects us, gives us an understanding, I think. The fact that we're both on scholarships is the least of it, as is the fact that we come from poor-ish backgrounds; his more so than mine. I find people difficult, I understand them too well. The motivations for the actions they take, their dark thoughts, the things that make them happy. I can't read Slater, and I think that's why I like him so much -- he doesn't exhaust me with unasked for demands. People are hard edges, draining holes -- I'm not about to reject a person who doesn't make me feel that way.
"Something wrong at practice?"
Despite our friendship, I'm tentative in my question. Slater can be volatile -- up so high one minute and aggressively withdrawn the next. I think, though I'd never dare ask, it's to do with feeling out of place here, in this wealthy, leafy enclave. So, questions that threaten his hard-won status at the college are not to be taken lightly. Failure isn't tolerated at Greenholt College, even from their top ball player.
"Not practice," Slater's deep voice is a growl, "assignment. Didn't get the grade I needed, again." He sucks again on the joint before passing it off to Mikey.
"Can you resubmit?"
Mikey is hopeful -- even here in the very-nearly-real-world jocks get special treatment every day of the week.
"Nope. Professor's a witch. Hates all the sports teams, tells us at length how many resources it takes away from academics. She says there's no chance, and if I fail this course that's it for me. I don't know how much longer I can keep my head above water, training just sucks all the time I should be spending on my degree."
Slater looks utterly dejected. He's a smart guy, and I know he'll have covered all the legitimate bases already. Though, with his penchant for parties, and hooking up with anything with nice legs and a short skirt, I'm not sure his dropping grades can be entirely blamed on the pressures of basketball training.
My own scholarship doesn't cover living expenses, meaning any difficulty I have with my grades, which is thankfully not much, yet, has been caused by working every spare minute just to try and keep up with myself financially, and I'm starting this new year already dog-tired.
"Hey," Mikey is always cheerful, and he pats Slater's shoulder, seemingly unconcerned by, or at least not fearful of, the foul mood, "we'll help you study. Get your grades up for the next assignment."
"Thanks buddy."
Slater pulls Mikey in for a bro hug, mussing Mikey's sun kissed surfer-boy hair. He glances at me over Mikey's head and I see the concern in his eyes. Mikey doesn't have a scholarship, doesn't really understand the pressure that is laid at our feet to perform. Though Slater will probably manage to pull it together for this class, with our help, there are always new classes and new pressures. Mikey, who gets by perfectly well with a 3.0 GPA and only works a job during school because he likes to meet new people, is an ingenue. He seems to have boundless energy for sport and socials wrapped up in his lean six-foot frame and is always supportive, but maybe not the most perceptive of friends when it comes to the subtleties.
* * * * *
I'm at work at an upscale bar downtown. The tips are good and the number of students that pass through the door is minimal, but the hours are late and my focus in lectures suffers from it.
I get hit on during my shift a few times. This is usual, it goes with the territory, although I always stay smiling but calmly aloof, which works for me; tips improve but it doesn't cause drama. I know I sound like a social reject, like someone who hates people, and sometimes I am that guy. But mostly, they just tire me out.
I know people respond to the way I look, and I suppose I understand that, though it doesn't mean I always like it. My mom was an elegant African-American woman, proud and sharply intelligent, and one of my favorite images is of my dad, all six-four blond leanness of him, twirling her in a complex dance move, her eyes sparkling as she spins the room, before pulling her back to him close; and they just stop, unaware of anyone else, to look into each other's eyes, brown into gray.
I can do that now: think of my parents with happiness. It's taken a long time for thoughts of them not to be accompanied by a vortex of pain, a sucking sensation deep inside me, that I always kept to myself. I still get that sometimes, but the happy thoughts are starting to outweigh it, finally.
Anyway, warm as that thought is, I need to focus: tips and repeat customers are the order of my boss, and my back pocket.
Those responses I get? Having one now. I got my dad's height and eyes, and more of my mom's skin, plus her megawatt smile, which is rarely broken out for anything but the purpose of illusion, like now. At six-three I tower over the petite blonde hottie trying to get my attention from the other side of the bar, but oh boy, does she love it when I flash that smile.
"What can I get you ma'am?"
She flutters her eyelashes and asks me what I would recommend in a twinkly voice. I lay it on thick, making suggestions and throwing in some light flirting, being rewarded with a great tip and the less welcome gift of her number on a napkin. She's missing a crucial appendage to genuinely get my interest.
* * * * *
I roll home at four in the morning, whacked after finishing clean-up duty. I made good money tonight -- even on a weeknight the bar is popular and has a seemingly inexhaustible supply of wealthy drinkers ready and willing to throw their cash around -- but with the way rent prices are in the city, even this pit between the three of us is more than I can truly afford. I work four nights per week, including weekends, just to make rent, bills and occasionally buy the kind of food that will give me the odd vitamin. That's in addition to working as a TA for several classes during the week, although I drew the line at a third job this year. Though I guess working every spare minute isn't really a problem when you have zero spare funds to do anything else with it anyway.
I get up after about an hour of sleep and am perched at the breakfast bar, desperately clutching a black coffee and trying to motivate my thickened mind to move for a 7:30 a.m. lecture on Enzymology, when Slater swaggers in in nothing but a pair of boxers.
"We have a plan."
