The afternoon sunlight in the Computer Science classroom was heavy, casting long shadows across the desks. Pablo S. Cabar was mid-lecture when he suddenly trailed off, his eyes narrowing as they landed on the back row.
Chase Wright was fast asleep. His head was tilted back at a precarious angle, his mouth slightly agape. Beside him, Wilson Firestone was leaning in with a look of intense concentration, systematically tossing crumpled paper wads into Chase’s gapping maw.
Cabar didn’t snap. Instead, a slow, wicked grin spread across his face. He gestured for Wilson to continue, even waving him on as he began to creep toward the sleeping man. With a sudden, explosive breath, Cabar leaned right into Chase’s ear and screamed.
“Now you’re playing with POWER, Wright!”
Chase bolted upright, his eyes wide and disoriented, before a violent coughing fit took over. He began spitting out a barrage of wet paper wads like a malfunctioning pitching machine.
Cabar cackled, clutching his stomach as the class began to pack their bags. “Class dismissed!”
As they filed out into the hallway, Tyrone Barrens sidled up to Amelia Winters. “Amelia, say there are two friends and they’re in the same class, and one of them wants to ask the other one out on a date. Like a grown-up date, but within biking distance of his parents’ house.”
Amelia’s heart skipped a beat. She adjusted her backpack straps, a hopeful smile tugging at her lips. She had spent weeks wondering if Tyrone would ever notice her as more than the girl who helped him with his homework. “Well, they could do something on campus. Tomorrow, there’s a picnic with live music and fireworks on the east lawn. They’re calling it An Evening Under the Sparks.”
“Cool,” Tyrone said, his face lighting up. “I bet Randi would love that type of thing.”
The smile died on Amelia’s face. “Randi?”
“Oh, I thought—” Tyrone paused, seeing her expression. “I can’t believe I misled you like that. Listen, Randi can be the name of a guy or a girl. And in this case, it is definitely a girl.”
“Thanks for your help,” he added, oblivious to the emotional wreckage he was leaving behind.
“You’re welcome,” Amelia muttered to his back as he jogged away. “And I hate you. And I wanna have your children.”
Across campus, Christina Puhr was squinting at Chase. He looked… different. His hair, usually a masterpiece of manufactured effort, was a bird’s nest. His jaw was shadowed with uneven stubble.
“Are you okay?” Christina asked. “It looks like you have actual bed head this morning.”
“In fashion, I’m what’s known as a tastemaker,” Chase countered, though his voice lacked its usual bite.
“And you missed an entire side of your face shaving,” she noted.
“And next month, so will Lady Gaga.”
Before she could press him, a tall, barefoot man with an acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder approached. It was Drake, Christina’s ex-boyfriend—the man famous for his tiny nipples and his habit of saying “lates” instead of “goodbye.”
“Drake?” Christina said, her voice small. “Can we talk sometime? I’m sorry about how things ended.”
Drake stopped, his expression sour. “Well, I’m sorry I can’t accept your apology because you’re toxic, Christina. You’re like the exact opposite of an antioxidant.” He adjusted his guitar strap. “I got band practice. Lates.”
“Can’t we still be friends?” Christina called out, but he was already walking away. “Also, does ‘later’ really need shortening?”
Wilson, who had been lingering nearby, stepped forward. “Let me talk to him for you. It’ll be better if it’s man-to-man. We won’t be thinking about our chubby thighs or whether or not we can have babies.”
“Don’t talk to Drake,” Christina warned.
“Your hormones are clouding your—”
“Don’t. Talk. To Drake.” Christina said right before storming off.
“That is girl for ‘talk to Drake,’” Wilson whispered to himself.
As they moved toward the parking lot behind the cafeteria, Sharon joined them. She stopped short, pointing toward a black Acura. Chase was standing beside it, hunched over an outdoor spigot, frantically splashing water over his face and underarms.
“What is he doing?” Christina whispered.
“Oh, I know exactly what he’s doing,” Sharon said, her voice laced with a mix of pity and judgment. “My ex-husband spent four weeks doing that after his ‘innocent mistake’ of calling me Charlotte. That boy is living in his car.”
“I lived in my semi-truck for a stretch in the nineties,” Wilson added wistfully. “Nothing like bedding a woman in the cabin of a Peterbilt 379. Of course, before AIDS, sex was like shaking hands.”
Elvis poked his head up, “Hence, AIDS.”
The next day, the study group sat in their usual room, the air thick with an intervention-style tension.
“Oh, Crystals, I forgot to tell you,” Wilson said, leaning back. “I went and talked to Drake.”
Christina groaned. “What?”
“Bad news is I could not patch up things between you. You really did a number on him. Good news is—I’m the new keyboardist in his band.”
“I asked you not to talk to him!”
“Hey, Tiny, you’re missing the headline,” Wilson snapped. “I’m in a rock band.”
Chase walked in then, looking even more rumpled than the day before.
“Oh, hi, Chase,” Christina said, her eyes darting around. “We were just talking about how it never hurts to ask for some—”
Sharon broke. “Living in your car! Living in your car! You are living in your car! I’m sorry, I’m not good at being coy.”
Chase froze. He looked at the group, his pride visibly crumbling beneath the weight of their collective pity. “Guys, I’m not living in my car. I’m just sleeping in it for a couple of days while my apartment gets fumigated. It’s a very temporary issue.”
“If you need a place to stay, I could hire you as my poolboy.” Wilson interjected, “I just gotta get your measurements for the uniform.”
“Don’t you have family you can stay with?” Christina asked.
“Believe me, kitten,” Chase said, though his eyes were hollow. “I’m Wright were I need to be.”
Elvis leaned forward. “You could stay with me in the dorms. My room has a bunk bed. A misnomer, because it’s the real deal.”
“The next person that offers me charity or pity,” Chase growled, “will be mentioned by name in my suicide note.”
While the rest of the group fretted over Chase’s hygiene, Tyrone was still spiraling over his upcoming date. He caught up with Amelia near the vending machines, clutching a crumpled list.
“Amelia, Amelia, thanks for your advice about An Evening Under the Sparks,” he said, his energy erratic. “Now I’ve just gotta figure out what to bring to the picnic. This is my first college girl, so I really wanna impress her. Would you mind helping me shop?”
Amelia stared at him, her heart doing a painful gymnastics routine. She wanted to say no—to protect whatever dignity she had left—but the way Tyrone looked at her, like she was the only one who could save him from social disaster, was her undoing.
“I’d love to,” she lied, her voice tight. “Really.”
The sun was setting, casting long, orange shadows across the campus parking lot. Christina found Chase sitting on a bench, staring at a laptop screen balanced on his knees.
“Wanna see my place?” he asked as she approached.
Christina gestured to the two girls currently using his trunk as a makeshift bench to make out. “I can see it from here.”
“No, my real place.” He turned the laptop toward her. The screen showed pictures from his social media profile with pictures of his apartment, the one with the floor-to-ceiling windows and the life he used to have. “Neighbor had an infestation of bedbugs, and they are fumigating the building. Look at my shower. You can do a backflip there. It’s a sweet place.”
Christina looked at the photos, then at Chase. He was clinging to a digital image of a home while standing in a parking lot. “That shower is beautiful, Chase. You know what would go great with a shower? You, who are in desperate need of a real one. Maybe ask your friends for some help.”
Chase scoffed, his voice climbing an octave. “Ask for some help? Shask shfor shome shelp. I mastered law on my own, I can deal with a few days on my own. It’s who I am.”
“That’s who you were, are you the same now?” Christina asked, pointing at a thumbnail of a younger Chase.
“Same skillset, different game,” Chase snapped. “I’ll figure something out.”
Christina stepped closer, her voice softening into the earnest, slightly annoying tone she used for social causes. “Letting friends help you is your chance to grow as a person. The more you let them in, the more you can be you.”
Chase looked at her, a cynical smirk returning to his face. “There’s a silver lining here, isn’t there? You’re attracted to bums.”
“Good night,” she said, turning on her heel.
“Come on!” Chase called after her. “Why don’t you have dinner at my place? I got a hotplate that plugs into a cigarette lighter!”
“Yeah, but your kitchen’s being towed,” Christina replied, pointing over his shoulder.
Chase spun around. A tow truck was reversing toward his black Acura. “Stop! That’s my house!” He sprinted toward the car, but the realization of his rock-bottom hit him faster than the truck could.
Chase made his way to Elvis’ dorm, the door was open, he looked at Elvis, who appeared to be playing Crash Bandicoot 2 on his laptop.
“Can I live with you?” Chase asked, defeated.
“Yeah, pretty good,” Elvis replied. “Do you want top bunk or bottom bunk?”
“Top.”
“Me too,” Elvis said, his eyes lighting up. “Race you for it.”
Chase didn’t move. Elvis took off and hopped onto the top bunk. “I win!”
Life in the dorms was a sensory overload for a man who used to sleep on Egyptian cotton. The room smelled of stale popcorn and laundry detergent. Chase sat on the bottom bunk, watching Elvis pour a mountain of multicolored cereal into a bowl.
“Lucky Charms?” Chase asked, his voice flat. “How are you so satisfied all the time? Don’t you ever want anything more out of life than cereal?”
Elvis didn’t look up. “Sometimes I add hot cocoa mix in and drink it like a Lucky Charm hot chocolate. I call it ‘happy time drink.’”
“Someday you will know it by its true name,” Chase muttered. “Diabetes.”
Elvis sat on the floor, cross-legged. “You’re Vegetta, Chase.”
Chase paused, his hand going to his face. “Is it the pecs?”
“No. In Dragon Ball Z, Vegetta was just like you. A Prince, arrogant, blew up worlds for a living. He was humbled when he was defeated by a five year old boy, an overweight swordsman and a short bald man. It took time but he realized he was happier becoming their friend and raising unruly children with Bulma.”
“Can’t I be one of the unruly children?”
“Do whatever you want,” Elvis said, taking a bite of a marshmallow clover. “You just have to know what that is. For me, it’s Lucky Charms and TV.”
Chase looked at the small, flickering television in the corner. For the first time in weeks, the tension in his jaw relaxed. “I could use a break.”
In the cafeteria, Amelia was handing Tyrone a folded, heavy fabric. It smelled of lavender and old trunks.
“A picnic blanket,” Tyrone breathed. “Genius. I was gonna lay down newspaper.”
“It’s the blanket my grandmother used to court my grandfather,” Amelia said, her voice small.
“Yeah?” Tyrone grinned. “I didn’t know your grandparents played basketball. Thanks.”
He jogged off, leaving Amelia standing alone. Sharon stepped out from behind a pillar, shaking her head. “Tell that boy how you feel, girl.”
“It’s scary,” Amelia whispered. “If he’s not interested, I could lose the friendship too.”
“Love is a gamble always,” Sharon said, her voice taking on a rare, serious weight. “But waiting won’t change the dice. You either roll them or you lose your turn.”
“I’m going to roll them,” Amelia said, nodding firmly. “I am. I just… I need a few more shakes.” She started to shake her hand wildly as if holding imaginary dice.
“Shake them in your mind, okay?” Sharon patted her arm. “If you’ll excuse me, Wilson’s band is playing in the lounge. I want to record the train wreck. I’m hoping for a Michael Richards situation.”
The student lounge was packed with students and the low, electric hum of anticipation. Christina stood near the back, her arms crossed, watching as Drake took the small stage with his acoustic guitar. Beside him, Wilson sat behind a keyboard, looking entirely too pleased with his new rock-star status.
“This isn’t weird for you?” Sharon asked, leaning in toward Christina.
“No,” Christina lied, her eyes fixed on Drake’s bare feet. “I just wanna show Drake some support to help smooth things over.”
Drake leaned into the microphone, his eyes narrowing as they found Christina in the crowd. He struck a sharp chord.
“Saying goodbye to Christina / Was the hardest thing to do,” he sang, his voice rising in a melodic whine. “But when someone’s a bitch and a liar / There ain’t nothing left to woo.”
The crowd erupted into a rhythmic clap. Christina’s face went pale as the chorus hit like a physical blow.
“I’m getting rid of Christina / I’m getting rid of the C / She’s a no-good C!”
“Take it, Wilson!” Drake shouted.
Wilson leaned into the keys, pounding out a solo that was technically proficient but emotionally tone-deaf.
Back in the dorms, the “Heroes” marathon was in its fourth hour. Chase and Elvis were sprawled out, bathed in the blue light of the television.
“Great to have somebody to watch stuff with,” Elvis said, his eyes glued to the screen. “My dad never wanted to watch anything, so I was raised by TV.”
“TV’s the best dad there is,” Chase agreed, his voice sounding more relaxed than it had in years. “TV never came home drunk. TV never crashed into 18 wheelers.”
The door opened, and Christina stepped in, looking frazzled. “Wow. You guys are really dorming it up in here, huh?”
“In the last two days, I’ve spent a quarter,” Chase said proudly. “We’re having the time of our lives. See? Who needs platinum faucets?”
“Do you guys even have faucets in here?” Christina asked, looking around the cramped space.
“There’s a communal bathroom down the hallway,” Chase said. “It actually helped me come to terms with my apartment. I’m thinking of downsizing to save some money. You don’t sit on a toilet like that until you’ve left the material world behind.”
“Timz!” Elvis shouted as a student poked his head in. “Hey, bros. This is Timz. He lives next door. He’s from Poland.”
Christina sighed, her patience wearing thin. Outside, the distant sound of Drake’s voice carried through the vents: “I’m getting rid of Christina… getting rid of the C…”
“Excuse me,” Christina muttered, her jaw setting. “I have a future murder victim to visit.”
The confrontation happened in the hallway outside the band’s practice room. Christina caught up with them, her face flushed with anger.
“Guys, what the hell?” she demanded. “‘Gettin’ Rid of Christina’? That song was disrespectful to me and to the definition of rhyme scheme.”
Drake stopped, looking at her with cold indifference. “If you don’t like my song, you don’t have to listen, all right? I’m an artist and I write what I feel. And I feel that you suck.”
Wilson stepped between them, his chest puffed out. “All right, hold on, Drake. Can I have a word with you? What did you just say to her?”
Wilson and Drake then stepped away from earshot of Christina, all she could hear was mild mumbling.
“Listen,” Drake snapped, “I know Christina’s your friend, but my song’s message is more important.”
“Your song?” Wilson shouted. “We wrote it together! Are you trying to Garfunkel me?”
“Maybe,” Drake sneered, “assuming to Garfunkel someone is to put up with them even though they’re a fat, lazy cat who hogs the spotlight and eats all the lasagna.”
“I get it,” Wilson said, his voice rising. “You’re jealous of me! Maybe because when I put on these skinny jeans my ass looks like a baby pumpkin! Or maybe because I’m not a small-nippled credit-hogging jag who only knows three power chords!”
“My band, my song!” Drake yelled. “How do you like that? Lates!”
As Drake stormed off, Christina looked at Wilson with wide eyes. “Wilson, did you just defend my honor?”
Wilson straightened his fur vest, still panting. “Huh? Oh, yeah. Totally.”
In the quiet of the empty study room, Amelia was helping Tyrone go through his final rehearsal. She sat across from him, her heart in her throat.
“You’ll light the candles and you’ll take a bite and she’ll take a bite and you’ll laugh,” Amelia narrated, her voice trembling. “And you’ll offer her your letter jacket after you notice this funny way she shakes when she gets cold. And she’ll feel like the luckiest girl in the world.”
Tyrone smiled, a genuine, warm look that broke Amelia’s heart. “Right. I couldn’t have done this without your help. You’re really nice, Amelia. We should’ve hung out more in high school.”
He stood up, grabbing his gear. “All right. I gotta go get ready.”
“Tyrone, wait!” Amelia shouted. Her mind raced, the “dice” Sharon mentioned felt like lead in her hands. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t say it. Instead, she clutched her stomach. “My appendix is bursting!”
“What?” Tyrone dropped his bag, his eyes wide with panic. “Oh, no!”
Thirty minutes later, they were in the campus health center. A nurse stood over Amelia with a clipboard, looking unimpressed.
“Okay, two young students,” the nurse sighed. “I think I’ve been to this dance before. You guys are sexual partners, right?”
“Us? No!” Amelia squeaked. “He’s my very good friend, and I have appendicitis!”
The nurse checked Amelia’s vitals. “Doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with you.”
“God!” Amelia groaned, throwing herself back onto the cot.
“Where does it hurt?” The shocked nurse asked.
“Everywhere,” Amelia insisted, her eyes meeting Tyrone’s.
“We have to quarantine you,” the nurse said, his tone shifting to mock-seriousness. He turned to Tyrone, who was looking at his watch. “Where’s your date?”
“We’re doing An Evening Under the Sparks” Tyrone responded.
“Your date’s on the east lawn? Perfect. Great.”
He stopped Tyrone, “Wait—this is a date? Yeah, you need these.” Reaching into a drawer and handed him a roll of condoms.
“Nice,” Tyrone said, pocketing them. He looked back at Amelia. “I’ll be thinking of you.”
As Tyrone left, the nurse leaned against the wall. “No, we have to observe you overnight. It’s policy. We don’t want another ‘Rabbies Rhonda’ situation on our hands. That student attacked so many dogs.”
Amelia stared at the ceiling, the silence of the clinic echoing the failure of her big “roll of the dice.”
The following morning, the dorm room was a cave of unwashed laundry and the low hum of a television that hadn’t been turned off in thirty-six hours. Christina stood in the doorway, staring at the two men sprawled across the floor.
“You guys weren’t in Spanish class,” she noted, her voice flat.
“Adventure Time marathon,” Chase replied without looking away from the screen. “The life and times of an sociopathic boy and his magical shape shifting dog.”
Christina turned her gaze to Chase. He was wearing a threadbare bathrobe and a pair of Elvis’s oversized slippers. There was a glazed, contented look in his eyes that was deeply disturbing. He looked like he had finally found peace, and to Christina, peace looked a lot like giving up.
“Christina, may I have a word?” Elvis asked, standing up and pulling her into the hallway. “Has this always been here?” He poked a small mole on her arm before continuing. “You need to take Chase back.”
“Never had him, don’t want him,” Christina snapped. “Especially now. He’s got a real Chris Chan vibe going.”
“He’s like E.T.,” Elvis explained earnestly. “He crashed in my place and we’re friends now, which is great for me, but bad for him. He needs to get back. You have to entice him back to his old ways.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Use your lady parts,” Elvis said simply. When Christina recoiled, he rolled his eyes. “Don’t be naive. The charge between you two is keeping him going. Seduce him. Draw the tapeworm of Chase’s old self out with the milk that is your sexuality.”
Christina stared at him. “No.”
Elvis shrugged. “Then say goodbye to E.T. I’m heading back. Timz is making bobka.”
Christina pushed open the door to find Chase still staring at the screen. She marched over and clicked the power button.
“What’s wrong now, woman?” Chase groaned.
“You. I was wrong, okay? Maybe you do need to be by yourself for a bit to find out who you are before you let other people change you. How much happier Will Smith was in Fresh Prince than Urkle was in Family Matters?”
“Yeah, but Family Matters,” Chase muttered.
“Does family really matter if you don’t know yourself?” Christina challenged, her voice rising. “What about playing solo games? Napping? What about that thing you do when you close your eyes but don’t actually sleep?”
“Meditating?” Chase looked at her, unimpressed. “Jeez, you are way out of your element here.”
“Yes, and I do not believe a single word I am saying for me. But for you? Maybe if you put stain remover on a turd, you don’t get a diamond. You just get a turd with less direction in life.”
Chase sighed, reaching for the remote. “Thanks, coach. Can you turn the TV back on?”
“Mail time,” Christina said, reaching into her bag. She pulled out two heavy stacks of mail. “These have been waiting for you.”
Chase froze. He picked one up, the papers going through his mail, settling on a flyer for a local bar opening. “Wait… I missed the opening of Platinum Booze Boobs n Billiard Club. How did you get my mail?”
“For a fancy apartment, you’ve got awful security,” Christina said. “Go back home, go through your mail, find yourself and get back to where you left off. Then sit down and look in the mirror and say: ‘I was a huge phony before. I can do it again.’”
Chase looked from the pile of mail to Christina. A slow, familiar smirk spread across his face. “Yeah. You’re into me.”
“I beg your unbelievable pardon?”
“Look at all this work you’re doing just to have me around again,” Chase said, his ego finally re-inflating. “You were more attracted to me than you were willing to admit.”
“I did this all for Elvis! You are the worst.” Christina said.
“Clearly,” Chase muttered.
Christina couldn’t hide the small sense of relief as Chase stood up and began to strip off the bathrobe.
The East Lawn was a sea of blankets and flickering candles. Tyrone sat with Randi, looking nervous but proud, until a shadow fell over their picnic.
Amelia stood there, clad only in a thin hospital gown that billowed in the night breeze. She looked pale and slightly manic.
“I want my nana’s blanket back,” she announced, her voice trembling.
Tyrone blinked, looking up from his cheese plate. “Amelia? What are you doing here? Are you okay?”
“I want it,” she repeated, ignoring the confused look on Randi’s face. “Do you guys mind? Could you scoot over? It’s an heirloom. I want it. Thank you. Have a nice date.”
She gathered the heavy fabric, clutching it to her chest like a shield, and marched away toward Sharon, who was watching from the sidelines.
“I don’t care what you think,” Amelia told her, her chin held high. “For me, that was huge.”
“I know, sweetie,” Sharon said gently, putting an arm around her. “Let’s go find you some pants, okay?”
Nearby, Drake’s band took the stage. Wilson sat at the very edge of the grass, watching as Drake leaned into the mic.
“This is a song for Wilson!” Drake shouted.
Suddenly, an energetic student with a sideway baseball cap jumped onto the stage and started belting, “Wilson so old! His body made of wrinkles and folds! Stupid and ugly, he smells like a fart! Poo-poo in his pants and poo-poo in my heart!”
Wilson sat back, a strange look of satisfaction crossing his face as the crowd began to cheer. “I’m Wilson,” he whispered to a passing student. “Yeah, the song’s about me.”
As the music thrashed, a freshly groomed, impeccably dressed Chase Wright strolled onto the lawn. He found Elvis and Christina standing near the back.
“Hey,” Christina said. “Look what the cat dragged out and licked clean.”
Elvis nodded. “You looked like you moved out.”
“The fumigators are done with my apartment, and I gotta a lotta mail to catch up on,” Chase said. He looked at Elvis, his expression softening. “You would’ve been fine with me staying forever?”
“Yup,” Elvis said.
“You’re pretty cool, Elvis,” Chase said.
“You’re a huge nerd,” Elvis replied.
“Thanks.”
Chase turned to watch the stage, the mountain of mail in his backpack a heavy, reassuring weight. He was back in the world of surfaces, but for the first time, he realized he didn’t mind having a few friends who knew exactly what was underneath.