When he finally extricated himself, he made his way to his office at the end of the hall, glad that the light was off behind the pebbled glass. He shared the office with two other grad students, and while Dawson rarely showed up to use the space, Grace spent most of her waking hours there. Technically, the semester didn’t start for a week, and Theo was hoping he’d have that time to settle in and—well, adjust was a pretty small word for it. Normalize? Somehow feel like the universe still made sense?
He let himself into the office. He hadn’t been there since the accident; it smelled the same, a mixture of chai and pencil shavings and old books. Grace had hung four cardigans, one on top of the other, across the back of her seat, and her desk was covered with vinyl clings shaped like flowers and ducks and a Visigoth with a period-appropriate battle axe. Dawson’s desk had only an aging computer, supplied by the department, with what Dawson probably considered a discreet 4/20 sign taped to the side of the CPU. Theo’s desk was bare. Grace had been very thoughtful about that. She had taken down all the pictures, framed and unframed; she had removed all the trinkets from vacations and all the holiday gag gifts. Everything was in a banker’s box shoved into the desk’s knee hole. Theo caught the back of the box with his foot, balanced on the cane, and dragged the box free. He shoved it to the side. He’d have to deal with it eventually.
Theo had barely powered on his computer when a knock came at the door. The pebbled glass made it impossible to tell who it was, but the spikey hair made him think of Ethel Anne. He considered the window. This was an old building; they had safety proofed everything. And anyway, he was only on the third floor, and he figured a jump would probably only land him in the hospital, and then he’d have to start this whole fucking terrible process over again.
“Come in,” he said.
It wasn’t Ethel Anne.
The kid who stepped into the room was definitely not here for move-in day. He was older, that was part of it, but Theo had been late to college himself—and even later to start grad school—so it wasn’t the only factor that influenced his judgment. No, this kid didn’t move like he was new to the school. He waited respectfully in the doorway, yes, but he didn’t have the freshman timidity that made the kids buzz so fast they were almost hovering. Theo put the kid’s age in the early twenties; the kid had unkempt hair and small, dark eyes.
“Hi,” he said. “Dr. Stratford?”
Theo nodded but said, “Mr. Stratford. Actually, just Theo, if you’re comfortable.” Wheeling over Dawson’s chair, Theo pointed to the seat. “What can I do for you?”
“Thanks. This is kind of awkward, but—” He produced a pink slip. “Is there any way?”
Taking the slip, Theo glanced at it. Robert Poulson, senior. Fall 2013. Civ 1: Shakespeare in the World. Theo raised his eyebrows. “It’s already full?”
Robert’s eyes shot down to his hands, which he clasped between his knees. “Uh, yeah. Guess so. Everybody registers in the spring.”
“Yeah, but I’ve never had people lining up to take Shakespeare in the World.”
Now Robert released his hands, and he scrubbed at his shorts. That was it. Nothing else. But somehow, Theo knew it had to do with the fucking accident. Everything in his life had something to do with that fucking accident now.
“Robert? Or Robbie?”
“Robert’s fine.”
“We’re not supposed to add students. They cap the class sizes for a reason.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m really sorry. I realized over the summer that I could graduate in December if I took this class, but then it was too late to register online, and when I called the secretaries, they told me I had to talk to you in person and get you to sign it.”
Theo laid the pink slip on his desk.
“So, um,” Robert said. “Mr. Stratford. I mean Theo. I’d really appreciate it.”
“Sure,” Theo said.
“Oh, man.” Robert grinned and looked up. “Thank you.”
“As soon as you tell me what they’re saying about me.”
“Mr. Stratford, I don’t—”
“This is an easy deal. And I won’t hold it against you.”
Robert named one of the most popular rate-the-professor sites; he was scrubbing his shorts again.
“All right,” Theo said, signing the slip and passing it back. “Have a great day.”
“Thanks, Mr.—um, Theo.” Robert paused in the doorway. “And, uh, I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah. Thank you.”
Theo logged on to the computer, navigated to the site Robert had mentioned, and found his profile. It had ratings for classes he’d taught before—as well as the highly sought-after fire emoji that meant he was hot—and a section for general comments. There it was, laid out in staggered time stamps from June and July.
—nearly died—
—boyfriend decapitated—
—husband, dummy, not boyfriend—
—little girl didn’t make it—
—she did, actually, but she lost her legs, I think, or—
—just saying I had a class once where the professor killed himself and we all got A’s—
—total bullshit, you stupid troll—
He closed the tab. His hand was sweaty against the mouse. His pulse beat in his fingertips. Then, for the first time since June, he opened his email.
Hundreds of unread messages waited for him.
He scrolled all the way down, opened it, and the words blurred together. He started typing the phrase he’d be using for the rest of his fucking life.
Thank you. That really means a lot.
3
In the Sigma Sigma frat house, Auggie hammered back another shot of Milagro and blinked tears from his eyes. An upperclassman was roaring in his ear—words, but Auggie had no clue what the guy was saying—and slapped another glass into his hand. A fist pounded on his back, and Auggie screamed something and threw back the shot. This time, he sputtered, and the upperclassman pounded on his back again, and that seemed to settle something—whatever the hell they’d been trying to settle. The crowd split up into smaller groups, and the upperclassman wandered off, and Auggie, all by himself, coughed until he felt like one of his lungs had come loose. When he could breathe again, he did a selfie, flashing a peace sign. The filter helped him look not totally wasted, and that was the point: Auggie’s internet persona was fun but responsible, the cute boy you could bring home to the parents. Internet Auggie couldn’t be seen wasted after doing a line of cheap shots.
The Sigma Sigma Bid-ness Party was overwhelming, but it was the perfect capstone—Saturday night of rush week. Carly Rae Jepsen blasted from a speaker system that ran through the house, although house was a loose term. The building was approximately the size of the elementary school Auggie had attended. On the main floor, small groups of people talked and drank and laugh. Couples grinded against each other in dark corners—and sometimes, in not-so-dark corners. In some of the bigger rooms, furniture had been pushed back to clear space for impromptu dance floors, where crowds of guys and girls swayed and humped and tried to figure out who was going home with whom. A toxic mixture of sweat and a hundred colognes and perfumes hung in the air; somebody had already puked in one of the main-floor bathrooms, and in the kitchen, carry-out five-dollar pizzas were stacked in their boxes. Auggie posed with the stack, pretended to drool, and put a hand on his belly. He snapped the picture and posted it.