“Pledge,” a scrawny guy screamed as he sprinted past Auggie, tugging on the sequined sash that Auggie was wearing. An even scrawnier girl came next, and she squealed, “Pledge” too and tried to rip the sash free. Auggie spun drunkenly into her pull, and then she released him and stumbled off down the hall. Auggie was laughing; he laughed so hard he crashed into a doorway, and the next thing he knew, he was sitting on his ass.
“Jesus, you are a serious lightweight.”
Orlando’s face—thick brows, heavy scruff, lantern jaw—floated into view, and then hands caught Auggie under the arms and lifted.
“Oh, shit,” Auggie said, his stomach flipping.
Just as quickly, Orlando released him, letting him slide down the jamb to rest on the floor.
“Ok,” Orlando said. “I guess you’re staying here for a minute.”
“Hey, man,” Auggie said.
“Hey,” Orlando said.
“Pledge,” Auggie said, tugging on the sash Orlando was wearing. Then he displayed his own. “Same.”
“Holy shit,” Orlando said with a laugh. “Is it, like, my roommate duty to get you home or something?”
“M’fine,” Auggie said. “You are really cool.”
“How many shots did those guys make you do?”
Auggie tried to hold up eleventeen fingers, which he was pretty sure was the right number, but he couldn’t seem to keep them all up. Then he started giggling.
“All right,” Orlando said. “You’ve definitely had enough.”
“M’fine,” Auggie said. “Les take a picture.”
“Yeah?” Orlando said. “You going to make me a YouTube star too?”
“Not a star,” Auggie said, tapping at his phone, trying to unlock it as the booze hit harder now. “Internet pers—internet pers—internet personality.” He crowed as he got past the passcode and showed the screen in triumph. “Come on.”
Shrugging, Orlando crouched at Auggie’s side. Auggie couldn’t get the right angle—Orlando had a massive chest, a tiny waist, biceps the size of bowling balls, and it all deserved to be on display.
“No, man,” Auggie said, grabbing Orlando’s arm and tugging. “You gotta—Jesus, have you never taken a picture before. And spread your legs. No.” He got his hand between Orlando’s knees to adjust his pose; when he bent closer, he could smell his own breath, the Milagro fumes thick enough to burn. “Back straight, chest out. Chin. Yeah, all right. Fuck yeah.”
He took the shot. He slapped on a filter, scrawled bros on the bottom, and posted it.
“You’re really good at that,” Orlando said.
Heat rushed into Auggie’s face. His hand was still on Orlando’s knee.
Orlando’s dark eyes were glassy; he was drunk too, Auggie realized distantly.
“How trashed are you?” Orlando asked quietly, his breath whiskering against Auggie’s cheek.
Before Auggie could answer, a trio of upperclassmen staggered into the hallway, two of them supporting the one in the middle, who was dry heaving like crazy.
“Out of the fucking way, pledge,” one shouted, and Orlando scrambled away from Auggie.
Right when the guys got even with Auggie, the one with the heaves bent at the waist and started to gag. Auggie felt his own stomach contract in response; he squeezed his eyes shut, fought a wave of cold sweat, and managed, just barely, not to puke. By the time he was back in control of himself, the upperclassmen had moved on. Orlando was gone.
Auggie got to his feet. He wandered through a few of the rooms, looking for Orlando. Then the music was too loud. The burn of the tequila at the back of his throat was making him sick. His head was pounding in time with Rihanna, who was pulsing through the speakers now, and he staggered outside for some fresh air.
The party was still going strong; from the outside, the frat house was a blaze of light, the building seeming to thump with the bassline. In California, the night would have been pleasantly cool now, all the heat dissipating once the sun went down. Here, though, the heat seemed just as dense, just as sticky. It was like a spiderweb clinging to his face; he took deep breaths, and the air smelled like hot tar and gasoline and trampled wild onions. The frat house had a low wall near the sidewalk, and he sat there, grateful for the chill of the stone through his jeans. He lay down. He wasn’t sure how much time passed, but after a while, his head was clearer.
“Bum a smoke?”
The voice was quiet and confident; when Auggie glanced up, he saw another pledge wearing the same sash. This guy looked a little older, like maybe he’d taken a gap year, and he grinned at Auggie’s expression and tapped his sleeve. “Cigarette? I left mine in the dorm, and I’m wasted. I always smoke when I’m wasted.”
“Oh, yeah.” Auggie worked the pack free from where he’d rolled it in his sleeve, got out a smoke, and passed it over.
The guy lit his and then asked, “You don’t want one?”
“Nah. I already feel like I’m going to puke.”
Blowing out a stream of smoke, the guy nodded. “Auggie, right?”
“Yeah. Uh . . .”
“It’s ok. Robert.”
“Yeah, ok. Sorry. Lots of new people.”
“No problem.”
“Hey, Robert, not trying to be a dick, but could you just fuck off? I feel like shit.”
“Yeah. Like, you need an ambulance?”
“No, just—shit night.”
“You got a bid from Sigma Sigma. I saw you blasting it all over Instagram. You got, like, a million likes on it.” Robert grinned around the cigarette and said, “Ok, so I follow you. You’re fucking hilarious. Anyway, what’s so shitty about tonight?”
Auggie thought of his hand on Orlando’s knee, the soft, warm breath on his cheek, the question that had a kind of invitation in it: How trashed are you?
Be careful, he told himself. Be careful. You’ve worked really hard, and you can’t just throw it all away. Not again. And it wasn’t just Orlando that worried him; it was the dark anger blossoming in his chest. The need to be seen. Really seen. And he told himself again, be really, really careful.
But the Milagro was talking for him now.
“Cock blocked,” Auggie said with a shrug.
“Yeah, well, trust me: there are plenty of girls in there that’ll do you. You want me to introduce you to some?”
Auggie stared out at the street. The asphalt was a black river.
“I want to fuck some shit up,” Auggie said.
Robert drew hard on the cigarette; the tip flared into a star and then dimmed. “Fuck,” he said. “That’s fucked up. Like, you want to fight somebody? I guess we could go find some dive-bar assholes.”
Auggie couldn’t look away from the black ripple of asphalt. He was thinking about November, thinking about making another fucking video for the same fucking people, hearing Rihanna, and then the collision, the force whipping his body, the shriek of metal, the shattering glass.