by Eli Easton
It was obvious why Micah liked him. 1) Sloane was classy and 2) he was gay. One of Micah’s goals had been to diversify the frat. We already had two gay guys in the house, but Micah was happy to have more as long as they weren’t party bunnies like the ones over at Lambda house. Sloane wasn’t. He was that gay guy that everyone loved. He was fucking cute, for one thing, so he was a great wing man, or so I’d heard. He was maybe five-nine, slender, with shaggy dark brown hair and eyes, a decent face, and he always had a day’s stubble, apparently on purpose. He wore dark clothes mostly, funky microfiber or some such shit black low-riders, dark shirts that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. And he’d lived in Paris and London and God knows where else. He had that ‘I’m better than you’ confidence. And he was really fucking smart.
The fact that he’d gone to high school in Paris impressed Micah. He wanted ‘class’ for the Delts. Me? I figured anyone who could have gone to university in France and enrolled in Pennsylvania State University instead—well, he might be baking, but the oven wasn’t on, if you know what I mean.
Sloane just bugged me.
It bugged me that Micah thought he was so perfect.
It bugged me that nobody else, gay or straight, had a problem with him.
And yeah, it bugged me that he was gay. It was like, I dunno, like he was available or something. I didn’t feel that way about the other gay guys in the frat, but with Sloane it was as if there was a hot girl in the house. It just… it wasn’t right. That wasn’t what I wanted my frat house to be. I wanted it to be just… guys, and not to have to think about walking down the hall nude to get to the shower, or being all gross and sweaty after a workout, or feel stupid for clipping my toenails in front of the community TV. Sloane made me feel… uncomfortable. Like he was all superior and I didn’t want to look stupid in front of him.
I hated that.
Maybe I was being a jerk about it, but that’s just the way I felt. I didn’t want to do anything with Greg Sloane.
“This really, really sucks monkey balls,” I said sincerely, willing Micah to see how big a deal this was for me. “Don’t I have enough pressure?”
Micah laughed as if I’d made the world’s best joke. “Pressure? Get real! You work out and you take classes, that’s all you do. And I know you’re acing your classes.” Micah stood up and put a hand on my shoulder. “I promise you—it won’t be as bad as you think it’ll be. Besides, by Christmas break, it’ll all be over.”
“It’ll be twice as bad as I can imagine,” I muttered. “I do this, man, that’s it for the rest of the year. No more of your big brother ‘I’m torturing you for your own good’ bullshit. Swear to me, Micah.”
Micah stroked his soul patch thoughtfully. “Deal. After this party is over, you’re off the hook for the rest of the year. We cool?”
He held out his hand for me to fist bump. I wanted to punch it, but it was Micah after all. I did the hand thing, still pouting.
~3~
Sloane
MICAH, Micah, Micah. It was clear he was up to something, putting me and Hank together as party planners. Interesting move, oh sensei of the bizarre.
Since I’d moved into the Delts house, I’d only seen Hank in passing. So I was all for the chance to find out more about him. But I really, truly, epically hated the idea of planning a party. It made old childhood traumas rise up like bad Chinese food does the next day.
My dad was a tenured professor in psychology at NYU. He wrote a few well-respected books, so he could finagle gigs as a ‘visiting lecturer’ basically at any university he wanted for a year or two at a stretch. My parents loved to travel so that’s what we did. My mom had a private therapy business, which she managed over Skype. She had people so seriously addicted to their weekly sessions with her that they didn’t care where she lived. It seemed ‘tell me about your childhood’ was the type of sympathetic bullshit that worked just as well over webcam.
My parents loved entertaining people they thought were their intellectual peers or fabulously rich or had something else that made them ‘extraordinary’. ‘He’s an extraordinary individual’ was my mother’s highest compliment. When I was younger, I’d either be shipped off to a babysitter or I’d be introduced to my parents’ guests and then allowed to go to my room. After I hit my official teens, though, my parents expected me to ‘act like an adult’ and mingle with these people. Sometimes it was cool. I met the President of France once. He was very… French. His eighteen-year-old daughter wanted to bone me. I think I was fifteen at the time. Needless to say, that didn’t happen.
Now that I was on my own at college, I didn’t mind attending parties, as long as I could lounge against a wall, chat with people I actually liked, and take off when I felt like it. But planning one, hosting it…. Yeah, it was an echo of my parents’ life, a deja vu that sent icy fingers of panic down my spine.
So I did what I had to do to take my mind off my fear. I took advantage of the situation.
I walked by Hank’s room and figured he’d returned from bitching to his brother because his door was closed and there was a light on underneath. I knocked and then immediately opened the door.
Hank looked up at me in surprise. He was sitting at the head of his bed, and he’d changed into gray sweat shorts and a loose Pittsburgh Steelers jersey. There was a blue Steelers baseball cap turned backward on his head.
Mystery of H.S. point #5: He was sitting cross-legged on his bed with bare legs and feet. I’m not sure why I wouldn’t expect a big, tough-looking muscle dude to sit like that, but it seemed a little off, like so much about Hank. Too yoga-like or something.
“What?” he said.
I annoyingly said nothing, but I sat down at the foot of his bed, folding my legs in a mirror of his. And there we sat, him at the head of the bed and me at the foot of it, cross-legged, staring at each other.
“You’re going to drive me crazy, aren’t you,” Hank said.
“’Crazy’ is an ambiguous term with no clinical meaning, and it’s insulting to mental health patients. Can you be more specific?”
He narrowed his eyes at me and rubbed his beard with his fingers.
His beard was dark, of course, like his hair, but it had lighter auburn threads in it and it looked appealingly scruffy and soft. It was just long enough to make my fingers itch to tug on it. I’d never cared for beards, never gave them a second thought. But his was… remarkably appealing.
His eyes narrowed further, and he closed the textbook he’d been reading—Ancient Eastern Philosophy—picked up his notebook, and started to scribble.
“Is that your major? Philosophy?” I asked him, surprised.
He stopped writing to give me an intent look, like I was going to make fun of it. “Yeah. So?”
“Why? Why philosophy?”
“Because I’m too stupid to study law and the phys ed department was full.”
He was totally fucking with me. I leaned forward and attempted to pin him with my stare. “Seriously.”
He rolled his eyes. “Because I’m curious what makes people believe the stupid shit they believe. And I’d sort of like to find the least stupid shit to believe in myself.”
I huffed a laugh. “Wow, that’s a ringing endorsement. You should be a spokesman for the department. Maybe they’ll change their motto to ‘the stupid shit’ department.”
Hank sighed, but one corner of his mouth tugged up. “What about you? Micah said you’re in veterinary sciences?”
I nodded.
“So why do you wanna be a vet? You love animals or something?”
I didn’t bother to tell him my parents had never let me have a pet. We were ‘too transient’.
“I like medicine. It’s a family thing. I find anatomy and illness interesting. And, most importantly, animals can’t talk.”
He frowned. “You sure like to talk.”
“Believe me, if you met my parents, you’d understand.”
He grunted, smiling a wry smile.
&nbs
p; “What?”
“Just thinking that ‘because animals can’t talk’ would also make a stellar department motto. Frenchie.”
I laughed, seeing it in my head. Touché.
“You know I’m not actually French, right? I was born in Manhattan. I just lived in Paris for a few years.”
“Anything you say, Frenchie. Now shut up and let me write.”
“Sweet talker,” I muttered, but I shut up.
Mystery of H.S. point #6. Philosophy? There were so many things wrong about that on so many levels.
He tore off the page and handed it to me with a grunt. “Here. We’re done.”
I looked at it.
DJ, hip hop
Three kegs local brew
Jello shots, 3 flavors
Pizza and BBQ pork from Frank’s
I whistled. “Three flavors of jello shots? You’re sure that’s not too hoity-toity?”
“I like strawberry, but some guys are allergic and get all whiny even though there’s no actual strawberry in them. And black cherry because no one likes it and it lasts until people are really drunk.” He took a packet of Corn Nuts, from the bedside table and tossed a few in the air, catching them in his mouth.
I narrowed my eyes at him. I had the strongest feeling I was being deliberately played. Did he really expect me to buy this dumb jock act?
I took his notebook and scribbled in it myself. I ripped off the page and handed it to him.
James Bond theme
PSU chamber orchestra
Black tie
Canapes
Full bar with waiters pouring Champagne
‘Bond girl’ go-go dancers with slinky gowns and heels.
Paper targets and dart guns
The expressions that played over his face as he read it were priceless, like he loathed it and grudgingly respected it at the same time. It didn’t suck, if I did say so myself. I’m always motivated to work my best when I’m annoyed. And yes, my parents and I had lots of conversations about that.
“This is, like, a five thousand dollar party at least,” he huffed. “Way too much work. And no one is gonna want to fucking dress like it’s prom.”
He yanked the notebook back from me and started writing. He paused, tapping the page in thought. His tongue appeared, rubbing at his bottom lip as he concentrated. It was cute, like I could instantly see him at age twelve, beard notwithstanding. I distracted myself from the uncomfortable level of adorbs by getting up and wandering around his room, poking at stuff. Looking for clues.
There was only one personal picture, and it was of Micah and Hank on a hike or possibly camping. They both wore bandanas tied around their heads and smiled at the camera. They actually looked like brothers for once. Super cute, all American, hairy brothers. There were no pictures of a girlfriend and no posters or girly calendars either, unlike ninety-nine-point-nine percent of all straight guys’ dorm rooms. The calendar Hank had was scenic views of Scotland. He had a plastic clothes hamper, which was covered neatly by a towel and only mildly reeked of sweat. There were no dirty clothes or papers littering the floor. Artistically arranged on the windowsill near his desk was a large collection of empty glass beverage bottles. I picked one up. It had a homemade label, but whatever it had said was crossed out with a heavy black marker.
Curiouser and curiouser.
The sound of a ripping page drew my attention. He held it out to me. I was across the room by now, and I had no intention of moving at his beck and call. I looked at the page. He looked at me.
“If you make me get up and come over there, I will fucking stuff this in your mouth,” Hank said evenly.
I smirked and took two steps forward, which made him lean way over to hand the page to me. I read it.
Beach party theme
Tiki poles and surf decorations
Crank up the heat inside — bikini and beachwear
Wet T-shirt contest
Big screen TVs playing 60’s beach party movies (sound off)
Mai Tais and bottled Hawaiian beer + 2 kegs
DJ - 60’s music
“This is excellent,” I said.
“Yeah?” Hank looked pleased.
“Yeah. For a high school graduation party. Or a Spring Break party for people who can’t afford to go anywhere. You know. In the Spring. This is a Christmas party.”
“Hey, people actually own beachwear! Find one dude in this house who owns a tux. Besides, bikinis. The guys’ll love it.”
“Micah wanted classy. Imitating Fort Lauderdale is not classy. That’s just uber frat. Might as well throw a toga party.”
“Uber frat?” Hank said in disbelief. “You mean being more of what we actually are? Instead of being something we’re absolutely not?”
I flopped down on the bed, lying across it on my back with my arms spread and my T-shirt riding up a bit—just because I knew it would drive him crazy with annoyance. “What about famous historical figures. Mildly intellectual and fun.”
“Geeky, stupid, and boring.”
“Says the man who’s a dead ringer for a young Robert E Lee, if Confederate generals had worn football jerseys.”
Hank snorted. “It’s dumb. No one will come.”
He was probably right. I ran through ideas in my head. “Christmas elves are too cliché.”
“Ya think?”
“Traditional New Year's figures then,” I suggested.
“What the hell is a New Year's figure?”
“You know—either an old man or a baby.”
“B-baby?” Hank sputtered.
“It works,” I said dryly. “You keep gravitating toward near nudity. Apparently that’s a thing with you. Those who think they have hot bodies can wear the ‘new year’ loincloths, and those who prefer to be covered up can do the ‘old year’ robe and beard thing. We can probably rent some scythes and some big ass clocks to put around or make some out of cardboard. Escher-esque. Could be cool.”
“You want scythes at a party with Jello shots?”
“We’re not doing Jello shots,” I said firmly. “I distinctly remember a no vomiting clause.”
Hank gave a bitter chuckle. “Well, we’re sure as hell not doing diapers.”
“Loincloths.”
“We’re sure as hell not doing loincloths-thingys that can easily be mistaken for diapers.” Hank snickered at the very idea. He popped a couple more corn nuts. He stretched out on his back, shoulders against the headboard, feet purposefully invading my space as if I wasn’t there. He folded one massive arm behind his head, the sleeve bunching up enough to show his meaty bicep, and used the other hand to lift up his football jersey and scratch lazily at his six pack. A dark, fuzzy happy trail, more like an expressway in his case, led down into his shorts. The fake nonchalance on his face told me he knew exactly what he was doing.
The sneaky, gay-baiting bastard.
I yanked the notebook back and began to scribble.
* * *
Three days later, Hank and I were no closer to reaching a consensus. It was like the Tea Party and the Democrats trying to find common ground on a health care plan. We argued over it so much, there was metaphorical blood dripping down the walls of almost every room in the frat house.
Hank kept a Wheaties box with “HANK’S” scrawled across it in the kitchen cupboard. I spiked it with Metamucil. He switched the room key on my keychain with that of another guy in the house. I spent fifteen minutes trying to open my door and another half a day locked out before I found the other guy and we swapped keys.
I superglued his bath towels so he couldn’t unfold them.
He pulled the fire alarm while I was in the shower the first day it snowed outside.
I saw Micah in the hall one day, and he put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m so glad this has been a bonding experience for you and my brother. Maybe for the Christmas party, we can put you two in a ring and have a death match.”
“The man who puts strange dogs together in his bed should not be surprised wh
en he wakes up without testicles,” I said philosophically.
Micah frowned, blinked a few times, and walked away.
On the good side, I was expanding my list.
The mystery of H.S.:
7. No girly pics in his room; calendar of Scotland
8. Flexible for a muscle jock
9. Fairly intelligent and creative practical joker
10. Neatnik room
11. Secretly hoards and drinks some hand-labeled mystery drink instead of the typical Red Bull
* * *
Hank
The time I spent with Sloane was like boxing with my frontal lobe. Still, time went by stupidly fast, and before I knew it, it was time to present our party plan to Micah. We didn’t have ‘a’ party plan, though, we had two—Sloane’s and mine. We never had reached an agreement on anything, and I’d started doing my workouts at the gym nights instead of mornings so I could avoid talking about it anymore. Because, well, Sloane.
He’d stroll into my room like some mob enforcer come to shake me down, like he owned the joint, wandering around looking at my stuff. Or worse, he’d sit on my bed and stare at me. Being the focus of Sloane’s attention was like having a record-winning fastball speeding toward your face. On the one hand, you had to marvel at how good the throw was. On the other hand, you were about to get brained.
Sloane had a wicked tongue. I kept up with him as well as I did only because I disliked him so much. Or rather, I liked the idea of disliking him. I supposed I really admired him in a weird, masochistic way, but it was more fun to hate on him. If you know what I mean. If I actually liked him in any way, shape, or form, I’d probably be tongue-tied around him. But since I disliked him, I could snark back and not give a crap what he thought of my ideas.