Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“You’re thinking of Darren Aronofsky’s film Requiem for a Dream based on the novel by Hubert Selby Jr.” Mr. Goodwyn turns around and sits on the corner of his desk. “Interestingly, also released in 1978, the same year as Matheson’s What Dreams May Come. Both intimate and intense psychological explorations of the human descent into hell, literal and figurative.”
“Fascinating.” Lawson is temporarily quieted but undeterred, answering with a mildly threatening grin for failing to get a rise out of the teacher. “Looking forward to it.”
If that exchange had taken place at some of my old schools, the kid would’ve been tased by a two-hundred-pound cop and dragged out on a trail of piss. This is more entertaining.
Lawson spends the rest of the class testing his boundaries, poking around at the edges of what Mr. Goodwyn will tolerate before breaking into a cold sweat or tossing him out. By the time class mercifully ends, I’ve gotten the impression the rest of us are intruding on some weird foreplay happening between those two.
Later, walking out of our history class at the end of the day, Fenn crumples up our essay rubric and tosses it over his shoulder. “This is bullshit. Who assigns a paper on the first day?”
Ten chapters and two thousand words by Friday. Like we don’t have other classes to worry about.
“A sadist,” I reply. I shift the strap of my Sandover-issued messenger bag to my other shoulder. “And what does this place have against backpacks? Why do I have to carry a purse over here? Motherfucking sadists, the lot of them.” I shake my head. “See you back at the dorm.”
“What? Hell no.” Fenn pulls on my man-purse when I try to duck out. “You’re coming with me.”
“Where?”
“I’ve got soccer practice. You should come hang out.”
“Like sit in the stands with the girlfriends and groupies? Yeah, pass.”
We exit the rear of the building toward a side of campus I haven’t explored yet. Huge old-growth trees shade the lawn and brick paths toward a complex of sports fields. Even in the shadow of the massive oaks, it’s hotter than the hood of an Indy car out there and my socks become soaked with sweat. I peel out of my blazer and yank my tie off. Fenn shakes his head, knowing he’ll be watching me mess with it again in the morning.
“All right. Stop,” he orders. “Stop walking. We need to have a chat.”
I swallow a sigh. “Do we?”
“Yes,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Christ, you’re such a drama queen. Fine. Go.”
“You’re a good-looking dude,” he starts.
“Are you hitting on me?”
“You wish.”
My sigh slips out.
“I’m just saying, you’re good-looking, which means there’s no excuse for you to be a lazy, low-effort, antisocial asshole. You could be pulling chicks left and right if you made an effort. Like, those ripped jeans and hoodies you wear? I get it. Rebel without a cause. Cool. But I’ve got a rep to maintain—”
“Wait, this is about you?” I cut in, my tone dry.
“Of course it’s about me.” He sounds frazzled. “I can’t be brothers with the weird loner. It would be one thing if you were ugly—then everyone would see your antisocial self and think you’re alone because I want nothing to do with you. Know what I mean?”
“Not really.”
“But no, you have to be fucking good-looking. So now everyone is shaking their heads thinking, why won’t this guy chill with Bishop? Well, fuck you, Remington. Not on my watch. Would it kill you to make an effort?”
“Why do I care about your rep?”
“You don’t care about anything,” he gripes.
He’s not wrong. I’ve never cared too deeply about shit, except maybe my tech. Break my monitors, and watch me care a hell of a lot. But everything else, friends, school, chicks… I go with the flow, never investing too heavily in one particular thing. And what’s so wrong about that? I mind my business and do my thing. If more people followed my lead, maybe we’d be closer to achieving world peace or some shit.
“Come meet the guys,” Fenn says irritably. “Be goddamn social for a change. I’m not letting you sit in our room like a sociopath all semester.”
Another breath lodges in my throat. He’s a dog with a bone about me making friends. I couldn’t give a shit, but fine. If it’ll get Fenn off my case for a few days, I’ll make an appearance then slip away when he’s not paying attention.
“For a little while,” I agree.
It’s a trek to the soccer field and there aren’t any faculty around, so I pull a joint out of my bag.
“Dude, seriously?” Fenn side-eyes me.
“You don’t smoke?”
“Sure, at parties or whatever. Not before practice. And definitely not out in the open.”
“It’s medicinal. I can’t tolerate you preppy fucks for more than eight hours sober.”