Page 10 of On the Edge

“Wow.” I draw out the O dramatically and raise my hands to slow clap. “That was deep. You should sell that to Hallmark—slap it on a greeting card.”

“Fuck you,” he retorts, flipping me off over his shoulder. “This is exactly what I mean. You’re a dick and you expect everyone else to be as miserable as you are. Vas is nice, so of course something is wrong with him, or he must want something from you—he can’t be friendly just because he’s a good person. God forbid! Would it kill you to give someone the benefit of the doubt for a change?”

“Probably.”

“Maybe just settle for basic manners, then.”

“Whatever. I need a fucking cigarette.” I sit up and slide over until I’m sitting on the edge of his bed. He glances at me, stretching his arms above his head and groaning.

“If you’re going to smoke, shut my window on your way out. I don’t want that shit wafting in here.”

Scoffing, I step over to his window and slide it down, knocking the latch into place.

“Yes, I wouldn’t want to ruin the sanctity of your precious hockey lungs. You having company tonight?”

“Nah, not tonight. I’ve got a shit ton of studying to do—like,a ton—and I can’t put it off. No distractions,” Nate says,holding his palms out in front of him and closing his eyes like he’s trying to ward off said distractions.

“Me either.” I head toward his door. Nate and I aren’t friends, exactly. We’re more two guys who became friendly by the simple expedient of having bedrooms next to each other in a shared house. We’ve never once hung out beyond sitting together in the living room or chatting as I pass his room on the way to mine. Pausing in the doorframe, I glance back at him. Maybe wecouldbe friends though, if we tried. “You got plans this weekend?”

He spins his desk chair around, looking at me like he’s already half checked out of the conversation.

“What? Oh, yeah, I’ve got hockey like usual. Why?”

“There’s a party at Foggers Saturday. You should come.”

Nate scrunches up his face in distaste. The stoners all seem to congregate together on campus, so their house was christened Foggers as a subtle nod toward the haze of smoke that seems to hover there like a fog. Not the most creative name, but the few of my friends who live there seem to find it hilarious. Although, since they’re usually high, they seem to find most things hilarious.

“Uhm, no, thanks. I don’t need to get kicked off the team because Coach decides to randomly drug test us and I piss out bath salts.”

Snorting, I shake my head at him. “Pretty sure that’s not how drug tests or bath salts work. Or weed, for that matter.”

“Thanks for the invite, but I’m going to pass. I’ve heard what goes on there, and I don’t want to be a part of it. I’m not trying to become the next statistic for college overdoses.”

“No worries. See you around,” I say, trying to backpedal from the conversation. I have no idea what idiocy compelled me to invite a jock to a party at the druggie house. The onlytime those two worlds collide is when someone wants to buy weed. They don’t pretend to be friends.

I leave Nate to his homework, stepping into my bedroom and snatching up my backpack on the way in. Kicking the door shut, I immediately crank open the small picture window beside my bed. My half-empty pack of cigarettes and lighter are sitting on the windowsill, waiting for me. I lean against the wall, making sure to angle my head so the smoke rolls out through the window, close my eyes, and enjoy the burn in my lungs.

I started smoking back in middle school on a dare, and mostly to try and get my dad’s attention. I’d nearly made it through an entire pack—weeks of smoking in the backyard of our house and leaving the butts on the patio—before he noticed. The resultant fight hadn’t been as satisfying as I’d imagined it would be, and only gave my dad another reason to dislike me.I have work to do, Atlas, I don’t have time to deal with this right now,he’d said, and then hadn’t even bothered to take the pack of cigarettes away. Same shit, different day.

Now, I mostly smoke because I like it. I know I shouldn’t—I’m not an idiot—and I don’t suck down a pack a week. I’m a casual smoker. The sort of smoker who lights up at the end of a hard day, when their German communication partner drives them nuts for no good reason.

Opening my eyes, I exhale through my nose and wave my hand to waft the smoke toward the window. Fucking Henri Vasel. I know Nate’s right, and it shouldn’t bother me that he’s nice. I also know it shouldn’t bother me that he’s a little different. But it does. Everything about him—from his hair, to his accent, to his goddamnpolo shirts—bothers me. Everything about him seems fake to me, like he’s putting on a show.The only time people treat others with that level of respect is when they expect something in return.

Distaste dances in my lungs with the cigarette smoke. Tapping it out in the ashtray, I rest the unsmoked half across the top to save it for later. Leaving the window cranked open, I sit cross-legged on the floor and pull my backpack toward me. I need to at least get a head start on my homework before this weekend, or I’ll be stuck doing it with a hangover.

Dr. Robertson presentsus with our first team project as though he’s handing out blank checks. Beside me, Henri is carefully writing everything down. I can see the tip of his tongue poking out from between his lips, and have to physically drag my eyes away and back to the front of the room. He’s so distracting. Even when he’s silently working beside me, my gaze seems to track to him like it’s magnetized. I have to remind myself that he’s not in any way my type, and I’m not going to have my first sexual experience with a guy be with someone like him.

Instead of staring at Henri’s profile, my eyes rest on the red apple sitting once more on the corner of his desk.Not today, I think waspishly.

“The case studies themselves are unimportant,” Dr. Robertson says to the room, pacing in front of us. “The point of the exercise is the discourse they evoke. There are no right or wrong answers. I do not need you to agree with your partner, I merely need you to converse with them. The Dropbox will open tonight and will remain open until Monday.”

Papers start to shuffle as everyone realizes class is over and it’s almost time to go.

“And one more thing,” Dr. Robertson calls, voice cutting through the ambient noise of the room. “Please remember that half of your grade depends on the work you complete with your partner. Take it seriously. That is all—enjoy your weekends.”

Henri is still writing as I shut my laptop and slide everything into my backpack. I wait for him, feeling annoyed that he can’t write faster than a five-year-old. When he finally sets down his pencil and looks over at me, I scowl.

“You write so fucking slow,” I tell him.

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