Page 9 of On the Edge

“I don’t like green apples,” I remind him, just as he pulls a red apple from the side pocket of his bag and holds it out to me in his palm. He doesn’t even have the decency to look smug for remembering. He waits for me to take it from him, a bland half-smile on his face. “I’m good.”

“I shall leave here, yes?” He puts it on the corner of his desk, closest to me. “In case you become hungry.”

“Thanks,” I answer grudgingly, even though I know I’llnever eat that damn apple. What the hell is he playing at, anyway? Who the fuck brings food for someone that sits next to them in a lecture hall?

He doesn’t respond to my thanks, just inclines his head slightly and turns to face the front of the room as Dr. Robertson comes in. Christ, but he is a weird fucker. He remains bent over his notebook the entire class, diligently writing down everything the instructor says or writes on the board. When I peek over at his paper, his handwriting is straight and tidy—rows and rows of perfect penmanship. Unlike earlier, when he was talking to me, he frowns a little bit as he writes, as though he’s concentrating particularly hard. He keeps writing even when Dr. Robertson pauses, as though he has to catch up, and every now and then he shakes out his hand like it’s cramping.

“Why don’t you take notes on a computer?” I ask him as we pack up at the end of class. His head snaps up from where he was bent over his bag, and his eyes widen. I curse myself as soon as I see that stupid, hopeful look on his face. This is the first time I’ve talked to him without him starting the conversation.

“I am not skilled at typing,” he admits. “And writing is to help me remember.”

“Got it,” I respond shortly, standing up and edging past him. He plasters himself against the desk in an effort to make more room for me.

“I hope you have a pleasant evening, Atlas.”

“See you next time, Henri,” I call, giving a flippant wave over my shoulder and mimicking his accent when I say his name. He starts to reply, but I’m already too far away to hear and I don’t bother to turn around.

Head down and hands shoved into my pockets, I walkhome. The lawn is scattered with various groups of students. Some are lounging in the sun reading, while others throw frisbees or a football. As usual, I feel as detached from it all as if I’m watching a television show that’s set in college. I’ve never had the type of friends who’d willingly spend an afternoon on the grass, aimlessly tossing a frisbee. Half of me wonders if I’m doing college wrong, while the other half wonders why I even care. What would be the point of trying? None of this matters. We’re all going to end up in meaningless jobs we hate anyway, and college relationships don’t last. It’s all a waste of time.

When I get back to the house I share with four other guys, I’ve got a minor headache and a not-so-minor bad mood. I need a drink and a cigarette—preferably at the same time. I could also use a blowjob, but I’m not sure I have the fortitude to make that one happen tonight. Henri Vasel is so fucking exhausting, he’s used up all I have to give for socializing today.

I ignore two of my roommates that are congregated in the living room and head up the stairs to my room. I’ve got the smallest room in the house—just big enough to fit a full bed and a dresser that I also use as a desk. When I need to spread out, I usually do my homework seated on the floor. Whenever I get annoyed about the situation, I remind myself that it could be worse. I could still be in the dorms, listening to my neighbors fuck through the thin walls, and having to wade through hallway parties to get to the bathroom. Anything is better than that.

I pass Nate Basset’s door on my way to my room, cracked open enough to reveal him sitting at his desk—an actual desk, too, because his bedroom is larger than a kitchen pantry. Tossing my backpack in the direction of my closeddoor, I push Nate’s open without knocking. He looks up and makes a face at me, but doesn’t bother with a rebuke. We’ve shared a wall for the last two years—he’s well used to my “glooms” as he calls them.

“What’s up?” he asks as I close the door behind me and walk over to sit on his bed. He sighs as I flop backward and pull his pillow under my head.

“You play hockey,” I start, and he laughs.

“Sure do.”

“You know that Henri Vasel guy?”

“Vas!” Nate exclaims happily. “Yeah, he’s our top line winger. He’s great.”

“He’s weird as shit,” I correct. Nate frowns.

“I mean…okay, yeah, he’s a little odd. But he’s the most chill dude I’ve ever met. Nothing gets to that guy, Atlas,nothing. I’ve never once seen him lose his cool, not even when we’re down by five in the third and the other team is serving penalties like they’re going out of style. Everyone else will be pissed off and then there’s Vas—chill as fuck and telling everyone to play our game not theirs.”

“Christ, Nate.” I roll my eyes. “I don’t know what any of that crap you just said means. Be fucking normal for one second.”

“He’s cool,” he says succinctly, shrugging. “We love him.”

“He bothers me.”

It’s Nate’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Literally every person bothers you. I hate to break it to you, friend, but Vas is the most inoffensive person I’ve ever met. If you’ve got a problem with him, that’s on you.”

“He’s too fucking nice, man. He’s like…fakenice. Nobody is that friendly all the time.”

“Vas is.” He shrugs again.

“Well, then he’s got a lot of repressed emotions that are going to explode someday. He brought me an apple, dude. I told him he dressed like a prick and then today he brings me anapple. What the fuck?”

Nate laughs, shaking his head and swiveling his desk chair back to face his homework.

“God, you’re such an ass. You know, maybe if you pretended to be happy every now and again, you might find you’re happier by accident.”

---