Page 5 of On the Edge

“What?” he snaps. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

I falter, unused to people being so vocal and unpleasant. Most people will smile to my face before talking behind my back. Atlas seems to have no compunctions about being hostile, and makes no effort at all to be friendly. It would almost be admirable, if it wasn’t a bit frightening. I remind myself that unhappy people usually take it out on others, and that it likely has little to do with me. It’s important that I don’t let it get to me.

I fix my smile back into place.

“Do you have many classes today?”

“Yes.”

“What is your favorite class?”

“Ceramics.”

“Oh?” I sit up straighter, delighted by this. “What are you making?”

“Ceramics.”

You did that to yourself,I reprimand myself, giving a mental shake. Atlas is barely maintaining eye contact with me, mouth turned down in a disinterested frown and arms crossed loosely over his chest. His posture screamsyou are boring me.Even so, I can’t help but notice and appreciate how pretty his face is.

“Are you an artist?” I try again. He sighs gustily.

“Let’s play the silent game, shall we?”

“I am unfamiliar with this, but I shall like to play,” I respond gamely, nodding. Maybe if I let him win, he’ll be in a better mood.

“No, it’s…Jesus Christ, never mind.” He slaps his hands down on the table. A sharp report echoes through the room and several people turn around to look for the source of the noise. He doesn’t deign to look at them or apologize. The look in his eyes when they meet mine is venomous. “I am majoring in general studies right now, while I figure out what I want to do. Ceramics was something I chose for the hell of it. Turns out I’m actually pretty good, and I like getting my hands dirty.”

I can’t help but smile as he talks, excited to hear him say so many words in a row. True, he’s still looking like he wants to murder me, but at least he’s talking. It seems like a step in the right direction, at the very least.

“The polo shirts and khaki pants make you look like a snob,” he continues. It takes me an embarrassing amount of time to realize he’s talking aboutme. “You look like the kind of guy whose parents own a vacation home, and got you into school by donating money. The kind of guy who drives a fancy car and calls it hisbaby. You look like you’re trying to show how much better you are than the rest of us by dressing like that. You look, in short, like a douchebag.”

I bite my tongue. Probably best not to tell him I drive a BMW.

“I’ll try not to be a snob,” is the best I can come up with in reply, but it does little to placate him. Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do about my wardrobe, short of going out and buying all new clothes. Even I know this would be taking things too far. If he doesn’t like me in a polo shirt, he probably won’t like me in a hockey T-shirt.

“You’re fucking weird,” he replies, turning and facing forward as Dr. Robertson walks into the lecture hall.

Atlas successfully ignoresme through class, and is packed up and walking away before I’ve had a chance to say goodbye. I stare morosely at his back, lamenting the fact that we won’t have class together again for the rest of the week. I’ll have to give it some thought over the weekend, and try to come up with a plan on how to make him like me.

Carefully repacking my shoulder bag, I wait until every student has passed before I step out of the aisle and head for the door. I turn my phone back on as I get outside, see the text message from Zeke, and turn toward the library. I need to speak to him about the internship next summer, but perhapsI can also obtain his opinion about Atlas. Zeke is smart—he will know what to do.

He’s seated in the back of the room at his usual spot, books and flashcards spread across the table. He’s looking at his laptop screen as I walk up, clicking the cap of a highlighter idly. I stop several paces away from the table and speak softly, not wanting to startle him.

“Good afternoon, Zeke.”

He looks up and smiles, dropping the highlighter and closing his laptop.

“Vas, hi. How are you?”

Pulling out the chair across from him, I sit down carefully and lay my bag on the floor, tucking it between my feet so that it’s not a tripping hazard for anyone walking by. Interlocking my fingers, I rest my hands in front of me on the tabletop.

“I am well, thank you for asking. May I interrupt you for a moment?”

“Of course, you’re not interrupting. I’m already done with the assigned problems.” He laughs sheepishly. “Now I’m just doing the rest of them for fun.”

I decide I don’t have anything to say about doing math problems for fun, so I merely smile and nod.

“I am considering an internship for over next summer. I have spoken to Coach Mackenzie about it. It would be a very”—I pause, trying to mentally sound out the word—“incredible opportunity as it would provide valuable experience in the NHL.”

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