Of course, I included some parts of the story at Stanford. If my story suggests to you that it seems like a fun place, filled with nice people… just remember that this is a work of fiction.
part II: Steph
Steph was drunk when he saw the message. His labmates were throwing a party, and he was locked in to a game of slevens when he felt his phone buzz. After unlocking it, he spent some time focusing on turning the blurry lines into a decipherable message:
301-459-2535. CALL ME.
Steph didn’t have much time to think about how odd the message was before a second reached his phone:
It’s about Seth.
His head spun, and his face flushed with redness—too much of the wrong things were coursing through his body. There was a sudden thwack on the floor.
“You okay, man?” Someone—he’s not entirely sure who—asked.
“Yeah, for sure,” Steph replied, realizing that he somehow dropped his phone without feeling it leave his hands. He bent down to grab it, falling backwards as he stood up.
“Just need some air.” He ambled towards the door.
“If you’re going to yak, just do it out the window!” someone called after him. The noise of the party faded as he left the house and walked across the lawn. As he walked, he tried to navigate the twisted rationality created by his own poisoned mind; but as soon as he thought he caught onto a thought, it would disappear. Only one word made it through:
Seth.
Steph collapsed on the front lawn, breathing heavily.
Seth needs me. I just have to call this number to save Seth.
He sat up and pressed the phone number on the screen.
“Steph?” A voice on the other line answered. That wasn’t Seth, he thought. She sounds like a girl. He cleared his throat. This girl—Freja!—she sounded worried. Steph could hear her breathing on the other line.
“Um… Freja—” He tried his best not to sound as drunk as he felt.
“Seth is missing.” He heard her words in slow motion. “And his phone is going straight to voicemail.”
“Missing from where?”
“From my apartment. He—he went for a walk alone on campus, and he never came back. The last I saw him was around ten at my apartment” She sounded worried. It was a fact that he processed outside of his body, like there was another Steph telling him what was happening. “Have you heard from him?”
“He texted me around eight, to say something mean about Stanford.” Steph felt himself get dizzy again, so he closed his eyes and tried to clear his head. “Have you tried his phone?”
“Yes, Steph, it’s going straight to voicemail. I think it’s dead,” Her words were measured, like she was resisting the urge to yell at him. He appreciated that.
“Well—wha—” his heartbeat quickened. His common sense was struggling to stay afloat.
“Steph, can you tell me how to find him? Can you think of where he might be?”
“How am I supposed to know that?” He could hear her let out a giant exhale.
“Maybe it would just be easier if you helped me look—how quickly can you come to the East Bay?”
“Freja, I can’t drive. I’m drunk”
“Is there anyone over there who can drive you?”
An image flashed into his mind: curly hair, perfect cheekbones, light brown eyes.
“Steph?”
“Huh, yeah. I’ll try and find a ride.”
“Steph, just—hurry. I could be overreacting, but something doesn’t feel right” A pause. Was she waiting for him to say something? “Keep your phone on, and let me know when you’re on the way.”
She hung up. Steph groaned. It felt like his brain swelled to twice its size and was about to burst out of his skull. Seth was probably trapped in a ditch somewhere and the only person who could possibly save the day right now was Amani.
During his first week at Stanford, Steph was arrested. It really wasn’t his fault—he didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, he may have done exactly the right thing.
Steph didn’t have a violent streak. He’d never even thrown a punch. People like him often got what they wanted with a wink and a slightly crooked grin. All Steph’s smile demanded was one back in return: people were seldom angry around him.
But there’s a first time for everything. During syllabus week at a fraternity house, Steph locked eyes with a guy leading a girl outside. Neither one looked completely alright, but he still remembers how close the girl looked to collapsing on the floor. The vacancy in her eyes was enough for Steph to pull himself out of his Keystone Light-induced haze and follow them out the door.
Steph didn’t remember much from after, except his hand gripping the guy’s red-and-white Stanford polo. The guy was blond, had blue eyes, and had a dense, wrestler’s build. Steph remembers yelling, looking around wildly for the girl, who had the good sense to run away. Steph let go of the collar and went to go find her.
Suddenly, Steph was pushed onto his knees, a motion that didn’t hurt him then but would definitely hurt when he woke up tomorrow. He looked up at his attacker, jumped, and tackled him to the floor. Steph remembers the next few moments in flashes: bloody knuckles, bruised ribs, vomit. A small crowd gathered to watch.
And then—the final blow: quicker than it takes to write down, it was over for Steph’s assailant.
The next morning, it was over for Steph.
J. Patrick Montauk III was officially taking Stephen Joel Cohen to court.
Steph’s father flew up from SoCal with his best friend, Dawes, a DA from the O.C. Fortunately, Steph was a few weeks shy of his eighteenth birthday and was eligible to be tried as a minor. For the first third of the hearing, the room was sparse: the three on the defendant’s team, Montauk, his parents, and the lawyer they bought for him, and, of course, the judge.
The Judge was a stern man with a toothbrush mustache, flattop haircut and a touch of gray at his temples. Definitely ex-military. Steph could see him sitting in his mahogany-paneled study with a cigar after a long day of dealing with cases like his.
Steph tried hard to pay attention, but the Judge’s monotone voice made it hard. Sometime in the middle of Steph’s hearing, a group of people shuffled into the courthouse, sliding into the rows. With his back to the entrance, Steph couldn’t see who these people were.
When the judge took a second to bring out some papers, Steph stole a glance behind him. He saw thirty-ish kids his own age. Some were in Stanford sweats and others in business casual. None of them looked like they were on today’s docket. Legal studies, Steph thought to himself. They look too well-rested to be law students.
After a few more minutes of talking at Steph, the Judge told him to be seated. The Judge then turned his attention towards Montauk. Steph took this opportunity to steal another glance at the class behind him.
A middle-aged woman joined the class. It looked like she was grading papers. Nope, I don’t recognize anyone, Steph thought. He was about to turn around when he saw a hand wave. Steph careened his head around to follow the bracelet-laden wrist to its owner,
He met her eyes. She smiled. He felt himself smile back. Steph was sure he’d seen her before. Maybe it was just a dream—but there was something about her light brown eyes and matching curls that felt just like coming home.
“Mister Cohen—” Steph’s cheeks reddened. “I’d pay a little more attention to the judge and a little less attention to girls if I were you.” The judge then extended his sharp gaze over Steph’s head to the spectators. Steph heard some giggles behind him—he fought the urge to look back at her laughing. It was probably wonderful.
After some legal finesse by Pamela Dawes, Esq., Steph was let off with a fine and community service in the form of trash cleanup. Steph hadn’t seen a speck of litter since moving to Palo Alto: it was a small price to pay for doing the right thing. He knew that if he was somewhere else, someplace else—someone else’s kid, he would be in a whole lot more trouble.
The gavel pounded, and the judge nodded at Steph.
“Mr. Cohen, you’re free to go.”
“Thank you sir,” Steph said, meeting his eyes. He hesitated for a moment and looked back to where the class was sitting. The group was there, but the girl was gone.
“Mr. Cohen, if there’s nothing else, I have other cases,” the Judge said, putting on his glasses to look at another file.
“That’ll be all. Thank you sir,” Steph’s father said as he put his arm around his son’s shoulder. The two of them walked out with their lawyer. The class’s eyes followed them out—not making an effort to hide it at all. He met every one of their eyes, as if this would somehow give him a clue as to where he could find her.
She was probably in the bathroom. She was gone awhile, but Steph knew enough about girls to know that they really like to take their time in there.
“Do you have time to grab some dinner with your dad and I?” asked Dawes.
“Yeah, I—actually, there’s one last thing I have left to do”
“Go chase down that girl?” His dad asked with a raised eyebrow. Dawes laughed. “Just don’t get into any more trouble.”
“And as we know from today, just because you do the right thing doesn’t mean you won’t find trouble,” Dawes added.
“Trouble has a way of finding me,” Steph grinned, “It’s just damage control at this point.”
“Like father, like son,” Dawes said, ruffling his hair.
“Come on, Pam, you’re really going to ruin his hair before he chases down that girl?” Mr. Cohen asked sarcastically.
Dawes made a face that could only be described as oops.
“Thanks Aunt Pam, I really appreciate you saving the day,” Steph said, crushing her with a powerful hug. “And you too dad—I love you guys.”
“You’re burning daylight here! Go get her before she’s gone!” Mr. Cohen said.
Steph sped down the hall, following the signs to the bathrooms. He dashed by a mirror and doubled back to fix his hair.
“Getting ready for your mugshot?” Steph saw his interrogator behind him in the mirror. It was her. She’d tied up her hair, and the golden hour sun turned her brown eyes into pools of gold.
“You must’ve left before the judge handed out my sentence.” He turned on his heel and faced her. “I got off pretty easy”
“Yeah, trash pickup in Palo Alto, probably the cleanest city in all of America.” She shrugged. There was a silence. He wasn’t sure if she thought it was awkward, but he certainly felt a pressure to say something, to keep her there.
“Anyways, I’m here for class but I had to step out for a minute—nothing personal. Against you, anyways. I should probably get back.” She gave him a final look, studying his face. “Thanks again, for what you did. Those DKE guys are a real pain in the ass”
Keep her here. But how? Say something, anything. It doesn’t matter if it’s stupid, you’ll have some time to recover, but if you just find some words to spit out of your mouth, then—
“How did you know I was at a DKE party?” Steph took a step closer to her. “Even I didn’t remember what frat I was at.”
“And they didn’t mention it in the trial, huh?” she smiled thinly. “You got into Stanford—you can figure this out. It’s not like you had to settle for Cal.”
He stared at her blankly—yes, something was familiar about her, and not just the dreamlike feeling he felt in the courtroom. The curls, the eyes, the curve of her nose… he thought through the fog of the night until he saw glimpses of a girl with straightened hair, painted lips, shadowed eyes. He tried to imagine the girl in front of him in a black top and light-wash jeans instead of a Stanford crewneck and sweats.
“It was you that night,” Steph all but gasped.
“Close,” she replied. “And since you look like you’re about to get a brain cramp, let me save you some thinking: that girl you’re thinking of is my little sister”
“High school?”
“She’s fifteen.” Steph’s stomach dropped. “And believe me, the punishment I got for ‘letting’ her come to this party is way worse than yours”
“I’m sorry,” he looked at her.
“Don’t be—one of us did the right thing. The other one of us was playing Pong while her sister got roofied.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “Zeyna doesn’t even drink. Neither of us do. That’s how we know she was drugged.”
“Is she okay?” They started walking and found a bench to sit on.
“Yeah, she’s fine now.” A smile. “She actually kind of has a crush on you. Zeyna would flip if she found out that I ran into you here.”
“So, what—you want my autograph?”
“No,” she smirked, then added a little too quickly, “just your phone number.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she looked like she wanted to take them back. He looked at her, at a loss for words yet again, and she chewed on her lower lip. “Too forward?”
“I don’t even know your name,” Steph replied. The girl, who’s cheeks were reddening by the second, took a sheet of paper and pen from her backpack.
“I really do have to go back to class,” she said as she scribbled something on a piece of paper. “When you’ve finished your obligatory service to the County of Santa Clara, call me.”
Steph looked down at the paper: 510-415-6005. Amani.
When he looked up, she was gone.
Steph called her, of course—but he didn’t wait for his 200 hours of community service to be finished. The next two years were filled with hikes in the Redwoods, biking on campus, cappuccinos at Cafe Venetia, milkshakes at the Palo Alto Creamery, dressing in all red for the Big Game against Cal.
Then, Amani was selected for a fellowship abroad. She was gone for a year, and even though they stayed together, things fell apart soon after Steph picked her up at the airport. The person Amani became was not the same as the girl who left on the plane, or the girl who cried herself to sleep for a month in Barcelona, or the girl who realized that she had somehow outgrown the boy who saved her sister’s life.
Amani wasn’t the only one who’d changed: Steph had changed too. He didn’t know what exactly had happened, but he knew enough to know that they didn’t fit together anymore. They shared a silent, misty-eyed ride through the San Francisco fog back to Palo Alto and parted ways.
They made it through the rest of college without having to see each other much. On commencement day, drunk on champagne and dressed in silly costumes (she was a jellyfish and he was in an In-N-Out uniform), they agreed to leave Stanford as friends. With one foot in each others’ lives—no more, no less, til death do they part.
But of course, it wasn’t that simple.
Pre-meds at Stanford are always gunning for the same opportunities. Steph and Amani both applied to the same research fellowships and the same gap year jobs and ended up working in neighboring labs at Stanford Medical School.
Just a couple months later, Steph and Amani found themselves at the same party thrown by a lab assistant who knew them both.
And Steph, in his drunken stupor, in his alcohol-induced haze, knew that Amani was the only person at this party who hadn’t touched a single drop of alcohol.
“Amani—” he found her drinking a Diet Coke (with two limes, almost certainly) talking to a girl he knew by face but not by name.
“Steph,” her eyes widened. “Are you okay?” Judging from her reaction, he must look like hell.
“Yeah, of course I’m okay, just—” she raised an eyebrow, “Actually, can we—can we talk?” He could feel the party coming into focus now, the lines sharpening, the colors becoming more saturated.
Amani nodded. They both stepped outside. Steph took another deep breath, trying to put his thoughts into order.
“Seth is… missing”
“Missing?”
“He’s on a Berkeley college visit. His student host said he never came back home.” A pause. “I’m worried. I need to go over there.”
“And you want me to drive you,” there was no edge in her voice: she said the words, plain and simple.
“Because it would be irresponsible for me to drive”
“And also irresponsible to sit here and do nothing. I get it”
“So you’ll drive me?” Steph’s heartbeat quickened.
“That’s what friends are for,” Amani said with a small smile. “Oh, before we leave, I need to get something from inside.” She came back a few minutes later with a garbage bag. “I just got the car cleaned. And I know how weak your stomach is.”
Steph laughed and put his hands up. “Any vomit on your seats and I’ll personally clean them with my toothbrush.”
Amani’s nose crinkled. As they walked to the car, the cold cut through Steph like a knife. It was the only concrete thing that he could feel: that and a strong urge to find Seth. He wasn’t one to wander off like that—if he wanted to take a nighttime stroll alone, he would have told somebody.
Amani and Steph had no need to stumble through awkward conversation—even after all these years, their silence was its own kind of language. Even given the circumstances. Especially given the circumstances.
They stopped in front of her car. They silently got in, and as Amani locked the doors, she said, suddenly,
“Zeyna still asks about you. She knows we still kind of see each other, around… anyways, she still thinks you’re a good guy,” She put on her seatbelt.
His vision was blurry, but soft around the edges, and a candlelit halo of fuzz surrounded Amani.
“And for what it’s worth, so do I”
“Are you just saying that because you think I won’t remember this tomorrow? Because I gotta tell ya—i’m sobering up real fast.”
“I’m not telling you anything you didn’t already know,” She starts the car. The double negative made Steph’s head pound. Amani looked at him and threw the garbage bag on top of his lap. “Please don’t yack in my car.”
