My latest story, in all its nostalgic, stanfürd-loathing, youth-filled glory, all in one place.
prologue (Freja)
Freja was drunk in a basement when she saw the notification:
“1 new message from Stephen Cohen.”
It was hot, but she felt her cheeks go redder still. Steph was an infrequent (but not wholly unwelcome) guest in her dreams; but she wasn’t sure what made him, after five years, think of her. Freja’s head swam with possibilities. They bubbled up to the surface of her mind like koi violently thrashing in a pond.
Don’t feed the fish, she thought. Freja took one last glance at the screen, then shook her head. Turning her phone off, she resolved not to look at it for the rest of the night.
Stephen Cohen was tomorrow’s problem.
The next day, Freja woke up to the harsh sunlight, overheated and nauseated from the night before. She turned on her phone and saw the notification for Steph’s unread message. Last night’s thoughts came back and rattled inside her skull. She groaned and reached for the jug of water she responsibly filled up the night before.
Freja checked her watch—she still had an hour or so before Greta picked her up for their weekly hike. That sounded like enough time to rehydrate and process whatever it was that Steph had to say.
After finishing the water jug, eating some plain toast and coffee, and a quick, cold shower, Freja dressed and plopped down on her couch. She unlocked her phone and read Steph’s message. And then she read it again. And again. Then, one more time for good measure. Hands shaking, heart beating, she slowly typed out her reply.
Then, she threw her phone across the room and let out a giant exhale.
Three honks sounded outside her apartment door. Greta had arrived.
~
Miles and miles and years and years away, Freja sat on a bench underneath her favorite tree. It felt like the first true day of spring: the breeze was perfect, the birds sang, and the flowers had never been more beautiful. Sunshine shone through the leaves, dappling the pages of her book in patterns she scarcely noticed: this book was just that good.
A bright flash of bronze and white whizzed past her. Freja, unconcerned, turned the page. It was only until the figure doubled back and stood in front of her that she looked up.
After all, he was blocking her light.
Freja looked up and saw a familiar face. They had never spoken before, as they occupied different roles in the Rosa Parks High School ecosystem. She was, however, well-acquainted with Stephen Cohen’s face from the various campaign posters plastered around campus; and, of course, his electoral speech for Class President on the school news channel.
Stephen Cohen did not get Freja’s vote; but he didn’t need it. Freja wasn’t surprised that he won the election. Ever since charisma became more important than things like platform, competency, and work ethic, guys like Steph won elections from class rep all the way up to the Oval Office.
It was only American that Stephen Cohen was elected Senior Class President.
Here, in front of her, Steph was less picture-perfect than his campaign posters. He was slightly out of breath. His thick olive hair and sun-kissed skin were streaked with sweat: the Wilson sweatband around his head caught most of the perspiration, but a few stray drops trickled down his face and neck. When the breeze passed over them, Freja smelt it, surprised that it wasn’t wholly unpleasant.
She was about to say something, to tell Steph to leave. While she was deciding how nice to be about it, Steph beat her to it.
“Hey,” he said, flashing her a smile that matched the bleached color of his tennis whites. The way he smiled was almost mechanical, as if he was swiping an ID badge instead of exchanging pleasantries. Nevertheless, this was a smile that charmed principals, students and teachers. It got Steph out of homework assignments, quelled suspicious ex-girlfriends, and won elections. So, of course, Freja found her annoyance melting away. She mirrored his smile and closed her book, careful to mark the place with her thumb.
“Hey,” she replied, hoping that her tone, soft smile, and slight eyebrow raise conveyed the subtext: You and I wouldn’t be talking unless you needed something—so what is it?
“So I’m in a bit of a—” he paused. His breathing slowed and he looked around, searching for something—or someone—before continuing. “sticky situation.”
“How could I possibly help you? We don’t even know each other.”
“Steph,” he held out his hand.
“Freja,” she shook it.
“You have a great handshake.” His grin settled into a more natural-looking lopsided orientation. “Have you ever thought about running for office?”
“We both know I wouldn’t stand a chance against you, Steph,” Freja wasn’t kidding, but she said it mockingly just the same. He laughed.
“May I sit?”
“Of course,” she said. “And just so we’re clear, I did not vote for you.”
“I’m more than just a pretty face, you know. There’s a brain in here, too. And it was good enough to get me into Stanford”
“Is that right?” she shifted to better face him. “And yet that was the same brain that came up with that ridiculous campaign slogan”
“Ridiculous?” Steph asked incredulously. “That slogan was genius.”
” ‘Ask not what your high school can do for you, but what you can do for your high school’,” Freja mocked. “Do you see how stupid it sounds now, when I say it out loud?”
“I think it sounds beautiful.” Before she knew what was happening, Freja’s cheeks reddened. Whatever process was responsible for supplying oxygen to her brain suddenly stopped. Get it together. He’s just a person—and for people like him, conversation is a game that you’re forced into playing.
So Freja decided to play.
“You didn’t come here to flirt, did you Mr. President?”
“Alright, you got me there,” Steph took off his sweatband and ran his hands through his hair. “I was wondering if you happened to see anyone—dressed like me but not even half as good looking—come past here with a black and yellow racket?”
“Not half as good looking,” Freja considered. “So that rules out most human beings.” A pause. “I think a rat may have crawled by here.”
“You know, if he was dressed in this uniform, he may be the one that sits in my hat and controls me while I play tennis”
“If he’s in your hat, why does he have to wear the uniform?”
“Hey,” Steph put his hands up, “He tells me what to do, not the other way around.”
“Alright, Steph, if the tennis playing rat comes back over here, I’ll let him know that you’re looking for him,” Freja said dryly. “But in the meantime, I would like to finish this book.”
“This is more important than a book” Steph leaned in a little bit closer. Freja’s heart skipped a beat while her oxygen-starved brain tried to keep things under control. You can’t let him corner you, she reminded the less-evolved parts of her brain. “You see, every year, the tennis team hides the Captain’s racket as kind of a reverse-hazing-bonding type thing. If I don’t get it back by the end of practice, I’m going in the dunk tank”
“If you’re not smart enough to get your racket back from a bunch of freshmen, I don’t know how you think you’ll survive at Stanford.” Freja said. He really was sitting too close: she could see the different shades of blue in his irises and how they glittered in the sun.
“Come on, Freja,” he said in a breathless whisper, his eyes shining. “Your brother’s on the team. You must know something.”
Freja was about to reply when two honks sounded from across the street. “That’s my ride,” Freja said with an exhale that was, in hindsight, maybe a bit too loud. “Good luck getting your racket back,” she grinned.
When Freja got into the car, she texted her brother. “Steph is clueless, you guys did good… he’s never finding that racket.”
~
Freja recounted her first—and last—conversation with Steph while she and Greta scrambled through the Fire Trails.
“And what happened after?” Greta asked, hungry for more information.
“Nothing,” Freja shrugged.
“Nothing?”
“He smiled at me in the hallway when we passed by each other, but he never spoke to me like that again. He graduated that Spring, and I never saw him again.”
After Steph graduated, Freja fell in an and floated through what she thought was love. But, every once in awhile, she still thought back to that day underneath the tree. She thought about how perfect that moment was. Forget that nothing became of it, or that the chemistry between them was human-manufactured. The hope of it all put all her senses into overdrive and made sure that she’d never forget how it felt to be fully immersed in a moment where every second was precious and full of promise.
At the time, she was too young to appreciate how one person can mean so much to another. How two people can share a memory and one can hold onto it for life and the other never gives it a second thought.
“And so, what—he’s asking you to give his little brother a tour of campus?” Greta’s voice brought Freja back to the Berkeley Hills.
“Yeah. He’s apparently trying to decide between here and Stanford,” Greta made a face at the mention of their rival school. “That’s where Steph went,” Freja explained.
“Have you met the brother before?”
“Yeah—we had photography together” Freja paused to get some water. “Seth was like… a raccoon that hid in the back of our darkroom. Every so often, you’d see his eyes look back at you when you thought you were alone in there.” She took a sip from her bottle. “But I don’t think I ever heard him talk once.”
“Is Steph gonna come on this tour with you, or is it just going to be you and the brother?”
“Well,” Freja said, “I said I’d give the tour if we all went to lunch when Steph came to pick him up to take him back to Stanford.”
“Did he say yes?”
“I don’t know,” Freja admitted. “I turned my phone off and flung it across the room after I sent it.”
Greta laughed. “Well, once we get cell service, we should check on that. We might have some planning to do.”
Part 1: Freja
“Alright, for the rest of class, meet with your project partners and discuss your final presentations,” the Graduate Student Instructor said with a nod. For all intents and purposes, class was over.
Freja and Greta moved their desks closer together.
“I’m going to be honest, I haven’t done any work on this.” Freja whispered, closing her notebook. “My econometrics midterm is next Tuesday,”
“We have two weeks until this thing is due. We’ll be fine. Like always.” Greta also closed her notebook. “More importantly, today is the day we meet your future brother in law.”
Freja snorted. “Yep, I’m meeting Seth right after class at Raleigh’s”
“The high schoolersare meeting at a bar?”
“It’s a family friendly pub,” Freja shrugged, “Those little nerds are probably just playing cornhole and sharing fries while comparing SAT scores”
“I want to come with you so badly. Too bad I can’t skip chem lab”
“Your one absence per semester is not worth wasting on Seth Cohen. Trust me.”
“It’s not about him, it’s about the story” Greta countered. “And anything is better than being stuck in that room for four hours, smelling ethyl alcohol and sweating through a lab coat”
“Seth Cohen was a moody rich kid who ironically smoked cigarettes and read Ayn Rand at pool parties. I’d rather sweat it out in your chem lab than show him around campus.”
“How do you ironically smoke a cigarette?”
“Every teenage dirtbag has their weird quirks, I guess.”
“Which makes them all the same,” Greta replied with a dramatic sigh.
The TA dismissed class, and the girls gathered their things.
“So what else do you know about this guy?” Greta asked as she pushed in her chair. “Besides the fact that he’s ironically going to get lung cancer?”
“He’s not on social media—I checked the usual accounts and did an online search” They pushed open the double-doors of Dwinelle Hall and ended up in a courtyard swarming with students.
“The only thing I really remember him doing is brooding in the darkroom during photography” Freja re-adjusted her backpack. “I don’t think he ever actually spoke.”
Greta changed the subject to the DelPhi party happening that evening. Neither of them would go, of course, but they traded rumors on what was supposed to happen that evening. The frat had a volleyball court out front and a trampoline in the back—a guaranteed recipe for disaster.
They lingered and enjoyed the spring weather for a bit before they parted ways: Greta up the hill to the chemistry buildings, and Freja down Telegraph Avenue to Raleigh’s.
While she got her ID checked, Freja glanced around the pub, looking for the event. She saw the scholarship social was happening on the back patio, which had fire pits, lawn games, and a separate bar counter from the one inside. Today, the area was cordoned off with a sign that said “Closed for Private Event.”
Freja stepped back inside, ordered a Belgian tripel, and texted Seth that she would be waiting inside, underneath a painting of a village covered in powdery snow.
About ¾ of the way through her beer and thoroughly engrossed in her novel, Freja heard her name. She looked up and was met with a pair of shining blue eyes peeking out from underneath thick, black, bushy brows.
“Seth,” Freja said, closing her book. He looked markedly different from how she remembered him: his face was less sharp and bony, his skin was tanner, his slouch was less of a stoop. Overall he looked much healthier, like someone had snatched him from death’s doors and shown him how to live.
She tried her best to hide her surprise. “How was the mixer?”
“Fantastic,” he said with a grin. Even his eyes seemed different: the garish headlights had calmed into icy pools of glacial melt. He plopped down on the bench across from her.
When Freja last saw Seth, nothing was fantastic. He hated everything, even his friends; and Freja didn’t blame him—his friends sucked.
“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re having such a great time,” Freja said, taking a last sip of her beer. “Are you ready to hear about how great Berkeley is?”
“I actually think I got enough of that from the Dean.”
“Well, did he tell you that Cal is the #1 public university in the world?”
“That came up a couple times,” Seth said with a laugh. Freja studied the way it warmed the contours of his face. The expression would have been totally incongruous with the old Seth’s trademark perpetual frown.
They walked out the door and back up Telegraph Avenue, towards campus.
“This,” Freja said, gesturing around her, “is the historic Telegraph Avenue. Home to only one, sad little grocery store—but at least five boba tea shops”
“And two dispensaries,” Seth added.
“Another one of the Dean’s fun facts?”
“No, just an observation from a prospective student,” Seth said with a grin. Feeling the buzz from the Tripel, Freja returned his smile maybe a bit too widely. As they waited to cross the street to enter campus, Freja pointed at a white building across the street.
“That’s the MLK Student Union. For some reason, they let just anybody walk in there and hang around.” She turned to Seth. “Keep an eye on your stuff. Someone I know once got their shit stolen.”
Seth raised an eyebrow. “Are you talking about yourself?” Freja made a non-committal noise as the traffic signal turned green, and they crossed Bancroft Avenue to enter Sproul Plaza.
The sky was still clear and cloudless. They walked through the Plaza and past the Golden Bear Café, dodging aggressive students flyering for clubs and events. After passing through the iconic Sather Gate, most of them thinned out. The rest of campus was relatively empty, as was typical for a Friday evening. They veered left, away from Dwinelle’s courtyard, where Freja had class only a few hours before.
“This is Wheeler, home to the largest lecture hall on campus” Freja gestured. “The bathrooms in there look like the ones Moaning Myrtle haunted in Harry Potter.”
“Can we take a look?”
Freja frowned. “I think they lock it up over the weekend. We can circle back,” she said, not wanting to walk up three flights of stairs. And then there was the off chance she’d run into someone and have to explain why exactly she was sneaking a high school boy into the ladies’ room.
Pushing away the ridiculous image of that implication—and making a note to stay away from Tripels on an empty stomach—Freja suggested: “Let’s go further into campus.”
They climbed up the little hills, passing by the Life Sciences buildings. This prompted Freja to tell Seth horror stories from Greta’s pre-med experiences: impossible practicals, dissecting pregnant rats, and labs where they were forced to fight over beans.
“Beans?”
“Yeah. The TA’s would dump a pile of dried beans into the grass and make the students fight over them.” Seth just stared at her, wide-eyed. “To model predator-prey cycles or something.”
“You’re not really selling the school here, Freja”
“Hey—Greta grew from the experience. She’s a stronger and smarter woman because of it.”
“Because she fought with other adults, in the grass, over some dried beans.”
“You’ve seen Survivor?” Freja asked. Seth nodded. “Berkeley is a lot like that. You’ll suffer, but it builds character”
They looped back around past the Free Speech Movement Café and Moffit Library.
“It’s open twenty four hours?” Seth asked incredulously. “Why would anyone need access to a 24-hour library?”
“Here at the University of California, Berkeley, the learning never stops”
The rest of the tour followed this pattern: As they passed a new area on campus, Freja shared a related memory or bit of campus lore. She pointed out the hidden Bears on campus and her favorite places to read: Ishi Court, the Morrison Reading Room, and the shaded grass of Faculty Glade.
“So, we have this tower called the Campanile,” Freja said, gesturing to the large clock tower. “It’s home to some roosting falcons and hundreds of thousands of fossils.” They stood for a few moments looking at it. “And, oh yeah—our tower is bigger than Stanford’s.”
“Everything’s bigger in Berkeley, huh?” Seth asked with a grin. She smiled back; and instead of giving him a trademark snappy reply, she found herself at a loss for words.
Absolutely no more Tripels, Freja thought to herself.
They walked up one final hill, up to the chemistry buildings. They could hear some rock music coming from the Greek theater as they made their way back to the South side of campus. Seth continued to ask Freja questions about the school, her classes, her friends—he asked about things so ordinary to her now but so alien to high school life, like experimenting on dining hall food to make it more edible or needing a professional resumé to apply for on-campus organizations.
Freja and Seth cut through the business school and, pretending to be first-year MBA students, swiped some food from a corporate recruiting event. They took their plates loaded with finger foods to the tables outside Boalt Hall. Kroeber Fountain, Strada Café, and the undergrads making their way to Frat Row were all in plain view.
“Alright, we’ve reached the end of the official campus tour, but we have the option to extend the it” Seth raised his eyebrows. “Would you like to see my freshman year dorm?”
“Only if I get to hear some embarrassing stories while we’re there,”
“Lucky for me those walls don’t talk,” Freja said between munches of carrots. “But I’ll do my best to entertain you”
“Then make sure they’re embarrassing stories.”
“Well, you’ve behaved yourself this far, I guess you deserve it,” she replied with a shrug.
Seth and Freja walked the block off campus and to Unit 1, a collection of six dorm buildings including Putnam Hall, where Freja used to live.
As they wandered, Freja told Seth stories about her freshman year, carefully picking and choosing memories that would entertain him but not make her seem too stupid or childish or weak or idiotic. Freja found herself reading his face while he listened, calibrating her cadence and fine-tuning her delivery according to an eyebrow raise or a half-smile. She also found herself ignoring why her brain was doing these things—it wasn’t a conscious decision to care so much, what he thought of her: she just did.
And there was nothing really wrong with that, was there?
After doing a lap around the courtyard, Freja and Seth tailgated into one of the buildings and walked through the floors. In true dorm fashion, people left their doors propped open. They saw glimpses into people’s lives: studying, flirting, smoking, gambling, crammed on the bottom bunk watching sports or movies…
Each room had a similar layout but was decorated so differently. By the time they reached the eighth floor, Freja and Seth had chatted with at least twenty freshmen who seemed to have nothing in common save for the building they lived in and a desire to get to know one another better.
Exhausted, Freja and Seth called for the elevator. When they stepped inside, Seth sniffed,
“Does it smell like…”
“Vomit?” Freja shrugged. “That is something you’re gonna have to get used to—if not yours, you’ll be no stranger to other peoples’”
“Have you ever—” Seth paused. “You know, thrown up in the elevator?”
“I’m honestly offended you even asked,” Freja scoffed. The doors opened on the first floor, “but since you did, yes—Halloween last year”
Seth laughed, and she found herself thinking: was that a laugh-at-me laugh or a laugh-with-me laugh? Freja couldn’t tell whether she was oversharing, not just in this conversation, but the entire day. But did it even matter what this high school senior thought of her college experience? Or her jokes? Or the fact that she threw up in the elevator dressed as a Pokémon trainer? Luckily, she had the good sense to leave her Halloween costume out of that story.
The point is, none of this should matter. She’s just a college sophomore giving a prospective student a campus tour. So why did she second-guess everything that came out of her mouth the second she heard her words out loud?
They plopped down on the courtyard grass in front of the bike racks. The last of the sun was disappearing, and the flood lights shone overhead, bathing them in a stark, artificial glow.
They sat in silence for a few moments. It wasn’t awkward, and there were enough people to watch that it counted as an activity. She glanced at Seth. He was staring off into space, his thin lips in a line reminiscent of the old Seth.
“What are you thinking about?” Freja ventured.
“The people we met in the dorms,” Seth replied. “When we talked to them, I saw all the different potential versions of myself.” He ran his fingers through his hair, “At the risk of sounding like a complete cliché, I just—don’t know how I’m supposed to make a decision on where I’m going to school when I don’t even know who I want to be.”
Freja considered this.
“Well, that starts with making the small choices—choices that include where you want to go to college and what you want to study.” She shifted her position to face him. “When you reflect on the decisions you make, you’ll have a better idea of who you are.”
“Well, I know enough about myself to know I want to change,” he said with a short laugh.
“For what it’s worth, you seem to be making the right kinds of changes.” She paused. “Especially since I last saw you in high school.”
Seth groaned. “I was hoping you had no memory of who I was back then.”
“But now I appreciate the person you’ve become,” Freja countered. Appreciating it maybe a little too much, she thought to herself. “And that was only two years ago”
“The change has its roots in something… not-so-great,” Seth confessed. “But now that I amno longer a chronically depressed asshole ….” he let his thought go unfinished and made a noncommittal gesture with his hands.
“You have to figure out where to go next,” Freja said softly.
Seth looked at her with a peculiar gaze. When Freja thought back on it, she could only describe it as him seeing her instead of just looking at her. But in that moment, Freja was bombarded with a sudden awareness: aware of not only how Seth had changed in her absence but of how she was changing in his presence—her flushed cheeks, sweating hands, and the feeling of being kicked in the stomach. In hindsight, she knew she was holding this in for hours; but in the darkness and quiet of the courtyard, with nothing to distract her but her thoughts and his words, she finally allowed herself to feel it.
After a few moments of peaceful silence, Freja asked:
“What now?”
“I have some more thinking to do,” Seth replied. “I’ll go for a walk through campus.”
“Alright,” Freja said, getting up. “I should probably go to bed. I can give you my keys right before I head inside.” The walk to Freja’s apartment was about ten minutes long. They chatted about nothing in particular, watching the passers by who were having very different Friday nights from the two of them. “I’ll probably be asleep within two hours, but I’ll leave my ringer on just in case,” Freja said when they were on her doorstep, handing him her keys.
“Alright, I’ll see you later,” Seth said, clipping the keys to his belt. “Thanks,” he smiled. Freja smiled back. “Have a good night, Seth.”
He disappeared into the darkness of the street before them. It was good he was getting out of here. Her mind was starting to fog up.
–
Freja awoke in the middle of the night. She had a dream that she was falling, and when she woke up, it felt as if she had fallen both up and down onto her bed. As she came to, she heard the muffled noises of a party next door.
She checked her watch: 12:07 AM. She got up for a glass of water. On her way back from the kitchen, she checked to see that the door was locked. When she re-entered the living room, she realized something was amiss. The pillow and blanket she laid out for Seth remained neatly folded like she left them on the sofa. It took a little longer for the realization to hit her half-asleep brain:
Seth never came back to the apartment.
She checked her phone: no missed calls or texts. He’s probably still on his existential walk, Freja thought. Midnight isn’t even really that late. She called him, and his phone went straight to voicemail. She tried a few more times—there was no getting around it—his phone was dead.
Freja could feel her palms start to sweat. There was only one thing left to do.
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. Noneof 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.”
part III: freja
“I already checked all of campus, even the far buildings on the North Side,” Freja said. “Aside from a few dance teams practicing outside the Rec center, campus is pretty empty.”
“Dance practice?” Steph said hazily. “At this hour?”
Amani and Steph had just gotten to Berkeley and pulled up to the College of Natural Resources, a 30-minute walk from Freja’s apartment, on the other side of campus. Amani was ready to jump in and search but Steph was still only half-alive from his earlier activities at Stanford.
Freja ignored Steph and addressed most of her next sentences to Amani. “I waited til you guys were here to tackle Frat Row. My friends are going out tonight, and I warned the ones who are still desperate enough to go to frats to keep an eye out for Seth.”
Amani nodded. Steph looked like he was about to throw up.
“I thought we could cover the frats my friends aren’t going to be at first, then double back and check their work.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Amani said. “Maybe we can wait for Steph to throw up so we don’t get kicked out for defacing frat property.”
“I’m fine,” Steph said weakly.
“Hey Steph?” he looked up at Freja. “I know it’s been awhile since you’ve been in college but there’s no harm in pulling trig.”
He made a face at her, which she thought was his substitute for a comeback.
Until he turned around and threw up.
—
“Does this frat have a volleyball court?” Amani asked. The noise of the party grew louder as they approached the large, red-brick mansion.
“Yeah,” Freja said, leading them up the stairs. Steph held Amani’s arm for support. Even though some of the color returned to his face after he vomited, Steph still felt weak at the knees. This was the closest they’d physically been since the breakup.
“Try your best not to step in the sand.” Freja made a face. “It’s disgusting.” At the top of the steps, they were met by a shrimpy-looking boy sitting on the red brick ledge at the top of the stairs. From the way he was wavering, Freja could tell that he’d probably had a couple beers while on Door Duty.
“Stop,” he held his skinny, pale palm out to the three of them. Freja took a look at the volleyball court behind him. Nobody was actually playing volleyball, of course, but the sand pit was full of partygoers.
“I’m going to have to ask you to wait here until there’s enough of you to do a consent talk,” the Shrimp said, raising his voice above the party noise.
“What’s a consent talk?” Amani whispered to Freja, who was about to answer when a group of six giggling freshmen girls in tiny black tops, light-wash jeans, and white sneakers clomped up the stairs.
“Okay,” the Shrimp said as he jumped off the ledge. “Does anyone here know the five pillars of consent?”
One freshman with chrome nails and a matching handbag shot her hand up. “Enthusiastic!” she squealed.
“That is correct—you must ensure that consent is given enthusiastically, much like this young lady answered my question,” he winked at her, and the girl blushed. Freja scowled—there were few things slimier than flirting during a consent talk you were giving drunk.
“Anyone else?” the group was silent for a few moments. Then, the Shrimp started peddling for answers like an auctioneer. Anxious to get inside the house to start looking for Seth, Freja raised her hand.
“Revocable, conscious, verbal and ongoing,” she said in a calm, measured tone.
The Shrimp let out a low whistle.
“Someone’s done their homework,” he replied with a grin. Freja fought the urge to spit back a nasty reply and just shrugged instead. It was the cookie-cutter consent talk that all frats were now required to give after the administration was pushed to do something, anything about sexual assault on college campuses. These consent talks, when taken seriously, were the equivalent of removing a drop in the bucket of the gargantuan issue of sexual assault.
But most times, these talks were not taken seriously. Instead, they were given and received by people who went through the motions and rarely changed their behavior after the talk was finished.
Freja was familiar with the talk and its ineffectiveness. The Shrimp let them all pass—except for the brunette with the chrome nails. He caught her hand as she walked past him.
“I’m gonna need your phone number—just in case I need your help giving one of these talks”
“Come find me inside once you’re done at the door,” she said with a suggestive smile, letting go of his hand to give his shoulder a squeeze. Freja resisted the urge to grab Steph’s barf bag.
After the girls made their way inside, Freja stepped forward. She was careful to keep her distance but could still smell the beer on the Shrimp’s breath.
“Ah, I see Honor Roll also wants a piece of the action,” the Shrimp grinned. “Don’t worry—there’s enough of me to go around.” Steph snorted and was elbowed in the ribs by Amani.
Freja fought the urge to yell at the boy and instead asked her question in a measured tone.
“Actually, I was wondering if you’ve seen this boy come through here tonight.” she held up her phone with a picture of Seth from a couple months ago. The Shrimp raised an eyebrow.
“Isn’t he a little young for you, Honor Roll?” Freja felt her cheeks redden and hoped the Shrimp was too thick to notice.
“Yes, he is. He’s in high school but more importantly, he’s missing.” Freja said firmly.
“Miss, are you insinuating that we allow underage partygoers on the premises?” the Shrimp asked, crossing his arms. “I shouldn’t allow you in just for making a claim like that”
“If everything is as above-board as you say it is, then you won’t mind if we take a look inside”
“Go right ahead, Honor Roll,” he put his hands up on the ledge and hoisted himself back on his perch. “And if you get tired of chasing after your little high school boyfriend, you know where to find me.”
Freja made a dramatic show of shuddering, and then looked back at Amani and Steph. Steph had a little more color in his cheeks but still gripped Amani’s arm; she gave Freja a thumbs-up with her free hand. The three of them skirted the volleyball court, keeping an eye out for Seth.
They split up to search the inside of the house: Amani and Steph went upstairs, while Freja went down. The inside of this frat was like all the other frats: sticky floors, unmanned solo cups, and bottles of champagne positioned next to cases of shitty light beer. After searching the rest of the first floor, Freja headed down to the basement, doing her best to avoid conversational advances.
“Hey, did we have a class together last semester?”
“Cute top, where’d you get it?”
“Can you step aside? My friend has to yak”
She texted Amani and it seemed like they both found nothing. They agreed to meet outside, at the front door. On her way out of the basement, Freja passed by a boy throwing up into his bare hands.
After she found Seth, she was never setting foot in a frat again.
—
They trudged their way to the next frat, which was a block away. They found themselves face to face with a beefy brick on door duty.
“Who do you know here?” the Brick bellowed.
“Seth,” Steph mumbled. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Amani shot him a look. He was at least able to stand on his own now but hadn’t regained his mental faculties yet.
“What?” the Brick’s question sent little flecks of spit towards Freja’s face.
“We’re looking for this kid,” Freja said, showing him the same photo she showed the Shrimp. Although the Brick seemed more sober than the Shrimp, he seemed like he had half the patience and twice the alcohol.
“I haven’t seen him”
“Can we go in and check?”
“Not if you don’t know a brother.”
Freja grew increasingly impatient. With a guy like this, keeping your cool wouldn’t get you anywehre.
“He’s missing you dipshit! The kid is in high school—we’re not interested in your stupid party, we just want to find our friend.”
“Ain’t no way that a high school boy made it into our party”
“Then what’s the harm in us having a look around?” Freja motioned to circle past the guy, but he blocked her path with surprisingly fast speed, given his heft and drunkenness.
“Football?” she ventured.
“Rugby,” the Brick answered, cracking his knuckles. Freja looked back at Amani and Steph, the latter of whom was puking in some bushes. Amani turned away from him but still kept a hand on his back, rubbing it in small circles.
“Alright, rugby,” Freja said, with her hands on her hips. “I’m going to come back here in half an hour. You let me know if you see this kid.”
“Can you text me the photo?” Freja looked at him, surprised that he was willing to help. “You’re gonna need my number for that, aren’t you?” he let out a snort.
“Just think of him like a Kirkland Signature Timothée Chalamet,” Freja replied. “You got this.” She patted him on the shoulder.
Before the Brick could reply, a horrible, jarring noise filled the air.
Freja looked at Steph and Amani. Steph slowly raised his head and looked towards the noise. The frat next door had a fire alarm. People — most fully drunk and half-naked—came out of the house. Few ran out panicked, but most stumbled out and seemed as confused as Steph was.
“Loud,” Steph said, frowning, covering his ears. Freja watched the parade of people exiting the house: ruddy, sweaty boys in light-colored button down and girls in jeans and slightly different versions of the same black small top.
Freja slumped against a tree and ran her fingers through her hair. She was about to close her eyes for a moment when she heard Amani’s voice.
“Seth?” she shouted. Freja snapped back to attention and scanned the crowd for the lanky boy with curly hair.
And then she saw him, the same as a few hours ago, except with a puffy redness covering one of his eyes. She rushed over to meet him.
“What happened?” Freja asked, resisting the urge to hold his beaten face in her hands.
“Big brother…” Seth trailed, looking over at Steph, who was peacefully asleep with his hands over his ears, not even five feet from his vomit. “I was following in your footsteps.”
“Let’s go home,” Freja said, squeezing his shoulder. They walked over to Steph and Amani. “Can you handle getting Steph back on your own?” she asked Amani.
“I’ve handled Steph for three years—and seen much, much worse,” Amani replied with a smile.
“Heard.”
And so the Cohen brothers went their separate ways, Seth on a walk back to a mildewy apartment on College Ave. and Steph, after spending another hour unconscious slumped on Amani’s shoulder, back in the RAV4 to Palo Alto.
epilogue: Seth
“This is a big decision, sweetie.” Seth’s mother said, rubbing his shoulders. “You can take your time.” He was hunched over the kitchen table, head in his hands, staring at his laptop. His screen was split: on the left, an acceptance from Stanford. On the right, from Berkeley. His mom was right—he did have time—but there was only a few weeks until the official intent to register deadline.
Since receiving both acceptances a few weeks ago, Seth sat at the kitchen table every night. He had both emails open on the screen, just like today. Steph, along with his parents, found out minutes after each letter had been opened. Eventually, he’d called Freja and Amani to tell them the news.
It had been over a month since the three of them had watched Seth stumble out of that frat. Seth had his own little adventure that night. Soon after leaving Freja’s apartment, he came across a professor walking a fluffy white dog. She was dressed in athletic-fit trousers and a matching jacket. Though she wore the same sneakers as his mother, she was at least ten years older, with curly white hair that went past her shoulders.
The dog immediately took a liking to Seth, and the professor invited him on their stroll through campus. He chatted with her as they walked up through South Campus, past the International House and Memorial Stadium. They eventually made it up by the Greek Theatre. He was surprised by how quickly she walked, never losing her breath while regaling Seth with stories about campus life and how it changed over the past forty years. When she smiled or laughed, Seth saw her crows’ feet crinkle, evidence of a life filled with light and laughter.
They parted ways up near Memorial Stadium, where the professor headed for her house in the Berkeley Hills and Seth turned around to go back to Freja’s. He reached for his phone for directions—the battery was low, but he probably had enough juice to make it home. He was on track to reach there in less than half an hour if he cut through Frat Row.
As he walked past the party mansions, he watched the parade of college students on the streets and in backyards. He found them fascinating: observing their body language, reading their faces, and catching snippets of conversation. Every so often, he would look at groups and wonder: who these people think they are to one another? And how accurate are their perceptions?
When Seth was looking into one of the frat courtyards, he saw something amiss among the scattered solo cups, beer cans, and other generic detritus. There was a lone boy in the corner. He appeared to be hiding. Intrigued, Seth moved closer to the low red brick wall that surrounded the courtyard.
The small, stocky boy with the wrestler’s build heaved and vomited into the dirt. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Seth moved closer, thinking of a way to help him. It looked like the boy might vomit again.
He didn’t—he coughed up blood instead. Seth saw the dark flecks against the white wall and knew it couldn’t be anything else. Seth broke out into a jog, rushing towards him, but stopped abruptly once he saw a large, hulking mass move towards the boy in the corner.
“Turner,” he growled. “Get the fuck back in the house.” The boy—Turner—appeared not to hear anything and continued to breathe deeply and heave occasionally. Seth knew he had to do something. He had to.
Seth took a deep breath and walked towards the threatening voice, a voice that belonged to a body that was at least a head taller and a hundred pounds heavier than his.
“Can’t you see he’s sick?” Seth asked incredulously. He didn’t know where he found the courage to stand up to a man built like a fortress who could probably throw him all the way to Palo Alto.
“Can’t you see he’s sick?” The Fortress mimicked in falsetto, then in his regular voice added, “Now get out of here before I make you.” He turned his attention back to the cowering boy in the corner.
“Turner!” the smaller boy turned to the larger one and wiped his mouth again. Seth could see the flecks of blood on his palm. “You sicken me,” the Fortress spat.
“Just let him go home,” Seth said firmly, raising his voice in a hope to attract the attention of another bystander who could make sure no harm came to Turner and Seth.
“Pledge Turner isn’t going anywhere,” the Fortress growled. His eyes flashed with the dangerous deliriousness caused by a near-deathly cocktail of substances. The mix of alcohol and other drugs amplified his every intrusive thought and animal instinct. “And neither are you.”
He lunged at Seth, his first step slightly off balance; but the Fortress corrected his stance, his athletic training and adrenaline kicked in quickly to overpower the drugged haze. He clenched his fist and swung.
Seth was too shocked to feel when or where fist met face. He only knew enough that he had to run. People were looking but were too scared or drunk or apathetic to intervene. Seth had about a five second headstart, an advantage he was sure to lose quickly to someone who seemed to be a collegiate athlete.
And then, just as the Fortress was about to have him by the collar, Seth saw the fire alarm.
And he pulled.
There had been no more fights, no more excitements since then. Only prom, which was, unlike the movies, drama-free.
And then, this. The split-screen kitchen-table quandary, as his dad liked to put it. But today was the day. He was ready. He waited until his dad finished grilling and his brother came home from walking the dog. Then, with all parties present, Seth closed the laptop and said:
“I have come to my decision.”