I will look straight ahead and avoid eye contact when he says things like that. I pretend I don’t hear him. He doesn’t shave sometimes and he gives me beard burns. I am not in love with him, I’ll chant under my breath at dinner, with him sitting across from me with other oily Lit majors all dressed in black and exhibiting a dry yet caustic wit and I’ll be blown away by how nondescript he is. But can you remember really what Victor looked like? No, you can’t, can you? It freaked him out badly that I put a note on my door that said “If my mother calls I’m not here. Try not to take a message either. Thanks.” I try to stop smoking. I forget to feed the cat.

“I want to trip with my father before he dies,” Franklin said at lunch this afternoon.

I didn’t say anything for a very long time and then he asked, “Are you high?” and I said “High” and lit another cigarette.

SEAN There is no way I’m driving the dude to the bus station. I can’t believe he even asked me. I’m hungover as hell and feel like I’m going to throw up blood and I woke up on the floor of someone’s room and it’s cold and I’m in a bad mood and I owe Rupert five hundred bucks. He’s pissed off supposedly, and has threatened to kill me. I can’t believe I’m up this early. I bought an onion bagel at the snack bar and it’s cold but I’m still wolfing it down. He’s standing there already, with his bag and sunglasses and long coat, reading some book. I mumble a good morning.

“Just get up?” he asks, smirking.

“Yeah. Missed my guitar tutorial. Shit.” I climb on the bike and try to start it. I hand him the onion bagel. I turn the ignition. I decide to just fake it; pretend the bike won’t start. He won’t be able to tell.

“You shaved,” I say, trying to make conversation; get his attention away from the bike.

“Yeah. I was getting a little scruffy there,” he says.

“Doing it for Mom? That’s real nice,” I say.

“Uh-huh,” he says.

“Nice,” I say.

“Can I have a bite of your bagel?” he asks.

No way. I don’t want to give him a bite of my bagel. I say, “Sure.”

I start the bike up, jiggle the keys, then let it die again. Put my foot on the accelerator; turn it off with a flick of the wrist. Then start it up again. The bike makes a sputtering sound, the engine dies.

“Oh shit,” I say.

I pretend to try it again. The bike, of course, just won’t start.

“Shit.” I get off the bike and lean down. He’s watching me closely.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

I don’t know what to say so I say, “Needs a jumpstart.” Smile to myself.

“Jumpstart? Christ,” he mutters, checking his watch.

I get back on the bike and do the trick again. The bike just will not start.

“It’s not gonna start,” I tell him.

“What do I do?” he asks.

I sit there, look out over Commons, finish the cold bagel, yawn. “What time is it?”

“Eleven,” he says.

He’s a liar. It’s only ten-forty-five. I go along with it. “Your bus leaves at eleven-thirty, right?”

“Right,” he says.

“That’s enough time to find someone who’ll give me a jumpstart.” I yawn again.

He’s looking at his watch. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll find someone. Getch’ll do it.”

“Getch has Music for the Handicapped now,” he tells me.

I knew that. “Does he?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say. “I didn’t know Getch took that.”

“I’m taking a cab,” he says.

Thank God. “Okay,” I say.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says.

“Sorry guy,” I say.

“It’s all right.” He’s irritated. He gets off the bike and tucks the copy of the book he’s reading in the dufflebag, straightens his sunglasses.

“I’ll see you Sunday, okay?” he says, asks.

“Yeah. Bye,” I say.

Go back to my room and drink some Nyquil to get to sleep. I heard that junkies use the stuff when they can’t find any heroin or methadone. It does the job. The only problem is that I dream about Lauren, and she’s all blue.

PAUL It was a Friday morning and I was waiting by Sean’s bike in the student parking lot. It was only ten-thirty and the bus station in town was maybe a five minute drive from campus but I wanted to get there early. When I was sixteen I was supposed to meet my parents in Mexico. They had flown down the week before and told me that if I wanted to come I could get a ticket and meet them down in Las Cruces. When I got to O’Hare to catch the flight down to Mexico City I found out I missed it. When I went back to my car I found a parking ticket on the windshield. I stayed home and had a party and ruined the couch from Sloane’s and saw eleven movies and skipped school all that week. And that’s probably why I get so paranoid before going on a trip. Ever since then, I arrive at airports and train stations and bus terminals much earlier than needed. Even though it was ten-forty and I knew I’d probably make the bus to Boston, I still couldn’t concentrate on the copy of The Fountainhead I was reading or anything else. Last summer Mitchell told me I was an illiterate and that I should read more. So he gave me a copy of The Fountainhead and I began it, rather reluctantly. When I told Mitchell one day at some cafe that I didn’t like Howard Roark, he said he had to go to the restroom, and he never came back. I paid the check. I remember that my parents bought me a stuffed iguana and smuggled it through customs for me. Why?