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"I THINK I COULD KICK THOMAS JEFFERSON'S ASS," says Atlas, not for the first time this night. "I mean, think about it. He was such a fucking nerd. I could totally do it."
"Attie, honey, I think the fact that you debate which Founding Father you'd win in a fight against makes you as big of a nerd as he was," I say, sympathetically putting my hand against his arm.
Atlas ignores my response, clenching his hands into fists and miming throwing several punches, making soft powpowpow noises under his breath. "But what about George Washington? I don't know about him. My boy was fucking ripped. He might have been too strong for me, too powerful."
Atlas, despite the fact that he's hardly 5'4 and struggles to open most doors, is filled to the brim with anger and tries to fight people nearly twice his size. I like to think that, in accordance to his serious case of small dog syndrome, he looks like the human version of a cute little toy poodle: thick, curly brown hair similar to their coat, wide, puppy-like amber eyes hidden behind thick-framed glasses, an adorably sweet and innocent face, and light brown skin — he's half black, half white. He's one of those nerds that knows every fucking detail of our nation's history by heart and has gone so in depth into different theories he's gotten himself convinced that George Washington didn't exist.
The pale moonlight bleeds onto the red and gold leaves, casting a honey colored aura into the air. The world seems to smell only of pine needles and smoke. A handful of other kids are gathered around a bright, crackling bonfire, talking and laughing. Parties like these, they're never a good idea. A bunch of drunk teenagers huddled by a fire in the middle of a dark New England forest on a chilly October night. If you're like me and like to think ahead, you just know somebody's gonna be murdered here. Likewise, I like planning ahead — I even know who it's gonna be.
The cool air burns my skin, and I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself and moving a bit closer to the fire. "Your boy's fucking dead, but he could still whip your ass from the grave."
"Don't talk about him like that," Atlas defensively whispers. "Besides, we don't know that for certain, there are a lot of conspiracies about — "
"Atlas, we need to find Silas and Meredith and get you a drink." I grab Atlas's hand, dragging him towards the circle of kids surrounding the fire. "You get weird when you're sober."
Atlas pouts. "Just because you don't appreciate my conspiracy theories and Founding Father Fight Club doesn't mean that nobody else does. One day, I'll find somebody who truly supports me and my passions."
"'Sup, nerds," all of a sudden, a girl squeezes herself between Atlas and I, wrapping her arms around our shoulders. "What's the old married couple bickering about today?"
