In all of Sam's life, he has never been on the receiving end of that look.
He's never disappointed someone in a position of authority over him before. He likes to think he's never disappointed anyone, ever, but he once promised this girl Yasmeen that he'd take her to see a film in ninth grade and then he'd stood her up. It wasn't that he had wanted to stand her up. It just happened that one of his teachers was speaking at the local library and he much preferred going there instead.
If Sam can help it, he prefers to live up to everyone's expectations of him. He prefers to exceed them. He's resigned himself to not being very likable. But he doesn't have to be liked if he's giving you everything you want.
Which, evidently, is something he failed to do for Olekev, who's look is one of sheer disappointment. Yeah, he's going to have to cleanse his memory after this, so he'll never see that expression again. He wonders how other students can skip class and assignments and fail exams and bear this look from their professors.
On the bright side, she's giving Sage the look, too, who's sitting beside him in her office. It's been a week since she emailed them their first assignment and a week since Sam had spoken to Sage.
He intended to maintain the silent treatment all the way up to graduation and beyond that, too. Sage would be a blip in his memory. Years from now, at a class reunion, he'll show up and won't even recognize Sage. He'll say Sage who? when someone asks.
That's the plan, at least, until Olekev poses a question and he can't see himself not answering, no matter how spiteful he wants to be towards Sage.
But Sage beats him to it, saying, "Well, you see with the amount of research you were requesting, we felt we could get you that information more promptly if we divided and conquered."
"I never gave you a deadline for that research, and for reason," Olekev responds. "It should have taken you weeks. It will take you weeks. You'll need to redo it. And you won't be able to accurately explore the second portion of your research without the first."
Sam nods, unsure what to say, unaccustomed to being admonished by anyone who isn't his nənə. His mother wasn't very disciplinary but his grandmother wielded her words as strongly as she did her wooden spoon.
Olekev says next, "If working together is going to be a problem, you need to let me know now as I'll need to reevaluate this whole project.
Sam spares Sage a glance, who's already looking at him, waiting on him to say something. Olekev stares down the bridge of her nose, waiting expectantly. "It won't be," Sam says after a moment. "We mistook what you were looking for with this assignment. But we understand now and we'll provide you with the quality you're looking for on our next submission."
"Excellent," Olekev says leaning away from the two. "That's not to say the work you both submitted wasn't exemplary. There's just a disconnect. Two very different perspectives. And I simply don't have the time to consolidate it. So send me whatever you two can get done by next week and we'll go from there, okay?"
❧
Sam turns to Sage as soon as they're clear of Olekev's office and goes, "So this isn't going to work."
Sage thinks no shit. He's wracked his brain all week and still hasn't come up with a valid reason as to why Sam stormed out of the library on him. He'll admit it was rude to show up late and he certainly felt bad about it. It wasn't like him. Ruthie had started talking about her future post-grad. She's been having a crisis of conscience over pursuing social media full time. In the last few years, she's made a fairly profitable career of it.
But being online, as she said. Left her open to ridicule constantly. She didn't know if it was worth it. So they sat after dinner making a pros and cons list. Ruthie loved speaking out against fat phobia online. She loved inspiring other young women to love themselves in spite of society telling them not to. But by the end of dinner, they still hadn't come to a decision and Sage was doing his best to cheer Ruthie up. "You don't need to know what you want to do yet," he had told her. "We have months before we graduate."
So, yeah, Sage felt bad about being late but it was for Ruthie and he'd do anything for her.
"I can't afford to lose this thing with Olekev," Sam says next. Sage looks at him confused for a moment as he realizes that what Sam meant was their attitudes towards each other is what's not working.
"Neither can I," Sage responds and there's a look on Sam's face. It's fleeting and Sage has no idea what it's about it.
Sam nods, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his pants. "Right. Well then I'm proposing a truce."
"A truce?" Sage repeats skeptically.
"Yeah, a truce."
"What does a truce entail, exactly? We're suddenly friends now?"
Sam squints, thinking. "More like civil classmates. For research purposes only."
"For research purposes only?"
"Are you going to keep repeating everything I say? Yeah, we're civil for the research only. Once we're done with Olekev—"
"We're done with each other?"
"Exactly."
"Alright, well then truce it is, I guess." Sage holds out his hand to Sam. "For research," he says and Sam nods repeating it back as he reaches out and shakes Sage's hand. For research. It's a good plan. Nothing could possibly go wrong.
❧
Being reprimanded by Olekev puts a damper on the rest of Sam's week. He works Wednesday and Thursday night so he's planned to meet up with Sage Friday night at the library. Sage has reserved them a study room and is waiting for Sam when he shows up at seven.
Sam pauses in the doorway, scanning the room. Sage has spread out some books and is engrossed in his laptop. The white board behind him has a row of dates and numbers. He's been here a while, by the looks of it. There's a denim jacket draped over the chair beside Sage and, true to self, he's wearing a striped red button down that's hardly buttoned. Sam will admit he has a good chest, broad with defined pecs, but some things should be left to mystery.
Sam steps inside, shucking his backpack off as he does so he can throw it down in the chair on the other side of the table. "I forgot you wore glasses," Sam mutters as a greeting.
Sage glances up at him so his eyes are looking over the rim of his thin wire frames. "I only wear them when I'm doing a lot of reading," he says leaning back in his chair. "Which we're going to be doing. There's a ton of content to get through."
"Love that," Sam says quietly as he sits down and reaches beside him to pull out his laptop from his bag. He's been using the same HP laptop for years and he'd bought it used when he'd moved there. The fan is so loud at this point it sounds like a helicopter landing on his keyboard. But he can't justify the splurge of a new laptop, no matter how badly he may need one. He's overly conscious of his laptop in comparison to the sleek MacBook sitting across from him.
Sage isn't looking at him, though, refocused on his work. "I'm going to email you links for some sources I found that are credible. If you want to look at the differences between '96 and '02 - I'm collecting data on a jump between 2016 and 17 for agriculture GDP."
"Sounds good," Sam says trying very hard to keep his tone neutral. He keeps repeating in his head truce, truce, truce. But Sage is so smug and got here early and started before him just so he could have the upper hand, which is so a Sage thing to do.
Whatever. Sam doesn't need extra time to get ahead. He can beat Sage even starting a mile behind.
"Alright, so lets work for like forty-minutes and then we'll compare notes?"
Sage doesn't even look at Sam when he responds, "Sounds good to me."
It takes a few minutes for Sam's computer to turn on and then even longer to get his browser open so he can go to his email. By the time he's skimmed the links Sage has sent and decided on a source to read, twelve minutes have passed. Sam gets out the binder he's dedicated to this research and starts reading.
He's reading for maybe five minutes when he gets distracted. Sage is leaning back in his chair now, holding a pen to his mouth as his eyes dart from left to right. He has bright eyes, that are striking even from across the room. They look magnified behind his glasses.
Sam's looking a little too long and he realizes a little too late that Sage has moved his gaze from his screen to Sam. "What?" Sage asks frowning, expecting the worse.
"You breathe loudly. It's distracting," Sam responds. He has no idea but he's going to roll with it now.
"I breathe loudly?"
"That's what I said."
"Well," Sage says and his tone is a bit sharper now. Sam's successfully pissing him off, evidently. "Put in headphones, then."
"If your breathing is distracting, what makes you think musics going to be better?"
Sage stares at him, squinting, wondering how one human being can be so incredibly annoying. "I don't know what to tell you then, Sam. I can't not breathe."
Sam always feels some type of way when Sage addresses him by name. He doesn't know what that type of way is, just that he's feeling it. And his neck is hot. "It's fine," he says. "I'll just pretend I'm in a wind tunnel."
The thing is Sage really doesn't breathe loudly at all. But Sam's not going to admit he was just staring at him to be staring. And it's easier when they're both under the assumption everything Sage does bothers Sam.
❧
Sage can't really believe he's been working in a room smaller than his loft with Sam for an hour and neither of them have drawn blood. Aside from Sam's strange observations that feel both insulting and uncomfortably intimate ("did you know your one eye is slightly lower than the other?" or "your ears stick out quite a bit, do you think you can hear better because of it?") They've actually been getting along fine and have started to consolidate their research.
When Professor Olekev said it'd be labor intensive, she certainly wasn't exaggerating.
Sam pushes his chair back and Sage looks over at him, startled from his phone. He's been refreshing instagram and snapchat to see updates on his sister. She'd posted videos from her friend's house where they'd gotten ready for the party she was going to, and then a few videos of the crowd of students all filling someone's apartment. The whole thing made Sage uncomfortable. How old was this person that they had an apartment to throw a party in?
Sam clears his throat. "Alright, since you're clearly distracted I'm going to get coffee from downstairs. Do you want anything?"
Sam stands and Sage tips his head to look at him, thinking. "Uh, yeah, a water s'fine. Here." He starts to reach into his front pocket but Sam grimaces, walking away before Sage can unearth his wallet.
"It's a water. Don't insult me."
It's not that Sage was trying to, but he's one of those people who always feels weird when people pay for his things. He has no issue covering other people, actually prefers to, but can't stand when the table turns. It took a long time for him and Ruthie to get to a point where he's comfortable letting her cover tabs. But they usually just split it to make Sage feel mildly better.
Sage doesn't do any work while Sam's gone. He checks Calla's location. She's still in Chelsea. He wishes she would just go home but it's not even ten o'clock yet. He goes back to snapchat. There's a few clips on her story but they seemed to be delayed from when they actually occurred. Videos from a taxi, shots, more shots, a mysterious punch, a crowd dancing in the living room.
Sam returns, saying, "I think we should input both our data into one document and run trends before we get any more information."
Sage sets his phone down, feeling anxious but needing to focus. "Yeah, that's a good idea. We can do it on my laptop."
Sam is standing near the doorway, a venti iced coffee in one hand and an iced water in the other. He frowns. "Is that a slight at my laptop?"
"Not everything is a slight, Sam," Sage responds, exasperated. "I have part of my data inputted already."
Sam stares at him like he doesn't quite believe him before he nods, biting his lip as he walks over. He sets the water down in front of Sage and then takes the seat beside him. He's rigid, that much Sage can tell, but he has no idea why. He's too concerned about his sister to waste time on Sam being weird.
Sam shared a document with him where he'd been saving his data so Sage splits his screen between the document and his excel sheet.
"Oh that's cool," Sam says quietly.
Sage glances at him and Sam's frowning again, pressing his lips together like he hadn't meant to make the comment. So Sage doesn't remark on it, just gets to work moving the numbers over as quickly as he can. Sam has his elbow on the arm of Sage's chair, leaning over him as he watches him work. He smells lightly of pepper and laundry detergent. If Sage focuses on it, he gets a tremor in his hand and he think it's maybe like an allergic reaction to Sam's scent, which is nice. He likes the idea of being allergic to Sam. Like sorry, you can't come any closer because I may go into anaphylactic shock.
The data's in and he's running a trend line. He overlays Sam's numbers with his. Sam leans forward more, engrossed, and points his finger at one of the cross sections. "Well, that's significant," Sam mutters, his voice hoarse.
"Olekev's going to love this," Sage says as his eyes dart around the screen. Numbers are not his favorite thing, but they're a thing he understands almost innately. And he likes it when they line up, when what he believes has data to reinforce it.
He's about to pull out the insignificant percentages when Sam says, "Alright, take out the dates that are inconclusive."
Sometimes Sage forgets that he and Sam are kind of the same person. At least when it comes to economics. It's why they've been able to compete for so long. It's why Olekev picked the both of them. He moves his cursor across the screen so he can delete the data he doesn't need.
And then he gets a text. The sound goes off as the notification pops up in the right corner of his screen. It's Calla. She's only written his name. Then another text. And another. And fuck if all the blood hasn't shunted to Sage's core. He can't even feel his fingers as they open his messages.
9:36 p.m. Sage
9:37 p.m. Sage I think somerghings wrong
9:37 p.m. I feel really sick
Sage grabs his phone as he pushes out of his seat, nearly elbowing Sam in the face who's being eerily quiet. For Sam, at least. But then he goes, "Who's Calla?" as Sage calls her. Sage presses the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he reaches over the back of his seat to shut his laptop.
❧
Sam turns his head to look at him, feeling a weird flood of annoyance and concern. "Who's Calla?" he repeats.
"My sister," Sage responds as he shoves his laptop into his bag. "Calla, Calla, hey — I'm here. You're okay," he turns away from the table, facing out the windows. Sam watches him rake a hand through his hair, holding it there at his temple. His phone is loud and Sam can hear music and screaming.
Sage is saying, "He did what?" His tone is more aggressive than Sam's ever heard it and he takes great pride in pulling out aggression from Sage. Sam gets up, putting his things away, his gaze darting towards Sage as he does.
"I'm — I'm on my way. Okay? Do not move. Don't leave the bathroom. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
Sage turns back to Sam who has his backpack on and is holding Sage's bag out to him. "I have to go," he says taking it from him.
"I realize," Sam says. "I called a lyft. Where are we going?"
Sage is staring at him curiously so Sam waves his phone at him to emphasize his question. "208 West 23rd," Sage says finally.
Sam is typing it in as he walks towards the door. "Okay, let's go."
❧
Sage has no idea why Sam is helping him, why he's sitting beside him in this lyft right now, but he doesn't have the capacity to question it because he's really sure that Calla was drugged and he knows, he knows what happens next and he needs to get there before it does.
❧
Sam keeps looking over at Sage, wondering what he could possibly say to the boy who's gone white. Not white white, but like grey white. Sage is already fair so Sam's a little confused on the mechanics of how he can be any paler but he looks sick, or is maybe seconds away from being sick.
The apartments near the water, on a narrow street that's filled with cars. When they get out, Sam can hear the music coming out of an open window on the third floor. "Uhm," Sam says as they walk up. "How do we intend to get in?"
Sage presses a number on the call box and then keeps pressing it until an agitated voice comes over. "Who is it?"
"Todd," he says, his voice sounding more bro-y than Sam ever needed to hear. "I got beer."
There's silence and then the door's unlocked. "How'd you..." Sam says as he leads the way in and over to the elevators.
"They're underage. They're not going to turn away alcohol," Sage responds as the doors open and they step inside. There's something about elevators and Sage that makes Sam's heart rate increase. A Pavlov sort of thing from all the times they've gotten into elevators and closed them in each other's face. Has nothing to do with proximity or lack thereof.
The hallway reeks of weed and the door to the apartment in question is cracked so they get inside without issue. The kitchen is off the entry and there's a crowd around the counter doing jello shots.
Sage leans down towards Sam's ear and his facial hair tickles his skin, inflaming it. "She should be in the bathroom," he screams over the music. Sam nods, looking around for a door or hallway. He finds a short hallway and leads the way, elbowing through the crowd.
The hallway is cramped but that doesn't stop Sage from shoving people aside to bang on the door there's a line of people waiting beside. Someone makes a remark about them cutting ahead but Sam gives them a lethal look to shut them up.
"Calla," Sage screams between the knocking. "Open up. It's me."
He keeps knocking till the door is yanked open. It's definitely not Sage's sister, Sam thinks. Unless she was adopted, which like maybe. But by the confused expression on Sage's face he thinks not. He turns quickly and continues down the hall.
Sam reaches out, grabbing Sage's arm as he says loudly, "We'll spit up." Sage manages a nod. His shoulders are up near his ears and he looks like he's about to hulk out. Sam turns back into the crowd, keeping his eyes peeled for a blonde girl that looks like Sage.
He slips between a group of girls and looks to the only blond who's nursing a solo cup near her mouth. "Calla?" he asks.
She makes a face as her friends laugh. "Ew no."
"Well do you know her? And do you know where she is?"
"Yeah, she's the sloppy one by the couch," another girl says pointing with a manicured finger. Sam is reminded with lethal acuity how much he does not miss secondary school and, in particular, secondary school girls.
Sam spots Sage in the crowd and waves his hand over his head to get his attention. When Sage looks at him, he points in the direction the girls had and then makes his way over to the couches. There's a group of kids on the furniture and the floor. Drugs and its accompanying paraphernalia are sprawled across the coffee table.
There's a girl in the corner of the couch, squeezed between the arm and a guy who's completely engrossed in his pipe. Sam's beat Sage over there and crouches down beside her. She's pretty, but that's not how Sam knows she's Calla. She's wearing the same necklace Sage wears, a thin gold snake chain.
"Calla?" Sam says and she opens her eyes just enough for him to see their vibrant blue hue before they close again.
"Calla," Sage cries from behind him. He leans over her, turning her chin to look up at him. She opens her eyes fully for him and then she starts crying, her chin wobbling.
"You came?" she croaks.
"Of course I came," he says. Sam gets up and steps back so Sage can help her up. He doesn't, though, sliding his arm under her knees, instead. "Cal, put your arms around my neck." Her movement is sluggish and Sam's concerned with how she's barely hanging on so he steps behind the coach to brace her back as Sage lifts her up.
Sage is moving through the crowd with quick steps that Sam has to hustle to keep up. Someone says Calla's name and Sage stops so Sam stops, too.
"Oh, I thought you could hang. Guess I was wrong," the guy is saying. He looks like a douchebag. Differently than the douchey way Sam often thinks Sage looks. This guy looks Harvard bound but only because his parents lined the pockets of everyone on the admission board. He looks like a Brock Turner — used to getting away with shit he'd get hung for in other countries.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam asks the same time Sage says, "Move."
The boys he's with are laughing and he's getting smug now. Sam goes, "What did you give her?"
He smirks at Sam, and there's so much arrogance in it that when he says, "Nothing she didn't ask for" Sam doesn't feel bad for punching the look off of his face. It's a good punch, lands with a loud pop and the kid immediately grapples to protect his face for a second blow. But that's not Sam. He doesn't throw fists to start fights, he throws them as his closing argument.
One of the guys steps in front of his friend and spits at Sam, "Get the fuck out."
"Gladly," Sam retorts. "I'll make sure to give the cops a ring on my way out."
Sage is gone and Sam finds him in the hallway trying to hit the elevator button with his elbow while holding his sister who's out cold in his arms. Sam walks up and hits the button instead. When they're inside, going down, Sage breaks the silence with, "You didn't have to do that."
"I know," Sam responds quietly. His arms are at his sides and he flexes his right hand. His knuckles are tingling.
"Well why did you?" Sage asks as the doors open.
"I have a younger sister, too," Sam answers like this should be explanation enough. When he was home, he would walk Laila to her bus every morning, even when she was old enough to walk on her own and the kids in his grade would make fun of him for it. If there was anything Sam could respect about Sage, it was that he'd dropped everything to be there for sister, that he looked like he would've torn through the walls of that apartment to find her. Because Sam would do the same for Laila.
They hail a taxi and Sam gets the door for Sage. "You're taking her to the hospital, right?" Sam asks after Sage has set her inside.
Sage is looking at him and Sam's uncomfortable because the look is far from his usual. It's not the I'm bored because you're boring Sam look, nor is it the you're infuriating, you infuriate me Sam look. No, this is definitely new and it's making Sam's skin crawl.
"Yeah. I want her to get checked out."
Sam nods. "Alright, I'm gonna get my own ride," he says stepping away from the taxi. He turns but then stops and goes, "Hey." Sage pauses, half in half out of the car. "Just — text me and let me know she's all good."
The look is morphing and Sam wants to tear his eyes out of his head because what is that and why is it making him feel things. Like nice things. For Sage, of all people.
"Yeah, I will. Ice that hand of yours."
Sam watches the taxi pull away before he starts back up the sidewalk, heading for the nearest subway station. He doesn't take lifts if he can help it and the one they took there was almost 40 bucks, which is nearly his whole grocery budget for the week.
Three hours later, he gets a text from Sage.
1:32 a.m. she's all good