Here is the thing about volunteer work: It sucks.
You're not happy about it, the people in the office aren't happy about it, really the only person winning is the Dean of the department because he doesn't have to see you or the secretaries sulking. It's a slow death. Arranging flyers, taking out the trash, taking letters to different departments, resisting the urge to play minesweeper in the old laptops of the department.
"If I placed a picture of your face right in front of you I bet you wouldn't even be able to tell the difference," Carlos says, slapping something against my shoulder.
"What does that even mean?" I ask, removing the sticky note he just pasted on my shirt. It's a badly drawn zombified version of me that looks like it's about to fall asleep.
"That if you keep staring at the clock for so long people are going to start thinking you're a statue instead of a volunteer." He tries to stick another note on me but I give him the glare of death and he stops. "And you shouldn't let the secretaries see you so bored for so long or they'll start complaining."
"Who are you, the volunteer police?"
"No, but I am your club vice president, and should tell you that if you get kicked out of the department for not doing anything you could get in probation with the club."
I narrow my eyes, looking at him between a few hair strands that fell over my face as I turned.
"No you can't, that's against club policy and I literally went to deliver a message to the business building five minutes ago." I know what he wants me to do, he has a stack of educational magazines that are supposed to be delivered to the professor's offices and he doesn't want to move his lazy ass off his chair like he has for the past hour or so.
"Tell you what, why don't I help with the emails you've been going over while you go deliver those academic papers to the professors?" I ask, scooting my chair closer towards him.
"I think I'm fine."
"En serio?"
"Really."
We stare at each other, trying to convince ourselves that it won't be us who will have to walk all around the building for some stupid magazines, but not even five minutes later both of us have half a stack and are walking down the hall.
"I mean think about it: it's faster this way," he says, placing a magazine on the box outside a teacher's door.
"Whatever, I'm not talking to you for five minutes."
"You just talked to me right now."
"Shut up."
"You just did it again."
I roll a magazine in my hand, approaching him like I'm going to hit him when I remember something. I take out my phone which has been on mute for a while because I didn't want to be that volunteer that is on her phone the whole time instead of doing work. I much rather prefer to look like death than to appear distracted by social media. There's still about two hours left for the club meeting and a bit of an hour and a half left to meet Ethan outside of the Liberal Arts building, which was where we arranged to see each other two days ago.
Carlos pushes his head against mine, trying to catch a glance of my phone's screen.
"Who you texting?"
"No one." I elbow him away and squeak when he pokes my side. "Stop it."
"Your boyfriend?"
"He's not!"
"It started out with a fork, how did it end up like this?"
"Carlos--"
"It was only a fork. It was only a fork."
"You know what? Fuck you. " I drop my magazines on the floor, in front of him. "Have fun delivering the rest of these."
I hear him laughing as I start to walk away, quickly followed by, "You know I'm kidding, Solecito lindo."
"I don't care, I don't like you."
"I'll buy you ice cream after the meeting if you help me out."
Turning on my feet I glare at him. He knows this whole situation has stressed me out more than it really should have, and I commend how he can maintain a humorous front even though I'm suffering. At least he makes me laugh, isn't that what friends are for?
"Coffee ice cream?"
"And any other flavor you like, just for you." He holds up his hand like some sort of Dark Lord trying to strike a deal to what I pretend to think about for just a second before grabbing the stack of magazines I had dropped back from the ground and hurrying down the hall, just taking enough time to grab the side of his hoodie as I passed.
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"So, what exactly is this club representing?" asks Ethan as we walk down towards the club room. I can tell Carlos is still staring at him, sizing him up, or checking him out, I can't be quite sure, but once formalities were out of the way we decided to head down to the classroom and it had been quite the silent party until he decided to talk.
"Well, I'm sure you're prone to believe it's an illegal facility that manufactures drugs and steals candy from children," I say.
"Which is, truly, a possibility," Carlos echoes.
I nod towards my friend's comments, but continue with my previous statement, "But we're really just your average school club with the added fact of our...peculiar induction process."
"We like to have fun," Carlos corrects.
"Breaking the law?" Ethan seems to still be hurt, though who can blame him?
"Isn't that what I said?" He drapes his arm over my shoulders as we walk. "Wasn't it, Sol?"
"I didn't hear any difference."The disturbance in the force I feel is probably Ethan restraining himself from strangling us both, but by this time we have all arrived at the club room, and it would be too gruesome to kill us now. Shaking Carlos' arm off my shoulders, I turn to look at Ethan, who is wearing those cute glasses, to tell him:
"Don't threaten Anna, or the club in the meeting, this is not a warning, it's advice. Also if you're going to be part of the club you better -- well, never mind, just keep the first thing in mind."
Carlos taps the side of his head, either another warning to Ethan or a compliment for me, but it doesn't matter because we are already opening the door and there is chaos going on inside the room.
Alan and Ophelia seem to be arguing over a desk that contains two pieces of sandwiches while Scott is on top of the Professor's desk eating what appears to be a third piece of sandwich. Anna is nowhere to be seen and there are two girls sitting in the back of the classroom talking hushedly amongst each other.
Yeah, it's a shitshow, not like I expected it to be anything less. If there is anything I've learnt in my short time with the club is that we thrive better in a chaotic environment, and that the majority of us doesn't know what we are doing with our lives yet.
"What's going on?" Carlos asks, strutting in and directing himself towards Alan and Ophelia who stop fighting once they notice us.
"It's about the sandwich."
"It's not about the sandwich," Ophelia corrects Alan, although the way she says this makes me feel like it is about the sandwich.
I tune out the conversation that goes along the lines of Alan being allergic to tuna or something like that, and the dark theory of Ophelia trying to poison him. There is also a Shakespeare joke thrown around.
"So, this is your cult huh," Ethan mentions, his hands crossed over his chest.
"I told you not to call it a cult."
"Yeah, I ignored that, look, where is your leader?"
"President." The first thing he had asked Carlos when we met him outside of the building was whether or not he was the leader of the cult I was in and if he was aware that I bribed people in order to run me over. Carlos had not been surprised at the second fact, but had cracked a smile at the thought of being the obscure leader of our historically inaccurate club.
"I prefer the title Emperor," he'd said to a very confused Ethan.
"Pharaoh is better."
"Sol, please we all know that is not the --"
"So, Sol? That's your name right." Ethan brushes off my comment, taking his glasses off and sighing as he walks towards one of the desks against a wall and sitting down, I glance around the room quickly, as if I'm somehow scared people will see me talking to him and we're not in a small enclosed room with only six other people.
"That's not important."
"You hadn't told me your name before that."
"I'd given you a hint."
"What?"
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I can't blame him for not knowing more than one language, but he could have done his research at the very least.
"Sol means Sun in Spanish --"
"So you are Spanish." To that I do roll my eyes, picking up my hand to stop him from talking.
"Hispanic, Mexican, whatever, not 'Spanish'. That's a language or used to refer to people from Spain , which I'm not from."
Ethan lets out a small laugh.
"Sorry, it was the first thing that came to mind."
I don't want to get into this argument, I know it's something I'm bound to lose a few people's interest on, so I let it go, accepting his apology like any grown up person should.
"So, Sol, why did you join this group, why do you guys do what you do?"
I suddenly feel like I'm in an interview I did not prepare for. I have beat around the bush when it comes to those kinds of questions for about three months since I first decided I would join the club. Why would anyone want to join a place whose induction process includes actively breaking the law? It's insane and yet pretty genius. You know someone is devoted to the club if they do join, and yet that only makes it sound more like a cult than it ever has.
I frown, beginning to open my mouth to reply with the best that I can do, but as I am about to do this the door opens once more and Anna walks in, blue hair shining bright over her bright orange jacket.
"Hello my children, prepare for death." She's carrying two cases of cokes and some bags are hanging from her right elbow.
The girls in the back seem to be thrown off by our President, and while I indulge in that surprise as much as I know Anna does, what catches me off guard is when Ethan grabs my arm, him sitting on the desk next to me, and gets close to me to hiss:
"That's your leader?"
"Our Dear Leader, yes, Mr. You-live-in-a-cult."
"No, I mean, that's Anna Howard."
Anna, who currently is not aware we are angry whispering about her, is talking to Carlos who is filling her up on the whole sandwich ordeal. She hasn't seemed to notice the fact that Ethan is doing anything but signaling at her with neon traffic signs.
"Yes, and you're Ethan Winston --"
"You know my last name?"
"No, I know your grandparent's last name. I'm assuming you go by the same name." I'm trying so hard not to rub my temples, he went from being suspicious to oddly flabbergasted and I cannot keep track of all of these changes at once. "What's wrong about Anna, Ethan?"
"I won't be getting my key back, not from her, at least."
"What?" I ask, "Is she your ex-girlfriend or something?"
"Not exactly, no." As he's saying this, I hear Anna laugh and follow that with a:
"Hey Sol --"
This is when the room goes silent, and I mean that quite literally, all the girls stop whispering,
Ophelia and Alan have not been talking to each other ever since Carlos interrupted them, and next to me Ethan has gone completely rigid. This is really soap opera worthy and I am only mad at the fact that I didn't bring any coffee or pan dulce to eat as I watch.
Then, a small smile begins to appear on Anna's lips as she says:
"Hey neighbor."
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