I darted forward on unsteady ground, racing against the bricks that fell beneath my feet. Bounding ahead, I chanced a long leap, crossing the pit that opened up in the floor and just barely making it to the other side as a pool of flame licked at my ankles.
The switch was in sight. I sprinted toward it, slamming it down and allowing my partner to jump ahead. He threw his weight against a boulder that blocked his path and, with a great effort, heaved it out of his way and onto the gleaming button, allowing me entrance. Together, we ran forward, collecting gems as we passed, and for a glorious moment, it seemed like we were in the clear. The exit was in sight, with only a few more obstacles to go. I ran, unfazed, through the pool of water, then jumped over the puddle of acid, and I was there, in front of the door, waiting.
Eyes narrowed in concentration, I focused on the bright red form of my partner, willing him to join me. He jumped over the water without so much as scraping his toes across the surface, but he overshot, sending himself plummeting straight into the poison green pool. He disintegrated immediately. Only a small burst of steam evaporating from the surface showed that he'd been there at all.
I cursed under my breath as the words GAME OVER took over my screen. Fucking Fireboy. I had always been better with WASD than the arrow keys.
Somewhere in the background, Professor Burke and his receding hairline pointed to a diagram and lectured in his clear, hollow voice about some phenomenon I couldn't name. It was something about aerodynamics -- that was the name of the course, after all -- but that was about as much as I could tell.
It was probably something was important. Practically everything you learned in a class like Aerodynamics was important.
For a brief moment, I tuned into what Burke was saying. It might've been interesting; he was an engaging, enthusiastic teacher. But when I listened, all I heard was a droning monotone, and my eyes drifted back to the screen as if of their own accord. I would surely regret not paying attention when I had to pour through the textbook to catch up, but that was a problem for later.
I took a quick glance around the classroom to make sure everyone still had their laptops open, filling out the professor's digital notes as he spoke, then looked at Burke himself to see him still facing the board, paying me no mind. Tuning him out once more, I clicked Retry.
I was moments away from beating the tricky level of Fireboy And Watergirl in the Forest Temple when a knock sounded at the door of the classroom, and in walked a guy wearing sunglasses.
Several heads perked up, watching curiously from the corners of their eyes as a young man with a backpack over his shoulder stepped into the class. Nobody seemed to know who he was except Professor Burke, who smiled kindly in greeting. "You can go ahead and take the seat on the far-right of the third row, Ezra."
"Thanks, sir."
Apparently, that was all the attention to be given to Ezra. Students turned their heads away, refocusing on their computer screens and the projected diagram up front. Professor Burke clasped his hands together to reign in the last few pairs of straggling eyes. He waited another moment before turning to face the screen, resuming his lecture and giving us a perfect view of his bald-spot.
While the other students scrolled through their powerpoints, I took a brief recess from my game, following the visitor's path as he made his way to the third row, quiet enough to disappear. Everybody else had forgotten him, but there was something that turned my head his way. There was at least an 87% chance that I was literally just at peak boredom, so desperate for something interesting that I was clinging to the first break of routine, but I couldn't help but watch him as he walked, trailing his fingers along the edge of each desk he passed, trying to figure out why he seemed so unusual.
He was already in his seat -- just one row ahead of mine and one seat over -- by the time I considered how peculiar that mannerism was, or how strange it was that he was still wearing those sunglasses indoors. I remembered Professor Burke's specific directions: 'Go ahead and take the seat on the far-right of the third row.'
Maybe I was reading into things too much. Maybe I was watching this stranger so closely that I was jumping to faulty conclusions. Solid 93% chance.
Or maybe Ezra was blind.
I leaned forward in my seat, crossing my arms over the desk, and peered curiously over his shoulder as he pulled something from the bag sitting open on his lap. My eyes narrowed at the sight of an open notebook, then again when he took out a pen and began to write, finishing after a short second. He raised the sheet of paper up over his right shoulder, the side closest to me.
There wasn't even a word on it. Just a symbol.
'?'
My cheeks flared red and I dropped my gaze, staring into my laptop screen like it might do me a solid and suck me into an endless void for the rest of eternity.
So Ezra could see. And he'd seen me staring at him like some kind of creep for the last few minutes.
I didn't so much as glance up for the rest of the class. When Professor Burke dismissed us, I waited until Ezra had disappeared through the doors -- running his fingers over every desk along the way -- before even thinking about leaving.
xxx
"Hey Santos."
"Alex."
". . .Alex?"
"Alexander!"
I jumped upright with a yelp when something crashed into my head. Before I could process that I'd been hit in the face with a pillow, not a fist, I was tumbling off the couch onto the carpeted floor of the apartment. Mack's booming laugh rang in my ears as I fought my way out of my blanket.
"What the hell, man?" My whine turned into a groan when I hit my head on the edge of the coffee table on my way up. "Holy motherfucking mother of fuck."
Mack stared blankly at me, unimpressed, as I stumbled to my feet, holding my palm flat against the throbbing side of my head. "Was all that really necessary?"
Narrowing my eyes, I said, "You better tell me why you felt the need to wake me up before I knock your teeth out, Denver."
Mack raised his hands defensively, smirking at the empty threat, but the small step he took away from me told me he didn't call my bluff entirely. Which was smart, because I wasn't entirely bluffing.
"You'll never guess who's coming to the Carvell game," Mack said, grinning like whatever news he was about to share would change my life.
I waited for him to answer his own question, but he was watching me expectantly, drawing out the "suspense." Internally rolling my eyes, I pushed what hopefully sounded like curiosity into my voice and asked, "Who?"
"You're supposed to guess."
The next eye-roll was even harder suppress. "Give me a hint."
"You were in Sigma Chi together."
Ah, so the exciting visitor was some pretentious party snob who would call me a traitor for leaving the fraternity. "That doesn't really narrow it down."
Mack stared at me, dumbfounded, as if to say, are you serious? "He now goes to Carvell . . ."
"Oh," I said when it clicked. Realizing that probably didn't sound enthusiastic enough, I added, "Oh. You mean Dennis?"
Dennis Tanden had been one of my closest "brothers" when we were freshmen -- we pledged together and made it through some probably-illegal hazing by leaning on each other. He was a nervous kid, and would follow me around like a shadow at tailgates and after-parties, but by the end of the first semester we were doing body shots off each other (which, gross) and getting crossed together in the parking lot.
When he told me he was transferring to Carvell University for his sophomore year, we'd promised to keep in touch, but I'd only seen him a handful of times since, at parties I could hardly remember.
"Yeah, isn't it great?" Apparently Mack had decided I was no longer thinking of socking him, because he stepped into my space to give me a hard clap on the back. "Haven't seen that guy in months! Bet you miss him -- you two were practically married."
I scoffed and nudged his shoulder with mine. Considering Mack was 6'5 and drank protein shakes like water, he didn't budge.
"Looks like you have to go to the game now, huh," he continued, nudging me back and nearly knocking me onto the couch. I grimaced, and he gawked at me. "Dude, that was a joke -- don't tell me you were serious about not going?"
"I don't know, man," I shrugged.
"You can't miss out on the rival game two years in a row," Mack said incredulously. To be fair, I'd had a real excuse last year -- I couldn't exactly miss the birth of my sister's first child for a football game (though at the time, I'd seriously considered it).
"I just don't know if I feel up for it."
Mack went through a host of emotions in the span of a few seconds. He tilted his head, then furrowed his eyebrows, then started to say something, stopped, frowned, furrowed some more, and finally pursed his lips. Then he flopped onto the couch and slapped the spot next to him. "Sit down, Santos."
Which was just about the last thing I needed.
When I didn't budge, he smacked the couch again, harder.
"Aw come on, man." I clicked my teeth and gestured toward my room. "Burke assigned a pretty loaded stack of work. It'll take me all night if I don't start now."
That was a lie.
"You were literally drooling when I came in," Mack said, clearly not intending to drop it. He raised his eyebrows pointedly, and with a sigh, I dropped down next to him, turning to him with my mouth drawn impatiently.
"Yes?"
"Is everything alright, man?"
I leaned back into the cushions opposite him, propping one knee up in the space between us. "'Course. Why wouldn't it be?"
Unlike me, Mack was leaning forward, closer, resting his forearms on his knees. "It sorta seems like you don't wanna do anything anymore. You know, the parties and the video games and just . . . hanging out."
"We literally played Final Fantasy last night," I protested, nodding toward the coffee table, where the disk we had neglected to put away properly the night before sat shiny side up.
"I know, I know," Mack said, waving his hand. His forehead creased, and he seemed as confused about what he was saying as I was. "But I feel like it's all just, er, less, now. You don't wanna do things as often, and when you do, seems like you aren't all there. Plus, you've been kind of, ah . . . snappy? "
"Didn't realize it was a crime to not want to act like a teenager all the time," I grumbled, realizing a second too late that I had just proven his point.
Mack sat up straighter, frowning. "Chill, I never said it was. But you're twenty-one, Alex. You're supposed to be having fun. And if that stuff isn't fun for you anymore, whatever man, to each their own -- I just want to make sure that's all. If something's bothering you, you know you can tell me, right?" He reached over and patted my knee. It was clear on his face that he was way out of his element, but he forced an uncomfortable smile and added, "Or, if there's other stuff you'd rather be doing, I could, uh, try it out?"
I turned so I was facing the TV, dropping my knee from the couch -- and from Mack's attempt at comfort.
"I'm good, promise. 'Course I still love doing that stuff with you," I said, pushing for reassurance. "I'm just tired, with school and all. I just need to adjust a little."
He nodded, but he didn't look as sure of my answer as I'd hoped, so I added, "You know what? You're right, I should go to the game. Maybe it'll help me loosen up."
By the way the frown slipped right off his face, he was convinced. And mildly relieved. He'd probably been afraid I would tell him I was into art exhibits or something.
"That's the spirit," he grinned. Standing, he said, "Alright, well if you've got homework, I'm going to head out and grab something to eat. You want anything?"
"Pizza," I said before he'd even finished asking, rubbing my hands together.
"I don't even know why I ask anymore," he chuckled. "Just in case you don't come out of that cave of yours in the next week, I'll see you at the tailgate."
"Count on it." I returned his grin, offering a mock salute as he grabbed his wallet from the kitchen counter and started for the door. The lock had just twisted open with a click when I called out, "Remember, extra--"
"Cheese, extra sauce," Mack laughed. "I know."
As he disappeared through the door frame and the apartment sank into silence, the forced smile fell from my face, and I stared ahead at the blank screen of the television.
xxx
When I trudged into Aerodynamics the following Tuesday to see that Ezra kid already there, seated in the far-right of the third row and wearing shades again, I paused mid-step on the way to my desk and some poor sandy-haired girl ran straight into my back. I muttered some half-hearted apology, too distracted to sound very sincere, because Ezra hadn't come alone.
On the floor to his left sat an impossibly fluffy white golden retriever. It's mouth was open, its tongue lolling out, and as it watched students mill into the room, the only sign of its excitement was the slight wag of its tail against the floor. In addition to a collar and leash, it wore a harness with a handle attached.
Unless North Whitman University had suddenly adopted a very lenient pet policy, it was a service animal. And unless handle-harnesses were the next big trend in dog fashion, it was a guide dog.
Settling into my seat, I chanced a look over his shoulder at his desk. On its surface was a laptop, and as I watched, his fingers flew across the keys. In front of the keyboard, attached by a black wire, was some sort of device I couldn't name. He pressed a button on it, then continued typing. If it wasn't for the embarrassment lingering from being caught a week before -- which was even worse now, knowing he must have literally felt how hard I was staring -- I would've probably spent the class watching him type. But I looked away this time, distracting myself by pulling out my own laptop and opening up Professor Burke's lesson slides.
By "Professor Burke's lesson slides," I meant Coolmath Games.
The class rolled by at a snail's pace, uneventful as ever. I got stuck on a level of Fireboy and Watergirl for a solid twenty minutes, then burned through six more before the class ended. I was so into the game, I'd completely forgotten about the boy in the row in front of me until I was walking down the aisle to leave and a smooth voice called out to me, "Hey."
I nearly tripped over my own feet trying to stop. My bag slid off my shoulder and caught uncomfortably at my elbow. Ezra was leaning against his desk, turned toward me as if he'd been waiting for me.
"Er, hi," I said, then mentally smacked myself for sounding so lame. "What's up?"
"Any chance you've got a few minutes to spare?" At his side, his dog watched me with big brown eyes, its still-wagging tail brushing against the legs of Ezra's chair. Ezra held him by the leash, not the handle. "I'm working on this assignment for journalism about the dynamics of the college classroom and the experiences of Whitman students in the pursuit of their aspirations."
His attention was unsettling. College kids always had a certain distraction about them; they always had somewhere to be, or something to feel anxious or excited about, or something weighing on their minds. But everything about Ezra, from the way he leaned against his desk to his slack grip on his dog's leash to the easy curl of his voice, gave the impression that he was calm and centered and present. He was giving me his full focus, or at least, what I assumed was his full focus. There was only so much I could perceive from the dark lenses over his eyes. I wasn't sure yet if that was intimidating or grounding.
"Sounds interesting," I said.
He scoffed. "Yeah, right. Don't lie to me."
As I floundered for a response, Ezra's lips turned up at the corners. He was teasing. What ended up coming out of my mouth was a surprised, nervous laugh.
"So, are you free?" he asked.
Burke was my last class of the day. Unless going back to my apartment to play video games counted, I literally had nothing better to do. "Yeah, sure."
He grinned, wrapping the leash around his fingers until there was hardly any slack and nodding down the aisle. "Awesome, I appreciate it, man. Wanna just grab a bench outside and get started?"
We left the classroom one after another, his dog remaining dutifully at his left, half a step ahead. As we walked out from underneath the overhang that framed the building, it led him in a wide arc around a column, stopping as they reached the curb. "Go," Ezra instructed quietly, and they started off again into the courtyard.
"There's a bench over there," I said, nodding my head. It took me a moment to realize my mistake, and I quickly added, "Um, straight ahead."
When Ezra snickered, it was hard to tell if he was laughing with me or at me.
"Alright, let's start with the basics. Can I ask your name, grade, and major?"
The questions were simple enough. I told him that I was a junior this year, that I had chosen Whitman because it was one of the few large, diverse, not entirely pretentious universities that had strong aeronautical and astronomy programs. I told him the age-old tale of five-year-old me catching a passing glimpse of a space documentary at a friend's house, begging said friend's dad to play it from the beginning, and promptly ignoring the friend for the next two hours, enraptured by the images on the screen even though I didn't understand the accompanying words.
Ezra had one ear plugged with a headphone, the other listening attentively. His fingers flew across the keyboard with memorized ease as I spoke, every now and then coming up to tuck hair behind his ears or darting to the odd device attached to his laptop which, upon further inspection, I realized had a few buttons and some sort of changing braille display. His hair wasn't particularly long, but it was just enough to be pulled back into a tiny ponytail, save for a few strands at the front that kept falling against his cheeks.
I explained to him how, from that moment on, I had known that I wanted to work with space. Of course, to five year-old me, astronaut was the only way to reach that goal. Twelve year-old me saw there were other options, fifteen year-old me realized how good I was at physics, eighteen year-old me applied to Whitman to study aerospace engineering, twenty year-old me officially declared it as my major, and twenty-one year old me was . . .
Very happy with the way things were turning out.
My grades were good, and Whitman had incredible professors, programs, and research opportunities. I told him as much, and he asked about extracurriculars and activities outside of my major. I told him about the two years I spent in a fraternity -- Why did you leave? It just wasn't the place for me, and it was taking up too much of my time. Is that all? That's all -- the intramural volleyball I played when I had the time, and my job at a smoothie shop on campus.
Was I satisfied with my college experience so far? Of course I was. It was overwhelming at times, yes, and exhausting, sure, but I was where I was meant to be, doing what I was meant to do.
Ezra paused midway through typing my answer. At first I thought something had caught his eye, which really was proof that engineering majors were not always as smart as they were given credit for. He tilted his chin upward, almost as if he was appraising me. I had to stifle a shudder at how unnerving it was to have those black sunglasses directed at me without seeing the eyes underneath, staring instead at my puzzled reflection. To be looked at without really being looked at. Had I said something wrong?
Then he asked me to repeat myself, thanked me for my answers, and bid me goodbye. I stayed there on the bench for a few minutes after he left, trying to shake the feeling that he had been watching me behind those shades the entire time.
I hadn't expected to see Ezra after the one-time interview, but he appeared in Aerodynamics again that Thursday, a few minutes after lecture had begun, and beckoned me over at the end of class.
"Another interview?"
"Same one. Can I ask you a couple more questions?"
We took the same bench as last time, and Ezra jumped right in. "I don't really have any new questions, per say. But I wanted to ask you about some of your previous answers, if that's alright."
"Ask away."
He didn't speak up right away, though. He pressed his lips into a line, like he was thinking carefully over his next words. Then he said, "I got the feeling those weren't your real answers."
That . . . wasn't what I had been expecting. "Excuse me?"
"I like to think I'm a good listener. Sort of have to be, considering," Ezra gestured vaguely around his eyes. "I've interviewed several people for this assignment, but your responses stood out to me. Don't take this the wrong way, but you sounded like you were reading off of a script."
I mulled over how to possibly take that other than the wrong way and came up empty. "Was I supposed to whine and gripe about my life, then?"
The shake of Ezra's head was a delicate, intentional thing. "No, that's not what I mean. There were people who gave glowing reviews and people who hardly had anything good to say, but you're the only one who didn't sound like you meant any of it."
"You're not seriously calling me a liar right now," I bristled.
"You're right, I'm not," Ezra placated. "I'm just saying I feel like there might be more to your answers than what you shared with me, and if I'm honest, that makes you leagues more interesting than any of the other students I spoke to."
"God forbid I bore you."
"Look, I'm really not trying to offend you here," Ezra said, and something about the matter-of-fact, unflinching calm of his voice was getting right underneath my skin. "But if there's more to know, I'm going to ask. You told me you were satisfied with your experience here. I heard something else."
My feet itched to get away from this conversation, from Ezra's prying words and hidden stare. "Well by all means, tell me what you heard," I snapped, because that was easier than reading into his words, and because he might back off if I laid the irritation on thick enough. But he didn't waver. He leaned back against the bench as if he was just getting comfortable, absentmindedly stroking the top of his dog's head.
"Do you actually want that, or are you going to be upset with me if I do?" He asked, and it came out so aggravatingly patronizing, I didn't dignify it with a response other than a huff. Ezra met me with equal silence, waiting, waiting, appraising, waiting some more, until he finally gave up on waiting and said, "It's perfectly normal, you know. To feel unsatisfied. You're a junior, it makes sense if you don't have everything figured out right now. I'm not trying to accuse you or anything -- I just want to do my best on this assignment. I really did mean it when I said I find you interesting."
Ezra was a complete stranger, yet it felt as if he was reading me, staring into my damn soul and unpacking the baggage there. I hadn't given him permission to look so close.
"I said it before and I'll say it again: my life is going exactly as I planned it, and I couldn't be happier," I said, and would again to anyone who asked, over and over if I had to. "I answered your questions, and if you're not happy with the product, that's your deal, not mine. I agreed to an interview, not to some stranger telling me how to feel and poking around in my business. Are we done?"
The downturn of Ezra's lips was slight, but it was the first sign of distress he'd shown. His dog lay its head on his knee as if it could sense that he was more bothered than he was letting on. Still, his voice came out perfectly even. "I would never try to tell anyone how they feel. I'm wrong all the time, and I wouldn't have it any other way. But I've been told I can be blunt, and you're right, it's your business, so I'm sorry if it all came out wrong. Thank you for interviewing with me."
xxx
finalllllyyyyyy back with another short story!! sorry for the wait (and the general lack of content this year), i have been superrrrr uninspired since tbos. i've been sitting on like 5 projects forever now (a rough version of this chapter has literally been in my drafts for a year +) but i haven't been able to commit fully to any. good feelings about this one, though! it's a little different from the other's,, it's less plotty and more conversational/introspective, but i hope you all still enjoy it! i know mcs being a lil melodramatic rn but just give him a sec, he has to marinate
i have the second chapter written, just not edited (it's like 6k words rip) so expect that soon :)))
p.s. let's pretend i uploaded this on the day i said i would. i missed midnight by like 10 minutes smfh