I’d arrived early, and only Fade, Jimbo, and Chase were here, busy arranging red Solo cups into triangles on the table and filling each cup a quarter full with foamy Natty Light. Chase waved me over to his side of the table. I admitted I had never played.
—Pong virgin! Chase said, cracking open a can of Natty Light and handing it to me. Pong virgins have to chug a can before every game.
—Since when? Fade said.
—Since today. Drink up!
This wasn’t in line with my plans to stay sober, but I didn’t want to resist Chase. I closed my eyes and glugged down the warmish, bitter beer. The Solo cups were ready, and we started playing the first game.
—Where’s McCoy? Jimbo asked me. Wait wait, let me guess. All-night poetry reading. Or, no, particle collider.
—He’s with regular students.
Jimbo landed his shot in the cup at the top of our triangle. I plucked the ball out and downed the beer. Devonté also made his shot, and Chase simultaneously downed the beer and rolled the ball back to Devonté, leaving a foamy trail along the length of the table.
—He’ll learn, Jimbo continued. I was the same way freshman year—thought coming to King meant I was coming to King. Then I found out regular students think we’re all losers and they’re all winners.
He adopted a snooty white voice.
—“I graduated the top of my high school class.” “I boarded Phillips Choate Andover Exeter.” Yeah? Well I got a 3.9 and can run a 4.3.
—So why can’t you fuckin’ talk and shoot? Chase said.
Jimbo took his shot, missing. He resumed his lecture.
—I mean, there are differences. King’s the only place I’ve ever been where you get snow blindness in the summertime. I was moving into my dorm sophomore year? Neighbors came by and said they needed a lightbulb replaced—thought I was the fuckin’ janitor. And they’re all rich as fuck. Most of the cars parked on West are worth more than your daddy’s salary.
—Reshawn was making fun of us at the carnival, I said.
I’d been waiting all week for the right moment to tell people. The game was paused.
—Us who? Chase asked.
—Players, I said. Reshawn told them we piss our pants and only know the letters X and O.
It was Jimbo’s turn to shoot, but he just contemplatively bounced the ball against the table.
—Is there a name for a football Uncle Tom? he asked.
—How about Cousin Shawn, Fade said.
—There you go, Jimbo said, raising his ball to shoot. Cousin fuckin’ Shawn.
I missed nearly all my shots, and my percentage only worsened in the second game. Chase groaned every time I missed, and groused the few times I did make it (“About fuckin’ time”). Yet despite the heckling he remained my partner. After I cost us our second game in a row and some newly arrived players tried to claim our spot, Chase put his arm around me and announced Will linebackers would stay here as long as they fuckin’ liked.
Midway through the third game, Chase’s cell phone rang. Sadie was calling, and without further ado he dropped his ball into the cup of water to the side of our triangle and walked outside. I was left to finish the game alone, and lost. Without Chase by my side, I didn’t dare to stop J1 and J2 from claiming next.
By now the front room had filled with players and the women they’d invited—perfume, beery burps, the shush and rattle of another abused window blind. People were moving in and out of the house so often that the front door was left open, which is how I saw Chase sitting on the front porch stairs, holding his phone between his legs. I stepped outside and took a seat next to him. He seemed sobered by his conversation.
—Stubborn, is all he said.
Mosquitoes bit at our ankles. Chase dug his wallet from his pocket, removing a photograph and handing it to me. The porch stairs were too dark to make it out, and I had to lean back and rest on my elbows on the porch floor to catch the light coming from inside.
—She’s pretty.
Sadie wasn’t the thin blonde I’d conjured during camp. She seemed to be Mexican or something, short and curvy with dark brown eyes and a loosely tied ponytail that rested on her right shoulder. She stood on a riverbank next to a weeping willow. I guessed it was her portrait from senior year of high school.
—Sadie’s a nickname, Chase said, reclaiming the photo and returning it to his wallet. Her parents gave it to her when they moved from Guatemala. Her real name’s Soledad.
He talked about her at length for the first time. She’d been a walk-on field hockey player at King, and they met at a Sunday night Fellowship of Christian Athletes meeting freshman year in the basement of the chapel. At the end of the meeting the FCA group formed a circle around a men’s lacrosse player whose father was dying of cancer, and Sadie and Chase held hands while the prayer was said. She squeezed Chase’s hand before letting go—then found him after the meeting and asked him out—then kissed him at the end of their first date—then told him she didn’t believe in waiting until marriage to have sex. She loved Chase but hadn’t liked King, and transferred to Georgetown. They tried long-distance, but by last spring she had tired of the arrangement and called to say she thought they should break up—a decision Chase had been trying to reverse for five months now.
—You a virgin, Furling?
I laughed.
—Only in beer pong.
—Uh huh. When you do start fucking, get
