When we finally reached our teammates, I stared at Chase, waiting for him to apologize, to acknowledge that I’d listened to his sob story all evening, comforted him, just for him to abandon me. But I’d been too successful in getting him drunk, and his already small attention span shrank down to nothing as he talk-shouted at Fade.
—Yo, Jimbo said. You think the A/V guys recorded the pregame speech? Aristotle would have been proud of that rhetoric.
—That’s Zeller’s daddy’s name?
Jimbo snatched the beer Cornelius was holding and pointed at him accusingly with the bottle neck.
—I tutored you a whole semester for Intro to Philosophy.
—The fuck’s that got to do with my beer?
Jimbo shook his head and took a long pull.
—What did he call normal students again? Jimbo asked us.
—Royalty.
It was the perfect word for the people swaying in front of us, dressed in their North Face fleeces and limited edition jeans, wearing teeth they’d probably gotten whitened as high school graduation presents, people who didn’t see us as the victors of a historic rivalry game, just as a row of irritatingly big bodies blocking access to the bar.
As I was looking out at the crowd, I noticed something that made me wonder if I’d accidentally ingested the acid that dread locked boy had lost. I saw a black kid on the dance floor who was a dead ringer for my roommate, grinding on a girl. The crowd was so thick the kid bobbed in and out of view as heads shifted right and left, and I had to keep staring at the spot, waiting for the next glimpse.
Jesus, it was Reshawn. I recognized the girl, too, though I didn’t know her name. She had been coming to our dorm room the past couple weeks. Light brown skin, curly brown hair, a white tank top that glowed in the low light.
This was shocking, but nowhere near as shocking as the two boys I realized were dancing alongside them. The boys weren’t grinding on each other as the girl and Reshawn were—if anything they were moving circumspectly—and yet the way their eyes met, how their hands rose in tandem and momentarily interlocked before separating once more, made it clear they were dancing together. Reshawn and the girl looked over at the two boys, and the four of them slowed down for a moment to dip their heads and talk.
My teammates saw what I saw. Cornelius started laughing, but Jimbo glowered.
—What, Jimbo said to Cornelius. You got people pointing at you and whispering, “That’s Cornelius Belkins”?
—No.
—No, you don’t. What about you, Fade? No? Well, they do with Reshawn. He’s the only player any of these royals know. He represents our team, you assholes.
Jimbo downed the last of his beer and set the bottle on the bar.
—Cousin fuckin’ Shawn, he said. I’m outta here.
One of the boys was petite and white, with sweaty red-blond hair that he could sweep back from his forehead with his fingers and the hair would remain standing, a wet flame. The other boy—the other boy was gorgeous. Almost as tall as Reshawn and Asian of some sort, he had buzzed black hair and taut skin displayed by a loose tank top. He raised his arms, closed his eyes, and snapped his fingers to the music, thin triceps flexing, dark nipples peeking out. With his eyes closed, the Asian boy lost the rhythm of the crowd and accidentally brushed against Reshawn. And did Reshawn recoil in disgust? Did my roommate mouth the words “Watch it, faggot,” like my teammates would have? No, he just kept dancing.
Tabs paid, we snaked along the edge of the crowd toward a side exit past the end of the bar. Chase finally deigned to acknowledge my existence.
—That’s what my dad was talking about! he said, grabbing my sleeve and pointing.
—So?
—So come on! Why are we the ones leaving?! Why are fags allowed to stay?!
—Leave them be, Chase.
He made a pouty face.
—Oh, are those your friends, Cunthole?
I ignored him, done with him, done with my stupid fucking infatuation. I kept following the group to the exit.
—Don’t do anything stupid! Cornelius yelled.
I turned and saw Chase had broken away from the group. He was pushing through the crowd toward the two boys.
I was drunker now than I’d ever been, I had the liquid courage of my convictions, and so, without knowing exactly what I planned to do, I pushed into the crush of dancers myself, my shirt collecting strangers’ sweat as I kept Chase’s bullish blond head in sight. I was infuriated by the idea that Chase was going to take out his disappointment with Sadie on a couple of kids who’d been brave enough to go dancing.
Seeing Chase almost within reach of the boys, I gave up politely maneuvering around the crowd and pushed straight through, arriving just as Chase was leaning down to scream at the smaller of the two boys while Reshawn, who wasn’t nearly as strong as Chase, tried to pull him off. The crowd opened a perimeter around them, which gave me the space I needed to grab Chase by the back of his collar and slam him against the sticky floor, cracking the back of his head against the parquet.
It says a lot about who I was back then that the very first thing I did was stand up and look back to the edge of the dance floor, checking to see whether my teammates had been watching. Devonté and
