I hustled him to a swinging door, through a mudroom stale with the smell of running shoes, and out onto a short flight of wooden steps built into the side of the house. He puked on a patch of ivy next to the stairs—once, twice, retching so hard he would wake up the next morning with burst blood vessels in both eyes.
Once he finished, we sat on the steps. We faced a tall wooden fence that separated this Victorian from the one next door.
—I’m taking an independent study with Grayson this summer, he slurred.
—See? I told you he wasn’t mad about Savannah. Reshawn shook his head.
—That was pretense. Pretext. Jamie being Jamie.
I didn’t know what he meant. Reshawn pressed his thumb against his nostril and shot out a chunk of vomit lodged in his sinus cavities.
—She was right, he continued. We should have gotten that stuff from Eula’s. I have this theory, Miles. I’m gonna tell it. Car-michael? A slave who teaches himself to read? There’s no evidence, but I know it happened.
—“It”?
He looked at me, confused, then raised his eyebrows, remembering.
—We don’t have anything saying he ever tried to escape. He was born here, in Blenheim.
Reshawn made his left hand into a kind of fin to mark the beginning of CSK’s life.
—He died in Trenton.
He made a right fin-cum-gravestone.
—Blenheim, then he leaves with the Union Army. No mention, none, of him trying to escape. Not in the poetry, or the essays. But I know he did it. If he didn’t already attempt before King time-tricked him, he must have after. I bet there’s another essay out there, saying he did. You can’t be him, in that world, and just … accept it. You gotta run.
After he puked a third time, I helped him inside. I led him past people sitting on the first staircase, then up another set of stairs from the second floor to the attic. The ceiling lowered dramatically. We entered Jamie’s bedroom, which must have once been servants’ quarters: The ceiling was sloped on both sides by the gable the room fell within, so that the only place we could stand up straight was the exact center of the room, where the two sides of the ceiling met. Every decoration was some form of King paraphernalia—King pennants pinned to the wall; photographs of Jamie and her friends in King College-branded picture frames; a quilt on her bed featuring a woven King Chapel. I laid Reshawn on the bed, and he was asleep before I removed his second shoe.
I was drunk enough myself that I held fast to the banisters as I descended the staircases. I walked outside toward my car, passing the abandoned croquet mallets, balls, and wickets. An old minivan pulled up in front of the house, the van’s sliding side door banged open, and a surprising number of students spilled out, like a clown car, everyone heading toward the porch.
—Miles!
I dug the fingernail of my index finger into my thumb.
—Thao? he continued, prompting me.
—Yeah, I managed to say. I remember.
I had imagined this conversation countless times, and at this point in each fantasy Thao was already immobilized by my charm. Now I was just hoping I didn’t puke on his Pumas.
—Jamie told me you’re in Massachusetts, I said.
Thao gasped and looked himself up and down.
—I am? But then where are you?
It’s not that he looked different from how I remembered him, it’s that he hummed with the strangeness of being right there, in front of me. I loved his voice. Loved how it could sound at once so airy and strong, like lightweight metal that can support thousands of pounds. I didn’t have a clever response to what he’d said.
—I guess I’m still mostly in Massachusetts, he continued. I’m just visiting for the weekend.
—Your friend’s still sick?
—He is.
Thao didn’t seem to be willing to expand on the subject. Say something, Miles.
—So what’s this summer? I asked.
—What?
—I mean, what are you this summer?
Thao’s face grew serious, and he said in a low, stern tone:
—Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to walk this line.
He pointed to one of the edges of the path. I stepped onto the border and closed my eyes, centering myself. Then I opened them and started to walk, finger on my nose, accessing what athleticism hadn’t been shorted out by the alcohol. I stayed on the line ten straight steps, then turned around and managed the feat again as I walked back to him.
—Okay, he said. I’m going to let you off with a warning.
—Thank you, officer.
I couldn’t believe I’d flirted like that. Now he was the one to get slightly shy, and I got a little more confident.
—What are you doing this summer? I finally succeeded saying.
—Summer school, he said. I need to catch up on credits I lost this semester.
—I’m here this summer, too.
He smiled. I smiled. The friends he’d arrived with were calling for him from the porch.
—Well, he said, squeezing my biceps. Maybe I’ll see you around.
FIVE
King College transformed into an immaculate husk. Sumptuous buildings went dark and manicured quads emptied as students departed for internships, jobs, and family vacations; professors and administrators migrated to conferences, field research, and retreats; clerical and maintenance staff were dismissed to work even worse-paying gigs until they were needed again in the fall. You would see the occasional grad student emerge from the stacks looking as stunned and pale as a surfaced deep-sea creature, or a group of ulcerous premeds worrying flash cards in advance of an Organic Chemistry quiz, but by and large what life there was on campus was athletes—football players staying in Blenheim all summer, taking classes and training for August’s camp.
The only school housing available was on Central, and on a Sunday far hotter than a late-May day had any right to be, Reshawn and I lugged our stuff up three flights of an outdoor staircase and moved into
