For a moment, he considered his family. He thought about Fer, who would be busy with work. He thought about Chuy, who would be busy with whatever fuckup he’d gotten himself into now. He thought about his mom, who was on a cruise with Nicholas, the current boyfriend. He could already hear her, hear the mixture of disappointment and exhaustion, as she explained that her youngest was making a scene again.
It was laughable, unbelievably ridiculous, because he knew he should call them. He knew whatever he was involved in, it was worse than anything he’d gotten into before. But he kept hearing Glasses say or ask your family to bail you out, and he pictured Fer, the butt of the pistol cracking across his face.
Auggie staggered into the bathroom. He made sure the door to the other suite was locked, and then he washed his face and rinsed out his mouth, spitting pink water into the basin, where it swirled away into the drain. His eyes stung worse and worse, and then he was sobbing, bent over the sink, his whole body shaking as he tried to be quiet, tried to calm himself down. Bits and pieces of it kept coming back: the humiliating slaps that had driven him across the room, the sudden powerlessness as he was forced onto the bed, the fist cracking against his teeth, the cold steel of the gun against his skin.
“Holy shit,” Orlando said from the doorway. “What happened to you?”
Auggie shut the water off, grabbed his towel, and pushed past Orlando, drying his face as he went.
“Hey,” Orlando said, his thick brows drawn together as he caught Auggie’s shoulder. “Who the fuck did this?”
“I gotta go,” Auggie said, trying to twist away.
“Like hell. Tell me who did this. I’m going to murder the son of a bitch.”
“Get the fuck off me,” Auggie shouted, slapping Orlando’s hand away.
He plunged out into the hallway. Brad, from two doors down, was standing in his doorway staring. Auggie ignored him and rushed for the stairs, but he could hear Orlando coming after him, the murmur of low voices. Great, Auggie thought. Perfect. They’d all heard him shouting at Orlando, but nobody had heard a fucking peep when Glasses had been threatening to kneecap him.
When Auggie got outside, he was so wrapped up in himself that he didn’t hear the voices until he’d covered almost twenty yards of the quad.
“Hey, kid, I said hold the fuck up.”
Auggie glanced over his shoulder. A man and woman were coming after him. The man was huge, his head shaved, a Celtic cross tattoo taking up most of one forearm. The woman was tall and thin, bleached hair in a ponytail, a swastika tattoo on her cheek.
“Yeah, you,” the woman shouted. “We want to talk to you.”
Auggie turned and ran.
8
The bus getting to Downing had been late. Then the bus coming back had been late too. Then Theo had gotten distracted by Astrophil and Stella and missed his stop, and he’d gotten off half a mile north of campus. He’d had to walk the half mile because there wasn’t a bus that would take him back—not for another half hour, anyway. The September day was hot; his clothes were soaked with sweat by the time he reached Liversedge Hall, and he could already feel the beginning of a sunburn. Worse, the bus had smelled like BO and fire-lime Takis, and now the smell clung to Theo as he limped onto the elevator and wiped sweat from his face. A moment later, one of the Philosophy Department secretaries got into the car—prissy, gangly Solomon, who looked around the car and wrinkled his nose. When they got to the third floor, Theo limped off the elevator; he heard Solomon say, “Absolutely disgusting” as the doors closed.
Theo considered calling the elevator back. He could ride up to the Philosophy offices. He could find Solomon, who kept a row of faux Art Deco figurines on his desk, all of them vaguely resembling Cher. He could smash those little ceramic Chers one by one. And if Solomon made a fucking peep, Theo could shove the Chers down his fucking throat.
Instead, he decided on his second-best option for dealing with a shitty day: reading poetry.
After the half-mile walk, Theo needed the cane more than usual as he made his way down the hall to his office. Light shone behind the pebbled glass, and he braced himself for Grace, for the questions, for the concern, for the long, lingering looks of sympathy. When he opened the door, the fragrance of microwaved masala met him, and a plastic TV tray steamed in front of Grace’s computer, but Grace was miraculously absent. Dawson’s desk and computer still looked like they hadn’t been touched this year; Theo figured that Dawson was on track to finish the PhD sometime in 2030 at this rate.
Settling himself at the desk, Theo had just propped his cane against the wall and stretched out his aching leg when someone hammered on the door.
“Go away,” Theo shouted. “This is not office hours.”
The door flew open, and Auggie Lopez tumbled into the room. He looked around, his dark eyes wide, and then he shut the door and leaned against it.
“Please,” Auggie said. “Please tell them I’m not here.”
“What? Who?” Theo struggled to get to his feet, but his leg was starting to stiffen. He grabbed the cane. “What’s going on?”
“Please,” Auggie whispered.
The door thumped as someone tried to force it open.
“Hey,” Theo said. “What the hell is going on out there?” He limped toward Auggie, pushed him into the corner behind the door, and threw open the door.
A big guy with a buzzed head stumbled, off balance without the resistance of the door. Next to him, a blond woman with a swastika on her cheek had one hand behind her
