“Yeah, but I’ve never had people lining up to take Shakespeare in the World.”
Now Robert released his hands, and he scrubbed at his shorts. That was it. Nothing else. But somehow, Theo knew it had to do with the fucking accident. Everything in his life had something to do with that fucking accident now.
“Robert? Or Robbie?”
“Robert’s fine.”
“We’re not supposed to add students. They cap the class sizes for a reason.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m really sorry. I realized over the summer that I could graduate in December if I took this class, but then it was too late to register online, and when I called the secretaries, they told me I had to talk to you in person and get you to sign it.”
Theo laid the pink slip on his desk.
“So, um,” Robert said. “Mr. Stratford. I mean Theo. I’d really appreciate it.”
“Sure,” Theo said.
“Oh, man.” Robert grinned and looked up. “Thank you.”
“As soon as you tell me what they’re saying about me.”
“Mr. Stratford, I don’t—”
“This is an easy deal. And I won’t hold it against you.”
Robert named one of the most popular rate-the-professor sites; he was scrubbing his shorts again.
“All right,” Theo said, signing the slip and passing it back. “Have a great day.”
“Thanks, Mr.—um, Theo.” Robert paused in the doorway. “And, uh, I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah. Thank you.”
Theo logged on to the computer, navigated to the site Robert had mentioned, and found his profile. It had ratings for classes he’d taught before—as well as the highly sought-after fire emoji that meant he was hot—and a section for general comments. There it was, laid out in staggered time stamps from June and July.
—nearly died—
—boyfriend decapitated—
—husband, dummy, not boyfriend—
—little girl didn’t make it—
—she did, actually, but she lost her legs, I think, or—
—just saying I had a class once where the professor killed himself and we all got A’s—
—total bullshit, you stupid troll—
He closed the tab. His hand was sweaty against the mouse. His pulse beat in his fingertips. Then, for the first time since June, he opened his email.
Hundreds of unread messages waited for him.
He scrolled all the way down, opened it, and the words blurred together. He started typing the phrase he’d be using for the rest of his fucking life.
Thank you. That really means a lot.
3
In the Sigma Sigma frat house, Auggie hammered back another shot of Milagro and blinked tears from his eyes. An upperclassman was roaring in his ear—words, but Auggie had no clue what the guy was saying—and slapped another glass into his hand. A fist pounded on his back, and Auggie screamed something and threw back the shot. This time, he sputtered, and the upperclassman pounded on his back again, and that seemed to settle something—whatever the hell they’d been trying to settle. The crowd split up into smaller groups, and the upperclassman wandered off, and Auggie, all by himself, coughed until he felt like one of his lungs had come loose. When he could breathe again, he did a selfie, flashing a peace sign. The filter helped him look not totally wasted, and that was the point: Auggie’s internet persona was fun but responsible, the cute boy you could bring home to the parents. Internet Auggie couldn’t be seen wasted after doing a line of cheap shots.
The Sigma Sigma Bid-ness Party was overwhelming, but it was the perfect capstone—Saturday night of rush week. Carly Rae Jepsen blasted from a speaker system that ran through the house, although house was a loose term. The building was approximately the size of the elementary school Auggie had attended. On the main floor, small groups of people talked and drank and laugh. Couples grinded against each other in dark corners—and sometimes, in not-so-dark corners. In some of the bigger rooms, furniture had been pushed back to clear space for impromptu dance floors, where crowds of guys and girls swayed and humped and tried to figure out who was going home with whom. A toxic mixture of sweat and a hundred colognes and perfumes hung in the air; somebody had already puked in one of the main-floor bathrooms, and in the kitchen, carry-out five-dollar pizzas were stacked in their boxes. Auggie posed with the stack, pretended to drool, and put a hand on his belly. He snapped the picture and posted it.
“Pledge,” a scrawny guy screamed as he sprinted past Auggie, tugging on the sequined sash that Auggie was wearing. An even scrawnier girl came next, and she squealed, “Pledge” too and tried to rip the sash free. Auggie spun drunkenly into her pull, and then she released him and stumbled off down the hall. Auggie was laughing; he laughed so hard he crashed into a doorway, and the next thing he knew, he was sitting on his ass.
“Jesus, you are a serious lightweight.”
Orlando’s face—thick brows, heavy scruff, lantern jaw—floated into view, and then hands caught Auggie under the arms and lifted.
“Oh, shit,” Auggie said, his stomach flipping.
Just as quickly, Orlando released him, letting him slide down the jamb to rest on the floor.
“Ok,” Orlando said. “I guess you’re staying here for a minute.”
“Hey, man,” Auggie said.
“Hey,” Orlando said.
“Pledge,” Auggie said, tugging on the sash Orlando was wearing. Then he displayed his own. “Same.”
“Holy shit,” Orlando said with a laugh. “Is it, like, my roommate duty to get you home or something?”
“M’fine,” Auggie said. “You are really cool.”
“How many shots did those guys make you do?”
Auggie tried to hold up eleventeen fingers, which he was pretty sure was the right number, but he couldn’t seem to keep them all up. Then he started giggling.
“All right,” Orlando said. “You’ve definitely had enough.”
“M’fine,” Auggie said. “Les take a picture.”
“Yeah?” Orlando said. “You going to make me a YouTube star too?”
“Not a star,” Auggie said, tapping at his phone, trying to unlock it as the booze hit harder now. “Internet pers—internet pers—internet personality.” He crowed as he got past the passcode and showed
