My alarm rang.

I’d opted into the Friday morning class instead of the afternoon one so I’d be done sooner for the weekend. A decision I regretted the moment I had to get up. My hand slapped the nightstand aimlessly in search of my phone, then I rolled out of bed onto the floor and sat on some jeans I’d discarded the night before. Convenient. I pulled them on.

I tried to follow the morning routine I’d begun the previous two days of class, hoping to establish a rhythm, but trying to put on eyeliner when I could barely keep my eyes open was not happening. I gave up and threw the pencil into my backpack. After looking for a way to make coffee, I found myself blessed by the existence of Sammy as she’d already made a pot before heading to the gym.

Ten quick walking minutes later and I was in the art building.

The drawing classroom had tall, pitted, white walls and paint-caked floors. Easels populated the room like young sprouting trees all planted at the same time. There must have already been a few classes there because the room was organized orbiting a central empty plinth. Presumably for a model. There were three different kinds of seating implements, each marking an era of funding for the art school. First, ancient wooden stools, followed by dark-age metal stools, then finally renaissance plastic chairs. The north-side wall was armed with a selection of broad filing cabinets and lockers, while the southside wall supported a dirty projector screen. The professor stood ominously in front of the screen, leaning on a twisted wooden cane as he silently watched each student pass through the door. He was wrapped in an old brown coat, the color of which could only have been achieved through sheer use.

[drawing]drawingstudio[/drawing]

Basic Drawing One by Antonio Vitelli. I read at the top of the syllabus.

Class was slow. The instructor seemed new, despite his age, but that might have been because he read the syllabus aloud to us verbatim, stopping only occasionally to explain something that was already self-explanatory. He requested that we collect the materials marked under unit one by next class and gave us our first drawing assignment. I folded it into my empty sketchbook and hopped out of my chair to pack up and go like everyone else when the professor stopped us because he’d forgotten something. He motioned to the far corner of the room where a student had been sitting patiently the whole class. I hadn’t even noticed.

“Excuse me, class, I neglected to mention something. This is your student teacher, Harmony, they’ll be here to review your sketchbooks, projects, and answer questions. During live drawing sessions they will also walk around the room and give feedback about your work. Harmony?” He said, gesturing. Harmony stood up carefully.

“Hi. I’m Harmony, they/them pronouns only, and I’m a sophomore. If you’re interested in portraiture or illustration, I can give you advice but mostly I’m just as lost as you.” Harmony smiled to the class. They wore the same faded band tee as yesterday and still avoided making eye contact with me. That was what they meant by see you tomorrow.

Fuck, they were hot.

As class ended, some students took the opportunity to talk to Harmony or Professor Vitelli, and others claimed lockers and cabinets on the wall. I pretended to pack my things but stared at Harmony until everyone left. I couldn’t tell if they avoided looking at me because they liked me or because they didn’t like me.

I finally meandered over to the wall, grabbed a piece of tape off the flat-file cabinet, and began writing out my name to claim one of the bins. Harmony walked over. They motioned to the bottom-most drawer.

“Take that one if you’d like; it used to be mine. There’s a drawing board in there too.”

“Oh hey, thanks. I didn’t know you were a TA.”

“I must have done something right last semester for Vitelli to want me back.” Harmony grinned to themselves as if they’d said something funny.

“Do you like him? Professor Vitelli, I mean.”

“I do actually. He’s kind, he listens, and he’s never dismissive. As a professor he may feel intense at first, but he knows immediately if you care about your work.”

“Honestly, I think this is probably going to be my worst class. I don’t like drawing.” I said. Harmony again mouthed the last few words as I said them. Weird.

“Perhaps it will grow on you, then.” They said, before turning for the door.

“Do you like drawing?” I asked after them.

“I do, but that doesn’t mean you have to.”

I wanted to ask for elaboration, but Harmony nodded once and disappeared out the door before I could. Why did they run from me? It felt curiously childish. Harmony clearly wanted to talk to me but left again before the conversation unfurled.

I twisted back down to the filing cabinet in front of me, staring at the bottom one trying to decide if I should actually take it. I opened it up. There was a drawing board inside, no paper attached to it, but it looked sturdy. Good enough. I ripped off the small piece of tape I’d written my name on and affixed it to the front of the drawer, claiming it. The previous tape on my cabinet was labeled Man. I tried picking at it but got nothing but tape residue on my thumb.

I began emptying a bag of materials into my new cabinet when I noticed a series of doodles around the edge of the drawing board. I pulled it out and inspected them; they were miniscule contour line drawings, one little figure feeding into the next. It was as if their creator, which I assumed was Harmony, had lightly drawn one after another without ever lifting the pencil from the board. The figures were dancing with each other.

I snapped a few pictures with my phone, grabbed my backpack, and headed out.

[drawing]contourfigures[/drawing]

The line at the art store was daunting from across the street. The place was packed. I could tell by the size of people’s bags, getting in would take a while. It was a shitty time to go shopping for school.

I looked both ways quickly and crossed the road. Once inside, I opened my phone. As I weaseled through the line, the grand magnitude of the art store struck me. It was at least three times the size of Getson’s. The loose organization inside was surprisingly comforting. I stood awkwardly until my phone finally revealed the various lists I’d saved: pencils, charcoal, erasers, tape, X-acto knives. The lists were long, with only slight overlaps. A long breath escaped. I grabbed a basket and headed into the throng.

About halfway through my first list I found myself staring down a wall of sketch pads. I was supposed to get a pad of newsprint, but there were so many. They differed in ways I barely understood, weights of paper, grain, shades, absorption…

A voice interrupted my thoughts.

“I have no idea which one we’re supposed to get either, but I’m sure whichever one we pick it’ll be wrong.”

Also staring at the wall beside me was Kennan, a short kid from my Friday morning class. He wore a thick jean jacket and a black beanie. His lips were oddly long, like they went slightly too far around his face. I remembered his name but couldn’t picture what he’d said about himself in our brief round of introductions earlier that day. He continued.

“I’m Kennan, you’re Rachel, right? Sculpture? I remember you because all the other sculpture kids were into glass work, and you were more concept-focused.”

“Hey, yeah, that’s me. Sculpture, no glass. Also Rachel.” I answered clumsily.

“Sculpture is so cool, dude. I can’t really do three-D stuff, never had the eye for it I guess.” He said. Then I remembered. During introductions he had talked about the return of mosaics. He’d suggested that mosaics were one of the oldest forms of art, that just as humans first drew on walls or sculpted mud, they’d also arranged objects into patterns.

“Mosaics are kind of three-D, they control space and force the viewer to walk around them just like sculptures.” I responded. Kennan looked a bit surprised, maybe because he didn’t think I remembered who he was.

“You’re right, but maybe it just feels flat. I envy sculptors who see in the round, who craft something that changes as you walk through the room.”

“Do that, then. Like, in your mosaics.” I suggested.

“I guess I should. Huh. You’re gonna be useful in critique, I can tell.” Kennan said, his eyes glancing at my chest for a millisecond. Ugh.

“Yeah, maybe, if we ever make it that far.” I lamented and stared back blankly at the rows of newsprint. Kennan grabbed one at random.

“We will. What are you doing tonight?” He asked casually.

I froze. Was I about to get asked out by the mosaic kid? Time felt still. I examined him. He was pretty cute actually, being short sort of worked with his cuffed-jeans hipster aesthetic. He had glasses, I liked that. And he seemed nice enough, but I barely knew him. I gauged his sincerity as he picked up the conversation himself.

“Well. If you’re not busy, India and I are throwing a house party, there’s gonna be beer and a jam session. Bring people if you want but try not to invite the whole city.” He grinned. It was genuine.

“No cities, right, I won’t.” I answered, forcing a chuckle, painfully reminded that I had no idea how to communicate with people.

“Three-twenty-five Elmwood Avenue. It’s the big house with a blue door in the yard. Come any time tonight.” Kennan headed back down the aisle, presumably to finish his shopping. I put the address in my phone to remember.

“Great, cool.” I mumbled, but he was already out of earshot.

I grabbed a pad of lightweight grey newsprint, eighty sheets, and stared back at my list. Smudging materials were next. Charcoal was exciting. In high school it never appealed to me, but it fit my art school fantasy:

Me, black dust coating my fingers, calmly and expertly carving an image of the nude, olive-skinned, eastern-European man in the center of the room. I made eye contact with him for a split second, and he smiled ever so slightly back. His abdominal muscles glimmered in the early morning sun as my professor looked over my shoulder, impressed. He pointed to my drawing and held out a pencil to the model, highlighting his quads and started to explain anatomy. He sounded a lot like the impatient thirty-five-year-old smoker yelling at me in line.

“Ma’am. MA’AM! Are you in line? Ma’am, I’m going to need you to step aside if you’re not in line.” The art store employee said, directly into my face. Reality.

“Oh, Yes, I’m ready. To buy this stuff. Thanks. Sorry. I’m in line.”

I really needed to get my shit together.

[drawing]dorm1[/drawing]

Back at the dorm, Sammy was stretched out precariously over her chair with a textbook in her hands. Her hair was up, and she looked like she’d just gotten out of the shower. I grimaced at the thought of math, and Sammy noticed. She winked at me, pointed to her book, and nodded emphatically while licking her lips. I rolled my eyes and put down my stuff before collapsing on my bed to scroll through Instagram. She didn’t move from her spot but spoke across the room.

“Do you wanna grab lunch in like half an hour? There’s this pho place I’ve been fucking dying for. It’s over on… Wait, is it ‘Fuh’ or ‘Fo?’ Someone told me once and I feel like not knowing makes me sound ignorant.” Sammy asked. I chuckled. I could hear her whispering Fuh and Fo repeatedly to herself.

“Sure, sounds good, and I’m pretty sure it’s ‘Fuh.’” I answered.

“Ok sweet! ‘Fuh.’” She said one last time.

“Hey, do you want to go to this party with me tonight? I don’t know if it’ll be any fun but there’s supposed to be beer. Could be really… hipster?” I proposed hesitantly. Sammy whipped around in her chair with excitement.

“You got invited to a party already? Damn girl, you move fast! Hell yeah, let’s go. We’re in college baby!” She whooped.

“Rad!”

“Lemme finish this chapter and we’ll get food.” Sammy said.

“Rad.” I repeated.

“Is Rad your word? You say it a lot.” She asked.

“Oh, it’s just a thing I used to say in high school. My friend Tsuki used to say it back like, ‘Rad? Rad.’” I explained.

“Hm. Ok. Rad.” Sammy smiled and went back to reading.

Thinking of Tsuki made me sad. We hadn’t spoken in months. I opened Instagram and typed her name but backed out soon afterwards. It hurt to see her at Brown without me, and I was sick of hearing about it.

I waded on into some news articles about Jeff Bezos’s never-ending ability to avoid taxes and build an army of drones. I read the headlines, clicked on one, but again backed out after the first few words. I knew reading the article was important, but it would have to wait until later. It was exhausting to read about the collapse of civilization every day, especially while I could feel my college debt clenching around my future.

I drifted onward to check in with my favorite artists. The most popular ones kept a regular stream of new art flowing onto their page. They always had a project going, always had progress to show for it, and always had a product at the end. Part of me wanted that. At least enough to commit to art school. Another part of me was terrified by the pressure such a schedule implied. Was I actually going to improve or just show the same boring work? What would happen if I needed a day off? Did anyone actually want to see what I was building?

My new art materials watched me threateningly from the corner.

--

Sammy poked me from across the room with a ruler I’d just purchased. I protested groggily.

“Baby girl, are you asleep? Come on, Rachel, it’s like two and my body is ready for pho. Pho. Wait no, pho. Dammit.”

“Yeah, I’m awake…” I lied. My phone was pressed into my forehead; I’d fallen asleep mid-scrolling.

“Nice! Let’s go!”

I peeled my phone off, sat up, and Sammy immediately burst into laughter. She cackled as she pointed to her own forehead and lost it again, clutching her sides. I rolled my eyes as I got up and lumbered over to the bathroom. They burnt from the brightness but as I peeked through my fingers, I finally saw the red circle imprinted directly on my forehead. Was that from my phone? I blinked slowly, turned on the faucet and washed my face repeatedly. I could still hear Sammy’s chair shake as she rolled around on it with hilarity.

“Now I have to redo my makeup and you have to wait.” I announced.

“What? No way, you were asleep forever, come on let’s go! You’re killing me!” Sammy groaned.

I ignored her, dried my face, looked at the conspicuous marks, and sighed. The sticky sleep sensation still filled my mouth, so I brushed my teeth while Sammy complained. I checked my eyeliner, which was mostly still intact, so I gave up on the rest. It was good enough for pho.

Sammy threw her hands in the air to praise some metaphysical power as I emerged from the bathroom and reached for my shoes. She grabbed both of our coats off the rack and launched out of the dorm room. I followed in a half skip, still trying to push my ankle into my shoe and catch up with her huge strides. Sammy smiled back at me as people parted the hallway traffic to avoid being trampled. She flexed her biceps and catwalked. I gasped as a passing girl nearly dropped her stack of books because of Sammy’s tomfoolery. Sammy and I exchanged embarrassed expressions, holding back our laughter as we calmed down and slipped into the elevator.

I eyed her as we stood together. I loved how tall and broad she was. Sammy walked the earth as if she had earned her spot. No one could tell her what to do with it. She danced through adversity. Already, she was my best friend. Again, I thought of Tsuki.

The pho walk was longer than expected, and Sammy had no idea where it was, but Google did. It got us there after a brief scenic detour. The restaurant was a biblical disaster. The bar served sake-bombs faster than I could tell who was drinking them. The patronage consisted mostly of college students, which lowered my opinion of the restaurant. Sammy ducked in to check the wait time while I stood outside. It wasn’t quite cold, but almost.

“Yo, they got a table on the patio, you in?” Sammy suddenly said. I turned back to see her head poking out the door. She frowned and shrugged which I reciprocated in kind.

“Sure.” I answered.

“Well get over here then, slowpoke!”

She slipped back inside but I lingered for a moment, watching the cars speed by. My toes reached for the curb through my old shoes.

We stayed at the pho place too long. The first hour vanished immediately, but the second was excruciating. Sammy wanted to vent about how nervous she was for basketball practice to pick up. She had already met her coach, who seemed like a stuck-up bitch to me. Most of her fellow athletes weren’t interested in bonding after practice and felt more than a little homophobic. I didn’t know what to say after the first fifteen minutes. I’d stated my sympathy, and I did care, but I was having trouble expressing it. I wanted to listen and be a good friend, but I was also tired of being in a crowded restaurant. I couldn't help but think about going home. Starting up a video game. I'd been wanting to create a new character in Oblivion for a while, to re-explore the game, but I felt bad saying we should go.

When I finally asked, Sammy didn’t seem opposed. Thankfully.

Back in our dorm, I immediately shed most of my clothing and cracked open my laptop. Sammy settled back into her chair, propped her feet up, and resumed reading her textbook. She threatened to read her work aloud, but I begged her not to. I needed quiet in order to plod through the various races, classes, and birthsigns Oblivion had to offer.

An hour later I closed out of my game. I told Sammy I felt guilty that I might be distracting her, but, in truth, I felt guilty for playing while she was working.

Art beckoned me. I moved to my room, cut open the new pencils and pencil sharpener I’d purchased that afternoon, and went to work. The various class schedules and syllabi spread steadily over my desk as I wrote down what I needed to accomplish on different pages of different sketchbooks. One assignment caught my eye: Monday morning I had a design class where I was supposed to Render a Movement. I remembered dismissing the project when I’d heard the professor’s description, thinking she was probably artsy and annoying. Reexamining the syllabus though, drawing movement for a design class could be fun.

I ran my thumb down the center of my sketchbook which ensured access to as much of the page as possible. I then started to slice out smooth lines across the bottom of the page. Graphite scraped along, throwing out residue like contrails behind it. I whipped my wrist around to give the line a sharp point and raced off in another direction. No discernable subject or intent. Lines flew out of me and onto the page. I reached for other pencils of differing weight, holding a fistful of them in my off-hand as I pushed each inward, one at a time, burying their tips into my first creation. I was so entranced in what I’d begun that I jumped when I realized Sammy was right behind me, watching.

“GHAugh!” I dropped several pencils onto the ground and scrambled to cover the sketch.

“Ah! Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just watching you draw. Fuck, you scared me right back.” Sammy said, holding her chest.

“Sorry, I mean its ok… I guess…” I heaved a big breath to stabilize.

“It looked sick, but you also totally don’t have to show me if you don’t want to, I’m pretty sure I sort of breached your privacy. Shit. That’s on me. I’m sorry.” Sammy responded, wincing sheepishly.

“No, no, you can see, really. I’m not super used to sharing my work with people, but I do need to get used to it for class.” I extended the sketchbook to Sammy. She gingerly wrapped her fingers around the edges and pored over it. I watched her consume the drawing. Her eyes followed the lines back and forth across the page, sweeping up on the edges, entranced like a skater on a half-pipe.

“I’m just gonna say, don’t get art at all, but this is pretty fucking dope… I think?” She concluded, biting her lip. I tried to contain a giggle.

“Rad?” I asked leadingly. Sammy looked back at me with a deep slow nod and narrow eyes, affirming my statement.

“Rad.” She answered. A pang of nostalgia ran through my bones. I wondered for a moment what Tsuki was doing before shaking the thoughts away.

“Hey, you still want to go to this party tonight?” I asked, putting away my scattered pencils.

Sammy’s eyes lit up.

“I was thinking of heading out now-ish, I’m pretty sure it’s across town.” I said.

“Hell yeah, girl, let’s go! Wait, what kinda freshman lives across town?” Sammy asked, confused.

“Some mosaic boy.” I sighed.

Sammy looked at me to make sure I wasn’t kidding.

“His name’s Kennan.”

I pulled my socks and shoes back on, which I must have kicked off while drawing. Sammy donned her jacket and sat on my bed while she searched through Google Maps for Kennan’s house. It was a forty-minute walk. I deflated a bit at the idea of spending forty minutes to get anywhere, then looked up at Sammy’s beaming face. She was always ready to go and set right to work organizing a ride. I almost, but not quite, regretted deciding to go to the party.

The Uber was quiet and uneventful. It was nice to let someone else take charge of my movement, but my exhaustion showed. I would have turned around and gone home immediately upon arrival if it weren’t for the cost of the Uber, Sammy, and the desire to expand my comfort zone a little. I didn’t want to regress into the mopey artist I was in high school.

The car pulled to the side and stopped. I peeked out of my window like a kindergartner on their first day of school, nose against the glass. Directly in front of me were two half-naked men playing cornhole in the front yard. It was evening, almost night, and they still had sunglasses on. I groaned.

Sammy tapped me on the shoulder and pointed out her window. I didn’t understand until I saw it. A big blue door, freestanding ominously in the front yard like a monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey. That was Kennan’s house, thankfully not equipped with shirtless cornholers. It looked a bit run down, but there were three or four hipster-looking kids on the front stoop, smoking maybe? Vaping, probably.

I hopped out after Sammy, using her as a shield from the prying eyes of the artsy welcoming committee. They seemed preoccupied with whatever vape device they were sharing. It smelled pretty good actually, the way a candy store does: kind of sticky and bloated with good memories. Sammy went right up to the front door and pushed it in without knocking. I opened my mouth to complain but we were immediately greeted by Kennan’s voice.

“Hey, welcome to the party, there’s a tip jar here for the band and the beer, alcohol’s in the kitchen, show starts at eight, merch after the show.” Kennan said, slowing as his eyes followed Sammy’s height up to the doorframe in awe. Then he saw me, and his eyes lit up.

I smiled weakly.

He wore a red flannel buttoned all the way up with the sleeves cuffed, tucked into some tight khakis cuffed at the bottom, and his beanie, also cuffed, seemingly unaware of the coordination. I snickered at it a bit but recovered quickly.

“Uh, cool place, Kennan. Thanks for the invite.” I said.

“Happily! Come in! I’m really glad you could make it. I hope you like the music.” He said, glancing at my chest again.

“Thanks, yeah.” I said, accidentally less enthused than I should have been.

“Well I’ve got door duty right now, but when we get closer to the show, I’ll come find you, cool?” He said, peeking around us.

“Sure.” I mumbled.

I wasn’t quite sure what I was supposed to say, but Kennan didn’t seem to take it personally. He eyed another car that was already rolling up behind our leaving Uber. He waved at them, and someone flipped him off from the car window. He gave them the middle finger right back while laughing as Sammy and I walked in past him. She graciously put five dollars in the enormous tip jar. I looked at her, a bit surprised, and she blinked slowly back at me.

“A bitch got her scholarship; she can pay for her own damn beer.” She said indignantly.

She grabbed my hand and plowed through the crowd. Euro-trance house music echoed out of a haphazard surround sound speaker system. It was alright, a bit electronic for my taste, but people were grooving so it couldn’t be that bad. High school parties always featured music, but no one wanted to dance. Or if they did, they were too embarrassed to admit it. The sound would end up rotting in the background as everyone screamed over it.

Not at Kennan’s though. A couple grinded on each other in the hottest, most public, homoerotic way over the living room carpet. I looked away, immediately feeling voyeuristic. Well, I glanced back once. By the couch, a guy doing the robot was trying to impress his friends. He was awful but succeeding. And a group of girls close to the window jumped around spilling beer everywhere. It looked fake at first, the way parties do in movies, all glamor and glitz. Then it looked gross and sweaty, vape mingling with the scent of cigarettes and alcohol. Then it looked fun, I kind of wanted to dance too, a feeling I’d rarely considered seriously before.

I nearly ran into Sammy when she stopped abruptly in front of me.

“What’s up, you ok?” I asked, squeezing her hand.

“Do you see that girl in front of me, sitting on the counter above the ice cooler? If I’m hallucinating, slap me.”

[drawing]India1[/drawing]

I peeked around Sammy to be stunned by the tallest twist of braids I’d ever seen in my life. The Black girl wielding them was wearing an all-denim brand-consistent Canadian tuxedo, a gold chain, a yellow band tee, and some classic red Chucks, just like mine. She was sitting on the counter, legs crossed over the cooler like a throne as she drank out of a martini glass. Sammy was dumbstruck. I hunkered down and put my weight into my roommate’s butt, pushing her toward the guardian of the ice chest. Sammy gargled awkwardly as she hadn’t expected my physical encouragement, but quickly regained composure on the off chance the girl was watching. She was.

“Hey, is this the beer? ‘Cause holy shit I need some.” Sammy asked, casually swatting me away from behind her.

“Yeah, we got PBR, Corona, and a weird IPA some dude brought.” The girl answered, not moving from her perch.

“Imma try one of the IPAs, Rachel, you want a beer?”

“I guess, sure. PBR.” I said, having no intention of drinking it.

“I need a name before I give away any alcohol, though.” The guardian said cryptically, holding back a grin.

“Fuck, I’m Sarmy, I mean sorry, I mean my name is Sammy. Fuck. Dammit. Nice to meet you.” Sammy tried to say as she wiped her sweaty palm onto her jacket and then extended it.

“Nice to meet you too, my name’s India.” She answered, taking Sammy’s hand lightly. She slid over a bit and with a deft kick the cooler popped open.

 “India, rad, I’m Rachel.” I said, waving awkwardly, looking up at the two of them. India smiled, opening her arms to offer me beer.

“So, are you friends with Kennan? Or part of the crew? No judgement, I’m just tryna figure out who’s in my house.” India asked. She looked back and forth between us; Sammy answered.

“Oh, I’m with Rachel, she knows Kennan.”

“With?” India asked with subtext.

“We have a class together on Fridays.” I clarified.

“Oh, so you’re both art majors too? Awesome!” India exclaimed.

“Yeah! Wait, no.” I corrected.

“Rachel is. I’m not. She has class with Kennan, I’m her roommate.” Sammy explained. India’s eyes jumped back and forth between us.

“Ok, so what’s your major, Sammy?” India asked. I took the opportunity to grab my beer and slip away, hoping to avoid destabilizing any more of the conversation.

As India and Sammy talked, I looked around the kitchen for somewhere to be. A bag of Sunchips lay open on a table by an empty seat, so I sat down. The chair didn’t creak: a boost of confidence.

Kennan’s house was designed to support a transient student population. Not initially, but in its current form. The walls were never sanded, only patched and painted. Perhaps coated in a hundred layers. The fixtures were repaired and never replaced. The building itself learned to weather the erosion of college students, but each tenant left their mark. Together these marks formed the smooth pitted floor, pocked walls, and peeling window frames. Each doorknob was an irregular, smokey, oxidized grey, polished into a reflection where it was most frequently gripped. A phenomenon I had contributed towards.

[drawing]IndiaKennankitchen[/drawing]

“Hi. My name is John, what’s your name?” Called a voice loudly from behind. I turned, Sunchips deep in my mouth, to see a bowl cut in a dark green polo shirt standing directly in front of me, looking at my shoes.

“I’rm Rarcherl.” I mumbled as I painfully tried to swallow the unchewed chips.

“I haven’t seen you before, so you must be one of Kennan’s new friends. Are you an art student?” He deduced, still fixated on my shoes.

I nodded, still chewing.

“Converse Chuck Taylor’s. They’re classics. Nineteen Fifties?” He pointed at my red sneakers.

“Oh, yeah, they were my mom’s. They’re vintage I guess; I don’t know the year.” I rotated my foot. John knelt in front of me to get a better look. If they were as old as he predicted, they were in remarkably good shape. I didn’t wear them often.

“You’re missing an eyelet on the right side of your left shoe, third from the bottom. A shop off Main Street has a press and spare sheet metal to make a replacement. Unless you already ordered one. To affix it, use a hammer and a setting kit or at least the die. I have a sewing machine if you need to patch the tear so you don’t lose another grommet. I keep it at my place, but India borrows it all the time. You can borrow it too.” John said, barely breathing between statements.

“Oh thanks. Are you… an art student?” I interjected.

“No, I don’t make art. I work at the student tech support desk and for the IT department. I fix computers and phones, and help professors reset their passwords. Sometimes I get to recover lost data for the school, I like doing that. Also, If Mister Robbins is out, I get to manage the school servers. If a lecture is recorded for an absent student, I set up the recording equipment and upload it after class, but the art school doesn’t do that. It might happen for your art history class though. Do you have Professor Wilson or Dr. Asante?” John asked.

“Uh, Wilson.”

“She doesn’t record her class, but her PowerPoints are online. You can access those through your student portal for the whole semester. Her review session PowerPoint is up now, and it shows all the material covered on the final exam.”

John continued like that.

I liked listening to him, he held almost the entire conversation aloft by himself. I could tell he wasn’t particularly concerned with (or adept at) negotiating social balance, but he was respectful. When I said something or asked a question, he always answered and asked if he didn’t understand what I meant. I appreciated the way he cared about everything.

Behind John, I watched Kennan slip into the kitchen, orient himself, and hop over to India whom he kissed on the cheek. I couldn’t read what exactly that gesture was, but it was intimate. Sammy and I exchanged a questioning look about it. Kennen then noticed John and sprang over.

“Hey John, hi Rachel, what’s crackalackin?” He asked, rubbing his hands together. His red nose betrayed how long he’d spent outside.

“I was explaining that with a precision router and a milling machine you can make the rest of –” John began before Kennan cut him off with a nervous chuckle.

“Oh dude, I think you’re gonna have to save the big reveal for another time, can I talk to Rachel for a bit?” He said, putting a hand on John’s back.

“I’m almost done, just –” John started, but Kennan interrupted him again.

“Are the pedals and amps ready yet?” He asked.

“No. Ok I have to go, Rachel. Bye Kennan.” John said, standing abruptly, suddenly no longer interested in finishing his story. I waved, but he had already disappeared into an adjacent room. Kennan shook his head and glanced up at me.

“Sorry about him. You have to cut him off or he just keeps going.” He apologized.

“No, I mean, it’s cool, he seems nice.” I said, looking out the door John had just exited.

“He’s harmless, but I know he can be a lot sometimes.” Kennan said in a patronizing tone.

“Oh, ok.” I said, furrowing my brow a little. The way he dismissed John made me feel itchy. It was disrespectful. Kennan said harmless, but it sounded like he meant irrelevant.

“Where’s your tall friend? I mean everyone’s tall to me, but your tall-er friend.” Kennan tried to joke.

“Yeah, uhm, she’s over there, talking to India.”

“Shit, I walked right by her.”

We both looked over to see Sammy erupt into laughter so hard she had to put her beer down not to spill it. India was still sitting on the counter, holding a hand in front of her face, giggling to herself. Sammy wiped her eyes, still laughing, and reached for her beer as India continued to gesticulate whatever story she’d been telling. Sammy’s face made me happy. Kennan turned back, shaking his head.

“Uh oh, India’s got her hooks in your friend.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I frowned.

“It means I’ve known that girl a long time, and when she sees someone she wants, she knows how to get them.” Kennan sighed with a knowing grin.

I cocked my head to ask for more information.

“I love that girl with my whole heart, and I’d do anything for her.” Kennan proclaimed.

“That’s… A lot. But it still doesn’t answer my question.” I said.

“Is your friend gay in any way? Is she interested in India?”

“Her name’s Sammy. And… I feel kind of weird answering for her.”

“They’ll be fine. More than fine, probably.”

“Ok.” I said uncomfortably, ending the conversation and returning to my beer, which I hadn’t more than sipped.

“What about you? Are you dating anyone?” Kennan asked. He glanced at my chest, for the third time.

“Uh, oh.” I responded, with palpable dread. As soon as I said it, I clapped my hands over my mouth in embarrassment.

“What is uh, oh? Did I say something wrong?” Kennan asked, starting to turn red.

“No, uhm, shit, sorry. That’s just. Uh.” I flailed. Kennan smiled to put me at ease, but his lips were so long I couldn’t tell if it was genuine or nervous.

“Do you… want to come chill outside with me?” He asked.

“Uh… Ok, sure.” I lied.

Kennan pushed back through the house. I lingered for a bit, watching my roommate and her crush. Sammy leaned against the counter, smiling down at India who twirled an empty beer bottle in her hand. Sammy’s wrought iron shoulders reflected the neon light off her sleeveless jersey onto India’s gold piece.

I was almost jealous. Of what specifically, I didn’t know.

I waded through the living room after Kennan. John was on the floor in a corner, inspecting a pedalboard with a guitar across his lap. Someone, presumably the guitarist, stood over the board as well, smoking. The hot dancing couple had begun grinding against the wall, there were more cute girls dancing together by the window, and the hipster crew from out front talked in the center of the room instead of dancing. I walked over to John.

“Hey John, how’s it going?” I said, loud enough for him to hear me over the crowd.

“Hi Rachel, I’m fixing this pedalboard because it’s wired incorrectly. Running this in series here means half of the pedals aren’t doing anything, they’re just getting power but no signal. Instead, I’m going to rig these in parallel here which should split the signal and mix the effects.” John explained looking up only once to confirm who he was speaking to.

“That’s cool!” I said, trying not to scream.

The guitarist wasn’t paying attention. He blew a smokey cigarette kiss to a girl in knee-high socks sitting on the couch.

“This way, Rachel!” Kennan cut in, having cleared a thin path to the front door. And again, I waved bye to John.

Kennan pulled the door open for me and gestured. I stepped out and shivered, greeted by a burst of wind in my face.

Lamps were infrequent on the street. The cornholers were gone. The blue door stood, a motionless warden. I assumed that part of it was buried in the ground. How else would it stand upright? I wandered around the front porch and noticed the couch previously occupied by the welcoming vapers. Kennan walked past me and sat down on one end, offering me a spot to sit. I did, on the other end. He unfolded a blanket off the back and handed it to me.

“How… are you doing?” He asked.

“I’m good. Just. You know.” I answered emptily.

“Yeah…”

Kennan nodded, looking out onto the street. He didn’t say anything for a few minutes, we just watched the wind.

“Is it school? The city? The people?” Kennan asked, a softness in his voice. The way he talked to me in the art store.

“I think, a little bit of all three.” I ventured.

Kennan didn’t respond, he just waited.

“Back home, I mean, Getson. It’s nothing like Chicago. I wanted to leave there so bad, but I didn’t know I could miss dirt. Which is weird because… I’ve never really been that into dirt… And I’ve spent months away from home before. Like, last summer I went to Japan to see my cousins. We were gone way longer than I’ve been here, but this feels different, somehow. It’s like, it’s like my body knows that I’m not going home.”

“I know the feeling. But leaving home doesn’t mean you’re not going back.” He sighed.

“Are you going back home?”

“I grew up here, actually. In fact, the first time I left Chicago was when I was eight. I cried the whole drive out and then I cried again when we had to go home. And we were only going to Cleveland.” Kennan shook his head.

“And then you decided to stay here?”

“Well, not exactly. We decided to come back. India and I.”

“From where?” I asked, more curious about what India and I meant than anything else.

“After high school, India and I decided to move to New Mexico. Santa Fe. We’d talked about it for years, bought a van, and just left. I mean our parents knew, and my dad especially was furious, but fuck him. You know?”

“Wow.”

“India got a job at a diner and got me into the kitchen. We worked for a few months before we decided to sell weed instead. It was a good gig, actually. We just stuck to the bands and smoked out the college kids who followed them. It was kinda nice. I pretty much spent my day watching the plants and making mosaics.”

“Why come back then?”

“Well, the van broke down, so I decided to go to art school. Isn’t that why you’re here?” Kennan laughed.

“Kind of. I guess my van was Brown.”

“Brown?” Kennan looked over at me.

“Yeah, the school? My best friend and I were both going to go to Brown. We’d found an apartment. We picked out furniture. We were going to graduate from the same school Emma Watson did.” I looked up into the roof, my eyes desperately trying to reabsorb the growing tears.

“Was it money? Brown’s one of those expensive schools, right?”

“I just didn’t get in. But Tsuki did.” I sniffled.

“Fuck, dude. I’m sorry.” Kennan sat up.

“It’s stupid, I’m here, at a great school, nothing’s wrong I –” I blubbered before being interrupted.

John tapped on the window above the couch from the inside. Kennan waved him off and turned back to me.

“No, no, if John needs you it’s probably important.” I said, wiping my eyes with my palms.

Kennan’s wide mouth didn’t move for a few moments. It didn’t frown or smile. Eventually he turned back to the window and motioned for John to open it.

“What’s up dude?” Kennan said.

“Hi Kennan, Hi Rachel, ok so we are missing a six thirty-five stereo plug to stereo jack adapter. We need one for the bassist, his setup is unconventional. I can’t rig up his pedals with what we have, do you have one or do I need to completely redo the pedalboard?”

“Shit, ok, there might be one on the mantle in the kitchen. Right above the sink. If not… uhm…” Kennan pondered.

My eyes picked out a hoodie walking down the street. The figure wearing it waddled slowly, hesitantly almost. I followed the curious movements with minor interest until I realized I recognized them.

Harmony turned at the edge of the fence in front of Kennan’s house. It creaked open as they walked through it. They reached out for the freestanding blue door in the yard, it met their touch briefly, then they pocketed the hand again. I waited, listening for the damp clomp of their sneakers marching up the steps.

“Ray, Kennan, John.” Harmony greeted. There was no inflection at the end of their statement. It wasn’t a question of who might be there, or an interest in how we were doing, but rather an acknowledgement of our various presences.

“Hey, dude, Harmony! I’m glad you could come! The show should start… soon? There’s beer inside!” Kennan said.

“Please don’t dude me, but thanks, a beer sounds great.”

“Ok, cool.” Kennan said, distracted by the instruction manual John had produced.

I didn’t respond, out of sheer awkwardness. Neither did John, who was too focused on the particularities of the setup issue. Harmony walked by, flashing a pained smile across us so quickly I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it.

Eventually, Kennan climbed through the window, frustrated with both John and the band. I sat outside alone. It was nice to feel the cold wind on my face with my body hidden under the thick blanket. I smelled trash that the cornholers across the street had just taken out because it was too big to close into the can. I smelled cat food left out and thought of Hebrew and Charlie. I smelled pungent weed. I even smelled burnt rubber wafting from the more populous adjacent street. My sensory explorations were interrupted by an abrupt bout of microphone feedback.

“Hi. My name is John.” I heard John say, a little too close to the microphone. The crowd quieted. I extended my neck to hear what was happening.

“Ok, let me have that… Hey guys, I’m so glad you could make it. Thank you in advance to everyone who donated tonight, you’re keeping good music alive. I love you. After each set, the bands should have merch and CDs, I think Painkiller Betty even has vinyl for you cool cats who collect those! Please be respectful. Dance. Make love. And without further ado, put your hands together for Cantaloupe Cruiser!” Kennan announced. He’d done that before.

I retracted deeper into the couch, fearing exposure to the glacial bursts without my protective blanket. The open window provided enough acoustic access that I justified staying outside rather than braving the air to get to the door. I closed my eyes to imagine the band.

“This song goes out to my baby in the front row. I love you, Danny.” Someone said.

An acoustic guitar rang out melodiously, alone at first. Some deep vocalization supported it, and a rippling bass and feathery percussion set pattered along. The tune was mediocre, the chorus was fun, and the verse was bland, but it appealed to me. I liked that the drummer was using a brush instead of a wooden drumstick, making the whole song less punchy. My body felt good. I imagined what live music and good friends every Friday might be like, projecting forward through my first year of college. The music and my thoughts were accompanied momentarily by some police sirens in the distance.

I wormed up to the window and looked back into the room. People were actually dancing. The usual ring of spectators had formed around the outside of the room, but even they tapped their feet along with everyone else. I laughed to myself when I noticed John completely oblivious to the atmosphere. He was trying to fix a couch cushion that had come detached from the living room loveseat. He was having trouble though, because the hot couple was making out on the couch, and they were paying him no attention.

The first set finished. I watched India and Kennan move together through the crowd and start dancing themselves to herald the return of the euro-trance house music while the next band set up. Reminded of Sammy, I groaned and rolled over slightly to check my phone. New footsteps on the porch interrupted my movement.

“Hey baby, you look comfy.”

The two large clothed cornholers stood over me, and three or four other guys that must have played cornhole as well stood around them. I suddenly felt a lot less comfortable. I didn’t answer, burying my face into my phone, opening safari just to look busy. My heart shook my chest as I held my breath, hoping for the encounter to end. Something negative exuded from these characters, and I didn’t want to imagine the possible results of their bad decisions. I’d judged them quickly but held onto my right not to interact if I didn’t want to.

The guys chortled among themselves and ignored me to go inside. I wondered if they were Kennan’s friends, or India’s, but settled on a theory that they were probably just cordially invited neighbors. Or party crashers. I could hear the sound of Kennan’s voice elevating in a welcoming tone, and I hoped that they were nice in return. Regardless, I didn’t want to associate with them.

Microphone feedback swelled again over the house. John, like a bird hearing a mating call, stood up on the loveseat, cushion still in hand, a head taller than everyone else. His bowl cut haloed him majestically. He disappeared into the crowd a moment later.

I finally opened messenger on my phone to a text from Sammy.

            You good? She’d asked.

 Half an hour ago. Oops. I grasped at excuses and started typing, only to hear the door open.

“It’s cold as shit out here, Rachel, what the fuck are you doing?” Sammy asked. Her eyes lit up as she hopped onto the porch and sleeved her jacket.

“I have been absorbed into the couch. I am no longer the human you knew as Rachel, but instead something far, far, greater.” I said. Sammy paused and looked at me with a skeptical expression on her face.

“Well shite you’re a weird lass, but I donna care, ‘cause I fooken love yah!” She said in a bad Scottish accent and leapt a whole ten feet onto the couch. I immediately retracted my legs and scrambled away to avoid being crushed.

“Ahh, Sammy wait, no!!” I screamed.

“You better share some of that blanket with me!”

“But I’m so warm… Nooo!” I tried, but Sammy easily wrestled away part of the blanket, letting a huge gust of cold air into my pocket of security. She extended her legs across the length of the couch, leaving me no room unless I cuddled with her, so I did. Her jacket was crunchy.

I shivered and tried to retreat further under the blanket, but Sammy was immovable.

“So… How’d it go with India?” I asked after we’d settled down. Sammy paused. I wondered if she’d learned anything about India and Kennan.

“Did you know?”

“About India and Kennan? Not at all. I actually still don’t really know what their relationship is.” I answered, hoping she would share.

She did. Sammy explained India’s description of the relationship. She had gotten a much more romance-centered narrative than the brief history Kennan had painted for me. Apparently, Kennan and India were dating, and had been for quite a while. Still, India was quite interested in dating someone in Chicago, but polyamory threw a wrench into things for Sammy. I got the sense she was also looking forward to the idea of a date, but she was afraid of investing time and energy into something ephemeral. From her retelling of India’s words, it sounded like a regular hookup was the best Sammy could hope for. I tried to encourage her that a hookup could be fun, but to no avail. Sammy wanted to build something. I hugged her, trying to wick away the disappointment.

“What about you? I was sure Kennan had dragged you away to make out.” She asked.

“I don’t know. He’s cute, and pretty nice most of the time, but… I think he might be kind of a douche.” I sighed. Sammy whipped her head around in feigned disbelief.

“Woah! Bitch that is harsh! Damn! But also… I feel you. I think he might be a douche too, no worries.” She said. I chuckled.

“Hey, did you meet a sophomore named Harmony in there? Bald, lanky, kinda…” I imitated Harmony’s scowl and shoulder movement.

“Harmony… I don’t think so, guy or a girl?”

“Nonbinary, I think. I’m not sure.”

“Are they cute?”

“I… They… Maybe. I dunno.”

“Rachel look at me.” Sammy said, effortlessly lifting me from her chest. I couldn’t look away.

“Hi…” I smiled awkwardly. Sammy’s eyes squinted.

“You’re totally in love with Harmony.” She decided, putting me back down.

“What! No, I don’t even know them!” I protested, flailing uselessly in the blanket.

“Girl. You are bright red right now. Don’t lie to me.”

“They won’t even stick around to talk to me though…” As if it was an excuse.

“Oh, so now you admit it?”

“We have two classes together, we had a connection both times, and both times they ran away.” I pouted.

“You just gotta make a move. Get a clear answer from them.”

“I tried asking them out already…” I said, burying my face in Sammy’s stiff jacket.

“You WHAT? WHEN?” Sammy practically yelled.

“Nothing happened! They said no. Well, they said another time.” I mumbled.

“Ok. Another time isn’t no. You can ask again. Maybe something casual, like coffee.”

“I dunno… Maybe…” I whined.

The next band started; a pair of pasty mustached keyboardists played something resembling seventies synth-pop. They were better than the last group, but I missed the gentle brush-drummer. One of the guys ululated a Thom Yorke style moan as he modulated his voice with his keyboard. It sounded great but gimmicky. I nestled closer to Sammy so I could get some blanket back.

            -- 

I woke up to yelling. My head instinctively shrunk under the blanket, but the argument was too loud. I sleepily reached out to realize I wasn’t leaning on Sammy anymore. Blinking a few times, I glanced out onto the porch to see India seated across from me, peering anxiously through the window. My voice croaked to life.

“…What’s going on?” I asked.

“Sammy asked me to watch you. I’ve gotta go though, stay here, baby.” She said, standing upright in concern, which in turn concerned me into alertness.

Alertness led to lucidity. The window was still open. Kennan’s voice got progressively more aggravated as I muscled myself to the windowsill. Finally reaching the edge, I peeped inside. Kennan pointed violently at John and then back at someone I didn’t recognize. Was that one of the cornholers? Fuck. I scanned the crowd. Sammy loomed in the background; arms crossed but not involved in the argument. India walked in and stood next to John. He looked stunned.

“You better tell that little bitch to leave me alone!” The cornholer shouted over Kennan’s head.

“Dude, bro, John’s not gonna do anything, he’s gone, look, he’s gone.” Kennan said, standing between the confused John and the cornholers.

“Fucking gay-ass –” The cornholer started but Kennan swiftly interrupted.

“Look I think you’re gonna have to go, the music’s over anyway and we’re out of beer.”

“Are you kicking us out?”

“Uh, no. No, everyone’s gonna go pretty soon here, I gotta clean up.” Kennan deflected.

“Bitch, you don’t tell me what to do.”

The angry cornholer sneered forward, puffing his chest like a gorilla. Kennan looked diminutive in comparison. India had just escaped the living room with John, so he backed away a bit and looked for help from the onlooking crowd. No one moved. Kennan took in a deep breath and clapped his hands together.

“Alright everyone, time to go, music’s over, I’ll let you know when the next party is. Thank you for coming, the bands appreciate it. You were awesome.” He announced. The crowd groaned and dispersed lazily.

“Fuck this, man. Let’s go.” One of the other cornholers said, turning around.

The angry cornholer pushed through his friends, grabbed the jar of donations off the table, and held it above the others like a trophy. Kennan’s head spun at the sound of coins clinking.

“Uh… Dave?” A different cornholer asked, identifying the asshole.

“Are you fucking serious dude? Come on.” Kennan said, heating up.

“Call it a fee.” Dave spat through his words.

Sammy stepped forward silently. I shivered; the veins in her forearm pulsed into her closed fist.

“What the fuck are you gonna do, fat-ass giraffe?” Dave prodded. The cornholers laughed nervously in unison. Sammy was expressionless, even Kennan backed up as silence fell on the party. In my periphery, I watched Harmony extinguish their cigarette in an ashtray and stand up from the couch.

“I’ll give you fifty bucks if you leave the jar here and go.” Harmony offered, a bill appearing in their outstretched hand. The cornholers stared in surprise. Eventually Dave snapped to.

“Fine. It’s probably more than your faggot bands made anyway.”

That word twisted the muscles in my neck.

Dave snatched the fifty out of Harmony’s hand and dropped the jar where he stood. Sammy stretched out and palmed it in mid-air, preventing its fall. She scowled. As the cornholers left, I quickly dove into the couch to hide until they passed. Thankfully they were distracted in celebration, as sickening as it was. I thought of India and Kennan; they still had to live there.

By the time I got inside, the crowd had thinned. Sammy handed the tip jar to the anxious Kennan who thanked her profusely. John reentered the room and walked directly towards the band’s equipment, unconcerned with the outcome of the scuffle. India found Kennan and they sighed, leaning into one another. Harmony was gone. I wrapped myself tighter in the blanket I’d brought from outside. Sammy noticed and waved. She pointed to her watch and gestured to me, asking if it was time to go. I nodded.