VII.

I moved into a small, clapboard house across the main highway from campus with three students I had never met.

There was Aaron, a skinny, freckled English major with constant enthusiasm and the interests of a Star Trek generation throwback. He was from central Pennsylvania but loved surfing.

There was Alyssa, a tall, blonde tennis player with the “relaxed” personality of a typical surfer, though rarely went. Subdued but kind and reliable, she was manager of a nearby restaurant during her sophomore year.

And there was Lydia, a triumphant morning person (self proclaimed) with a beautiful singing voice and blonde hair kept short for playing on the rugby team. After ensuring I was settled, she brought a piece of lasagna and, with the same electric smile she had displayed while I introduced myself, asked: “Do you like drugs?”

We left for long periods daily but spent time between classes.

I sat in the kitchen with Lydia and Alyssa, talking of songwriters. They bought the packaged charms of John Mayer and Conor Oberst, boy bands for pubescent girls.

I sat with Aaron in his room while he played video games, talking of women.

Even in January, hundreds swarmed campus paths, rampantly unattainable.

Lydia serenaded us every morning just after sunrise.

Her voice, loud and bright, jarred my sleep like a bell, but soon I learned to partially awake, as though she were marking the hour.

VIII.

Aaron’s friend Jamie came to visit one weekend.

He resembled a police cadet: short but weight room sculpted, blonde crew cut; he called himself a “master of air guitar.”

An acquaintance from high school was throwing a keg party.

I walked Aaron and Jamie across the parking lot of an apartment complex next to our house, each of us carrying a 12 pack of Killian’s Irish Red. Jamie would have drunk from the kegs, but Aaron and I would not pay five dollars when, for twice as much, we could drink good beer, and this preference was a conversation starter.

Loud rap music followed each punk song tenfold as dozens of freshmen and sophomores circled the attached kitchen and living room, attracted by more than kegs. My acquaintance was the heaviest marijuana smoker I knew, despite his father being a narcotics officer.

Aaron summoned me to a kitchen bar holding ping-pong balls and plastic cup pyramids. Before high school, I pitched for almost ten years, so people gathered on dirty brown carpet to our left and curled linoleum across from us, exclaiming with every shot.

We beat six duos while Aaron lifted as many beers and I sipped my second.

He went looking for Jamie.

A waiflike blonde nudged me.

Surrounded by layers of makeup, her eyes and smile gleamed.

“Why’d you bring beer?”

“This tastes better.”

“Can I have one?”

“What’s your name?”

We started playing as partners.

Before each shot, she leaned close and whispered: “Impress me.”

My aim suffered.

Behind us with eyes darting and a mischievous grin, Aaron grabbed my hand and placed it squarely on her ass.

I recoiled and prepared my defense—but she craned her neck, looked in mine eyes and flashed a deviant, beckoning smile.

A chill ran through me.

Intrigue and guilt cancelled each other.

It was my first encounter with impersonal sexuality.

IX.

Endeavoring to appear harmless, Aaron suggested she visit our house.

“Sure! Just let me use the bathroom.”

Aaron winked at me then left.

Bewildered and nervous, I waited.

Moments later, in the hallway between that bathroom and me, a girl forcefully muttered: “Leave me alone! I won’t talk about it.”

I rushed over and discovered her pushing away Aaron.

Streaks of mascara drenched her cheeks.

She looked up and noticed me.

Eyes gaping, she cried “Oh no!” and flew into the bathroom.

“What the hell is going on?” I demanded.

“I was headed to a bedroom with Jamie. The bathroom door was ajar. She lifted a hairbrush, and I saw them.”

“You saw what?”

“She has scars all over her wrist. I’m trying to help her.”

He looked toward the bathroom: “You’re a beautiful girl! Just have confidence!”

The door remained shut.

Aaron paused then gathered enthusiasm:

“You should bring her home.”

Shocked, my face twisted—yet before I could respond, Jamie opened a bedroom door, stumbled into hallway, and landed against me.

My back struck the wall as I fumbled to lift this bodybuilder.

He was lathered in sweat and shivering.

“I had too much,” he confessed—and fell limp.

X.

Jamie slumping, his arm over my shoulders, I dragged him across the parking lot.

God knows what he swallowed with those beers, I thought—at least he was conscious. We entered the house and, one at a time, ascended stairs to Aaron’s room.

I slung Jamie onto the bed and turned him sideways.

After standing beside him in darkness, hearing groans and slurred cursing, I went downstairs to call Derek. His caprice I trusted.

He was living and working in Ocean City, another thirty miles east, but had arrived in Salisbury to visit his father. Having survived a formal dinner, he wished to escape, and I thought my roommates would stay out late.

Aaron staggered in behind Derek, carrying one partial and two empty cartons.

“I brought home your beers!”

“Are those Killian’s?” Derek excitedly asked.

I had to forget Aaron’s conduct and, to seal this allowance, he grabbed my head with both hands, cradled it—and kissed me right on the mouth.

“Thank you so much for taking care of my friend!”

Later, I told Alyssa. She was not surprised.

“Yeah…. Aaron’s a kisser.”

XI.

I gave Derek six Irish Red.

He downed them quickly then fell asleep on the living room couch.

The next morning, Lydia’s voice cut our trapped winter air, resounding upstairs.

People likely heard a block away. It was only seven.

Her song about swans being killed would have brought tears to anyone but Derek.

Open kitchen alone separated him from Lydia’s room.

Most of us torpid but unable to sleep from stomachs turning and heads throbbing, we decided to walk onto campus.

Flashes of early light burnished the naked trees and yellow grass.

Occasional cars slowly passed, transporting seniors to breakfast diners.

Then Aaron ruptured halcyon haze with a toy gun from his backpack.

Everyone but Alyssa fled behind evergreen hedge outlining an insurance office.

Last to realize Aaron had drawn his weapon, Lydia rounded the nearest shrub before a plastic BB stung her firm, broad thigh.

It swelled and reddened to match her shorts.

“Now you shoot,” Aaron offered.

Lydia assumed a rugby tackling pose and, taunting, allowed us to hide.

“Come on! Who’s it gonna be?”

Derek emerged from bushes and raced down the sidewalk, his back to Lydia, expecting a miss.

She aimed the pistol, forfeit Derek a few yards—and drilled him between the shoulder blades.

Alyssa laughed hardest, still exposed on grass beside Lydia.

Beneath her winter coat, bare legs shone like columns.

Cold never deterred my female roommates.

“Nice shot, Lydia.” Derek said:

“But you really need to shut the fuck up in the morning.”