The Romantics(46)

Replace your picture of a philosophy lecture hall with a seedy dive bar selling twenty-five-cent shots.

Angela was there with a girlfriend, who was interested in Arthur’s roommate. After said roommate bought tequila shots for the group, Angela and Arthur did, indeed, realize they were in the same philosophy class, though they’d never even sat near each other before, much less exchanged ideas.

While their respective friends began to make out in front of the pool table, Arthur ordered two more tequila shots, and from there, the night kind of devolved . . .

At one point, Angela slipped off her stool and Arthur caught her. His act of chivalry didn’t stop her from screaming, “Of course Nietzsche was a misogynist!” about three seconds later. And “if you think he’s not, maybe you’re a misogynist!” about three seconds after that.

She then challenged him to a game of pool, and she completely schooled him, even though she had to push her making-out friends out of the way each time she took a shot.

Inspired by her victory, Arthur ordered another round of celebratory shots. When Angela continued to go on about Kierkegaard, he climbed onto the barstool and shouted to anyone who would listen: “Soren Kierkegaard was the worst philosopher of all time!”

That’s when the other patrons started to complain about the “lunatics screaming about Kierkegaard.”

And that’s when the bartender, not the professor, said, “You two are just about the most passionate philosophy students I’ve ever met. Now get the hell out.”

And the rest is history, as Gael so exasperatedly put it.

Just wanted to set the record straight on that one.





scream queen


Gael woke to the sound of cracking eggs and the smell of frying bacon. Here goes another round at family bonding, he thought bitterly.

He hadn’t slept well. He wanted to blame the hard mattress at his dad’s place, which wasn’t half as good as the one at home, but he also knew that at least part of it was due to the fight he’d had with his dad. But whose fault was that?

Gael got out of bed and threw on jeans and a T-shirt.

There was something else bothering him, too. Smaller, but important just the same. He’d texted Sammy last night, asking if she’d ended up seeing the Wes Anderson movie or not, eager to talk about it with her if she, for some reason, still had without him, but she hadn’t responded.

He wondered if he’d offended her when he’d said no to the movie. He wondered if he’d somehow messed up their newfound friendship.

He wondered, ever so briefly, what it would be like if he and Sammy weren’t friends. If they were actually something more . . .

Bacon crackled in the background and the smell accosted him. He pulled on his Chucks and tossed his phone into his pocket. He needed to get out of this stale apartment and get some air.

“Hey, sleepyhead!” his dad called as he walked past the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Piper pouted. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

“I need a walk,” Gael mumbled. “Be back later. Don’t wait for me.”

Before they could protest, before he could fully take in the disappointed look on Piper’s face or the concerned one on his dad’s, Gael headed out the door and pulled it firmly shut behind him.

His dad’s apartment complex was on the edge of Chapel Hill and Durham. Close to a big highway and a Walmart and a bunch of other stupid shit that he didn’t really want any part in. It wasn’t like his real home, where he could walk around, head to Franklin, even explore campus if he needed to get out of the house.

There was nowhere really to go but here.

Nevertheless, the crisp fall air felt good, and he headed down the concrete steps to the parking lot.

His eyes caught the COEXIST sticker on the bumper of his dad’s hatchback.

Anika had once joked that it was always the *s who had those stickers. He’d argued with her about that, defending his dad.

Now he wondered if she had been right.

He headed right, down the boring concrete sidewalk, parking lot on one side, fake-looking grass and stones and stupid landscaping on another. Brick building after building stretched before him. They all looked the same. Still, he figured circling the complex a couple of times was better than sitting in the tiny apartment and waiting to snap.

He was about halfway around when his eyes caught a bright orange flyer taped to a lamppost.

SILVER SCREEN SCREAMS

An exploration of the horror genre—and Americans’ deep

affinity for it—from the 1920s until now.

Monday, October 29, 7 P.M.

Murphey Hall

Horror, he thought. Sammy’s favorite. And at UNC, no less.

It was just the thing to make it up to her. She’d been a good friend to him over the last couple of weeks, and he didn’t want to lose that, no matter what happened with Cara.

And the flyer, being all the way out here, so far from campus. It was strange, he thought. Almost like he was supposed to see it for one reason or another.

(Strange, indeed, Gael. Strange, indeed. strokes imaginary goatee maniacally)

Before he could stop himself, he took out his phone and called Sammy Sutton.





fifth period, third degree


On Monday in chemistry, Mason was again early, but he didn’t have an extra-credit project with him this time. He was sitting back in his chair, balancing on the back two legs, hands resting on the desk, beaming.