In My Dreams I Hold a Knife(9)

“Fuck off.”

“Give it here,” said the prince, waving at the joint. “Roommates ought to rise and fall together.” He dropped next to Coop and took the joint, tilting his head back to the sky.

“My name’s Jack Carroll,” the last boy said politely, holding out his hand. If Coop would’ve had Caro’s mother reaching for the holy water, Jack was the boy she would have chosen out of a catalog. His hair was brushed neatly to the side, cardigan perfectly pressed, tie straight as a pin. He looked like an eighteen-year-old Mr. Rogers.

We each shook Jack’s hand, and he folded himself onto the bench, carefully brushing his slacks.

“Jack’s an Eagle Scout,” the prince said. “If you couldn’t tell just by looking at him.”

“And Mint’s heir to a real estate empire,” Jack countered, loosening his tie with one hand. “If you couldn’t tell by his sense of entitlement.”

“Mark Minter,” the prince said, once he’d blown a ring of smoke. He nodded in the direction of the big guy. “And that’s Francis Kekoa, Duquette’s newest football star. Pride of Oahu, according to his dad.”

“Frankie,” the boy said quickly, heaving himself onto the bench next to Mint. “No one calls me Francis except my mom.”

“Frankie lets me, though.” Mint sucked deeply, then passed the joint back to Coop. “Because he loves me.”

Frankie rolled his eyes, then nodded in Caro’s direction. “I like your necklace. Got one just like it.” He dug under the collar of his shirt and drew out a thick gold chain, carrying a heavy cross. “Us Catholics gotta represent.”

“Just because I’m Colombian doesn’t automatically make me a Catholic,” Caro snapped, dropping her necklace and folding her hands. “I’m Presbyterian.”

Coop laughed, coughing on smoke. “Good one, Frankie.”

“Sorry,” Frankie said. “I got excited to share my Catholic guilt with someone.”

“Where in Colombia?” Mint asked Caro.

“I have family in Bogotá.” The word rolled crisply off her tongue, with a punch at the end. “My parents and I are from Miami.”

He nodded. “I’ve visited Colombia a bunch. Lots of people summering in Cartagena lately.”

“Summering.” The word withered in Coop’s mouth.

“If we’re jumping into families and religion,” Jack said, “then my parents are at that really fun stage of Southern Baptism where they’ve ceased being human beings and have transformed into walking, talking bibles. So it was fun showing them around campus and stumbling on Greek row.” He took the joint and squinted at Mint. “Let me guess: Methodist. That’s what rich kids always are.”

Mint snorted. “The only religion my parents worship is money.”

We laughed. Dusk deepened, the sun a rich orange-rose, sinking through the branches of the trees. A warm breeze kissed my skin. I pictured it circling the picnic table, touching all of us, drawing us closer.

“What about you, Coop?” Mint asked. “We haven’t even had the family conversation yet.”

Coop looked down at the table. “My family is one person. And she’s an atheist. We don’t believe in believing.”

Frankie snorted. “How metal.” He nodded at Heather. “What’s your deal?”

With all eyes on her, Heather smiled like the cat that ate the canary. “My parents worship the one true god.” She spoke slowly, basking in our attention. “Me.” Her eyes lingered on Jack. “You should try it sometime.”

Jack turned bright red as the whole table burst into amazed laughter. Frankie and Mint shared an incredulous look, and then suddenly Mint turned across the table and grinned at me. I sucked in a breath. The world’s most beautiful boy, a foot away, and he was smiling at me, sharing a joke. The miraculousness of it did something to me. Confidence sang through my blood.

“Now there’s a pair of brass balls,” I said, and the whole table rocked with laughter, even Heather. Mint gave me an appreciative look.

I was addicted. This was all I wanted—to make these people laugh and have Mint look at me just like that, his skin glowing in the setting sun.

“Your turn.” Caro elbowed me. “How’d you grow up?”

My smile dimmed. My parents weren’t religious, but they each had their devotions. My dad’s life was a shrine built to everything I’d struggled with. He’d never said it out loud, but I knew what he believed: if you couldn’t be the best, be the winner, life wasn’t worth living, and you had to find some way to escape. He’d found a very effective way, once life started disappointing him. My mom, on the other hand, was simple. She devoted herself to anything my dad thought wasn’t worth our time. She worshipped settling, he would say. A constant tension.

How could I possibly explain that?

I cleared my throat. “Why are we spending a Friday night talking about religion like a bunch of nerd theology majors? Here’s what I want to know: where are we going tonight?”

“Hell yeah.” Frankie pounded the table. “Phi Delt Anything-But-Clothes party.” He gestured between himself, Jack, and Mint. “We got invites from one of the brothers.”

The table broke out into a heated discussion about how to fashion clothes out of trash bags and how early we should start drinking in East House before walking to frat row. I leaned back and watched. All around us, fireflies dotted the air, sparks of light, here and gone. Tree branches swayed and stalks of grass lifted with the breeze, in time to some secret song. I could feel it, humming and weaving around us, the lawn and the trees and the brilliant dying sun. Knitting us together.