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Henri

My partner in Creative Communications makes me nervous. I’m good with people—always have been—but from the moment I sat down next to him I felt wrong-footed and unsure. I’m certain I’ve never met him before, yet it’s obvious he doesn’t care for me. I don’t like that at all.

I know I have an almost pathological need to be liked. My mother tells me I have a dependent personality disorder, and that I have an unhealthy desire to make others happy. She tells me she worries about my self-worth, and that people will take advantage of me if I am not careful. I wonder what she would say if I told her Atlas’ clear animosity toward me had me running 5k on the treadmill after practice finished that day, unable to settle myself down.

My palms are a little clammy as I push open the door to the lecture hall. Atlas isn’t yet in his seat, which affords me a few moments to get my bearings once I sit down. I’m going to work extra hard to watch my English when I talk to him, and make sure I pronounce his name correctly. Both of these seemed to be black marks against me last time, and I won’t make the same mistake twice.

I place an apple on the corner of my desk nearest Atlas’ seat, before laying out my notebook and pen. That done, I turn my phone completely off and tuck it back into my bag. Resting my hands in my lap, I sit up straight and watch the door, waiting.

Atlas is one of the last people to enter and he does so with a frown on his face. It’s a different frown than the one Carter wears. Carter employs his animosity as a shield to protect himself; it took next to nothing to break it down. Atlas, on the other hand, is all sharp edges. His frown is a knife blade. A warning to stay away.

“Good day, Atlas,” I greet him carefully, making sure to soften my accent on his name. I can’t tell if I’ve done well or not—he ignores me and takes his seat, expression never wavering. “How are we today?”

Silence.

I like silence. I am a creature of silence. But this silence is prickly and uncomfortable, and makes me feel vaguely ill. Perhaps he’s angry because he’s hungry.

“Would you like an apple?” I ask, gesturing to the Granny Smith I brought with me for a snack between lectures. His gaze slides to mine.

“I don’t like green apples,” he says. I nod. I’ll remember that for next time.

“My apologies.”

He rolls his eyes and I sigh. When he bends over to dig through his backpack, I watch him. I’m good with people because I’m good at figuring them out. He’s an enigma right now, but perhaps not for long .

The first thing I notice is his hair: black. True black hair isn’t common, but he has it. There’s an almost navy hue when the light hits it just right, and I can tell it’s soft by the sheen. I cannot pinpoint just by looking at him, but his creamy skin and almond-shaped eyes speak of a mixed race. His eyelashes are so long and dark, it looks like he’s wearing eyeliner. No tattoos, no piercings. His clothes are plain and without any overt logos that might tell me how much they cost. He wears a simple gold band on his pinky finger.

“I like your ring,” I tell him, and his eyes narrow nearly to slits.

“Another polo shirt, I see,” he responds tartly. I look down at my shirt. It is, in fact, a polo. I have five, all different colors, that I rotate throughout the week. On the weekends I wear my two SCU hockey shirts. I check to make sure the buttons are all fastened, but everything looks in order. Who doesn’t like polo shirts?

“Yes,” I agree. “I have two blue ones, but this is the darker one.”

I grin, trying to bring him in on the joke, but he doesn’t even crack a smile. If anything, his eyes narrow further. With his dark irises and dark lashes, it’s a distinctly shark-like look. I struggle to maintain my calm, bland expression.

“What?” he snaps. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

I falter, unused to people being so vocal and unpleasant. Most people will smile to my face before talking behind my back. Atlas seems to have no compunctions about being hostile, and makes no effort at all to be friendly. It would almost be admirable, if it wasn’t a bit frightening. I remind myself that unhappy people usually take it out on others, and that it likely has little to do with me. It’s important that I don’t let it get to me .

I fix my smile back into place.

“Do you have many classes today?”

“Yes.”

“What is your favorite class?”

“Ceramics.”

“Oh?” I sit up straighter, delighted by this. “What are you making?”

“Ceramics.”

You did that to yourself, I reprimand myself, giving a mental shake. Atlas is barely maintaining eye contact with me, mouth turned down in a disinterested frown and arms crossed loosely over his chest. His posture screams you are boring me. Even so, I can’t help but notice and appreciate how pretty his face is.

“Are you an artist?” I try again. He sighs gustily.

“Let’s play the silent game, shall we?”

“I am unfamiliar with this, but I shall like to play,” I respond gamely, nodding. Maybe if I let him win, he’ll be in a better mood.

“No, it’s…Jesus Christ, never mind.” He slaps his hands down on the table. A sharp report echoes through the room and several people turn around to look for the source of the noise. He doesn’t deign to look at them or apologize. The look in his eyes when they meet mine is venomous. “I am majoring in general studies right now, while I figure out what I want to do. Ceramics was something I chose for the hell of it. Turns out I’m actually pretty good, and I like getting my hands dirty.”

I can’t help but smile as he talks, excited to hear him say so many words in a row. True, he’s still looking like he wants to murder me, but at least he’s talking. It seems like a step in the right direction, at the very least .

“The polo shirts and khaki pants make you look like a snob,” he continues. It takes me an embarrassing amount of time to realize he’s talking about me . “You look like the kind of guy whose parents own a vacation home, and got you into school by donating money. The kind of guy who drives a fancy car and calls it his baby . You look like you’re trying to show how much better you are than the rest of us by dressing like that. You look, in short, like a douchebag.”

I bite my tongue. Probably best not to tell him I drive a BMW.

“I’ll try not to be a snob,” is the best I can come up with in reply, but it does little to placate him. Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do about my wardrobe, short of going out and buying all new clothes. Even I know this would be taking things too far. If he doesn’t like me in a polo shirt, he probably won’t like me in a hockey T-shirt.

“You’re fucking weird,” he replies, turning and facing forward as Dr. Robertson walks into the lecture hall.

Atlas successfully ignores me through class, and is packed up and walking away before I’ve had a chance to say goodbye. I stare morosely at his back, lamenting the fact that we won’t have class together again for the rest of the week. I’ll have to give it some thought over the weekend, and try to come up with a plan on how to make him like me.

Carefully repacking my shoulder bag, I wait until every student has passed before I step out of the aisle and head for the door. I turn my phone back on as I get outside, see the text message from Zeke, and turn toward the library. I need to speak to him about the internship next summer, but perhaps I can also obtain his opinion about Atlas. Zeke is smart—he will know what to do.

He’s seated in the back of the room at his usual spot, books and flashcards spread across the table. He’s looking at his laptop screen as I walk up, clicking the cap of a highlighter idly. I stop several paces away from the table and speak softly, not wanting to startle him.

“Good afternoon, Zeke.”

He looks up and smiles, dropping the highlighter and closing his laptop.

“Vas, hi. How are you?”

Pulling out the chair across from him, I sit down carefully and lay my bag on the floor, tucking it between my feet so that it’s not a tripping hazard for anyone walking by. Interlocking my fingers, I rest my hands in front of me on the tabletop.

“I am well, thank you for asking. May I interrupt you for a moment?”

“Of course, you’re not interrupting. I’m already done with the assigned problems.” He laughs sheepishly. “Now I’m just doing the rest of them for fun.”

I decide I don’t have anything to say about doing math problems for fun, so I merely smile and nod.

“I am considering an internship for over next summer. I have spoken to Coach Mackenzie about it. It would be a very”—I pause, trying to mentally sound out the word—“incredible opportunity as it would provide valuable experience in the NHL.”

“Oh, wow! With Carter’s team, you mean?”

“Indeed.”

“You should do it,” Zeke says immediately. “Would you like me to help you with the application? I can read through and proof it.”

“Oh.” I pause, having to reorder my thoughts and what I wanted to say. I wasn’t expecting him to offer that. “That would be very kind of you, thank you.”

“Would you like to stay with Carter and me over the summer? You wouldn’t be able to stay in the dorms, probably, but we have an extra bedroom right now. We offered it to my grandma, but she’s being stubborn.”

I open my mouth to reply and find that English has abandoned me. I came here to ask that, but hadn’t expected it to be offered so willingly. The thought of taking advantage of my friend, if I asked him if I could move in, had kept me awake for hours after Coach Mackenzie suggested it. I would not want Carter to feel obligated to say yes. In the spirit of that, I had compiled a list of ways I could make myself useful and pay my way. Apparently, Zeke doesn’t even need to see it to offer the space.

“I would not want to make trouble,” I tell Zeke, once I am able to formulate a response. Bending over, I pull out the thin folder I tucked my proposal into and slide it over to him. “Here is a list of things I will do and money I will pay. That is, if I move in. I had come here intending to ask you, but you have beaten me to it.”

“Household cleaning, including, but not limited to, floors, windows, dusting, and all kitchen appliances,” Zeke reads off. He glances up at me and back down to the proposal. “Uhm…this is very thorough and I appreciate the effort, but I already know Carter isn’t going to go for this.”

Anticipating this, I slide a pen over the table to him. “You may make any edits that you deem appropriate.”

“No, I mean…he’s just going to say no to all of this.” Zeke waves a hand over the papers. “He’s going to say you can move in and the only thing you have to worry about cleaning is your room and the kitchen if you use it. He’s going to be offended if you offer him money, and he’s going to be really offended if you offer him this amount of money.”

Zeke places a finger on the figure I’d calculated for rent and utilities. I nod.

“It is too low.”

“No.” He laughs. “It’s too high, Vas. You’re our friend. We’d be happy to have you stay with us over the summer and the only thing you have to worry about paying for is your groceries.”

“Oh, no.” I shake my head. “That is not fair. I would not want to take advantage of my good friends.”

Zeke stares at me for a second, thinking, before tapping the proposal again.

“This would be us taking advantage of you .”

Surprised, I sit back in my chair. I’d thought Zeke would be the easier of them to convince, but apparently that was a miscalculation. Biting the inside of my cheek, I try to think of any possible arguments.

“You will not miss having your own house? You will not mind extra wheel?” I mentally curse myself as soon as I say it. It’s third wheel.

“Nope.”

“I am very quiet. I am also very clean,” I tell him, still feeling the need to convince him even though it’s obviously unnecessary. “I can make many German foods.”

“Sounds great,” Zeke replies pleasantly. “Now, trash that before Carter sees it and gets mad at you for thinking he’d make you pay him fifteen hundred dollars to rent a bedroom. ”

“This is the amount that is the average cost of apartments here,” I point out. Zeke merely shakes his head, grinning as he slides the proposal back over to me.

“When he got signed to the AHL, Carter suggested we have my grandma move from her mobile home to our house. They’ve been arguing about it ever since.” Zeke laughs quietly, eyes dancing with happiness. “She wants to pay him, he doesn’t want any of her money, and around and around they go. Between you and I, Grandma is going to win, though. Carter is low-key terrified of her.”

I smile at that, even though I still feel a little wary about this. Zeke, sensing this, leans toward me over the table and flips the proposal over so that it’s no longer visible.

“Vas. Carter won’t ever say it out loud, but you’re important to him. He isn’t the kind of person who has a hundred friends, he’s the kind that has two friends he’d do anything for. You’re one of those people. Trust me when I say that nothing would make him happier than to be able to help you by offering a home for the summer.”

“But you are sure I cannot pay you?” I ask a tad desperately. “It is a paid internship. Coach Mackenzie said so.”

“I have never been surer of anything in my life,” Zeke answers firmly. “Carter won’t take your money, and he’ll get pissed if you offer it.”

I sigh, sliding the folder off the table and tucking it back into my bag.

“You are good friends.”

Zeke beams, sitting back in his chair and pulling his cellphone out of his pocket. He taps out a quick message before laying it face down on the table.

“Summers are the best because Carter is home all the time. You can teach me to make German dishes and Carter can be our guinea pig.”

Frowning, I sort through my knowledge of English phrases. I know a guinea pig is a sort of pet rodent, but I’m unsure of how one relates to Carter eating German food. I hope he’s not thinking I will feed them guinea pigs. Deciding it’s probably not a distinction that’s important to the conversation, I simply smile and nod. It reminds me of Atlas, and his correction of my grammar.

“There was another thing I wished to discuss with you, if you have more time to spare.”

“Hit me,” he answers, closing his math textbook and sliding it to the side.

“I need assistance with my Creative Communications partner. He dislikes me.”

Zeke blinks at me, head tilted a degree to the side. He looks surprised.

“Uhm,” he says, “what?”

Sighing, I explain to him all my encounters with Atlas thus far. The more I talk, the more his face scrunches up and his eyes narrow. By the time I fall silent, I’ve figured out the expression: he’s angry on my behalf.

“Well, he sounds rude,” Zeke says shortly. “I don’t think you should talk to him at all.”

“We are partners all semester,” I remind him.

“Talk to him the bare minimum to get your work done,” he advises, making me grimace. He sighs and takes pity on me. “Kill him with kindness.”

This is a saying I’m familiar with.

“Indeed. That is the best plan I have,” I confirm.

“Totally unrelated, and has no bearing on the conversation whatsoever, but do you want to know the origin of ‘killing with kindness’?” He waits for me to nod, eyes wide with barely contained excitement. “Well, most credit Shakespeare, but a case could also be made that it originates from apes’ propensity of hugging their young too tightly and killing them.”

“Well then,” I say, for want of anything better. And then, because even with my tenuous grasp of the English language, I can recognize an easy joke when I see one: “Perhaps I will simply give Atlas a tight hug.”

Zeke laughs, and I love him for it.

“Honestly, it sounds like he needs one,” he agrees.

We chat quietly for a few more moments, before Zeke’s phone buzzes with a text message. I can tell it’s Carter by the way his smile turns fond and his eyes soften. A spike of envy worms through my chest. I wish I had a Carter or a Zeke to text me. I wish I had someone who was my own.

Zeke taps out a reply and looks up at me, catching what must be a telling expression on my face.

“You okay?”

“I have found that college is very alone,” I admit. He nods even though that hadn’t sounded quite right. “I am glad I have hockey, or I would not have anything. It is hard to make friends.”

“Yeah, it is,” he agrees sadly. “Meaningful relationships are difficult to cultivate. But they’re worth it when you have them.”

Zeke unlocks his phone screen, swiping through a few things before laying it flat on the table and sliding it over to me. Angling my head, I look at the text message thread with Carter.

Zeke

Vas is applying to an internship with your team for next summer. He won’t be able to stay in the dorms though, because campus will be closed.

Carter

I’ll text him. He should stay with us.

“See,” Zeke whispers, after giving me a moment to read the messages. “We want you to stay with us.”

“Ask him about the money?—”

“No money,” Zeke interrupts. “You’re a good friend. Let us do this for you.”

I stare hard at his phone, trying to think of a way to argue that without sounding ungrateful. It doesn’t matter how he words it, the situation still feels wrong to me. It feels like I’ll be interrupting what would otherwise be a summer just the two of them.

“Only if you are sure,” I stress. “I will not want to be a burden.”

“I’ll talk to Carter,” he reassures me. “But let’s just assume that you’ll stay with us, okay? You can check that item off your list. Now, when is the application due?”

I give Zeke the information Coach Mackenzie provided me and carefully take notes when he offers advice. We stay in the library, comfortably working together, until the librarian gently reminds us that they close in thirty minutes. Chastised, I hastily put my notebook away and apologize to her. Zeke and I don’t speak again until we’re standing outside in the evening heat.

“Thank you for your assistance,” I tell him.

“Sure, anytime! When is your next CC class?”

“Tuesday,” I reply morosely, thinking of Atlas .

“Well, I still don’t like that he was so rude to you, but maybe we should give him the benefit of the doubt. I mean”—he grimaces, shooting me a crooked smile—“I’m literally in love with one of the rudest people I’ve met, so.”

“Yes. I am thinking he probably needs a friend.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Zeke warns. “He doesn’t even know you. If he doesn’t like you, it says more about him than it does about you.”