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Atlas

Henri Vasel is already seated when I walk into the lecture hall. He’s wearing khaki pants and a grey polo shirt, because, apparently, he only has one wardrobe. Looking at him—with his perfectly styled brown hair, carefully trimmed scruff, and unwrinkled clothing—I just want to throw him down into the mud. I want to filthy him up a little bit and crack the choir boy facade. Maybe also punch him in the face, because for some reason he really rubs me the wrong way.

He smiles when he sees me walking toward him, as though we’re the best of friends and I didn’t insult him last time we were together.

“Good afternoon, Atlas. Are you doing well today?”

“Fine,” I grunt, squeezing around him and tossing my backpack onto the floor between our seats.

“Did you enjoy your weekend?”

“Sure did.”

He doesn’t seem perturbed by the one-sided conversation. If anything, he looks happy that I’m engaging at all. I probably should have continued with the silent treatment. Now, he’s going to expect me to talk to him every fucking class.

“Do you support hockey?” he asks, angling himself toward me and linking his fingers together in his lap. He looks like he’s trying to convince me to vote for him in a student body election.

“Do I look like someone who supports hockey?”

He blinks. “Yes?”

“No.”

“I play hockey, but it is not for all people,” he says magnanimously. “How is ceramics?”

Of course he plays hockey. He asked me to call him by his last name and both of my thighs put together equal the size of one of his. Not only did I get stuck with the most annoying motherfucker in class, but a jock too. Lucky me.

“Fine.”

“What are you making?”

“Pottery.”

Instead of being surprised by my less-than-friendly answers, he neatly sidesteps them and fires another question at me. I’m definitely regretting opening my mouth. Next time, I’m choosing silence.

“Would you like an apple?”

“I don’t like green apples,” I remind him, just as he pulls a red apple from the side pocket of his bag and holds it out to me in his palm. He doesn’t even have the decency to look smug for remembering. He waits for me to take it from him, a bland half-smile on his face. “I’m good.”

“I shall leave here, yes?” He puts it on the corner of his desk, closest to me. “In case you become hungry.”

“Thanks,” I answer grudgingly, even though I know I’ll never eat that damn apple. What the hell is he playing at, anyway? Who the fuck brings food for someone that sits next to them in a lecture hall?

He doesn’t respond to my thanks, just inclines his head slightly and turns to face the front of the room as Dr. Robertson comes in. Christ, but he is a weird fucker. He remains bent over his notebook the entire class, diligently writing down everything the instructor says or writes on the board. When I peek over at his paper, his handwriting is straight and tidy—rows and rows of perfect penmanship. Unlike earlier, when he was talking to me, he frowns a little bit as he writes, as though he’s concentrating particularly hard. He keeps writing even when Dr. Robertson pauses, as though he has to catch up, and every now and then he shakes out his hand like it’s cramping.

“Why don’t you take notes on a computer?” I ask him as we pack up at the end of class. His head snaps up from where he was bent over his bag, and his eyes widen. I curse myself as soon as I see that stupid, hopeful look on his face. This is the first time I’ve talked to him without him starting the conversation.

“I am not skilled at typing,” he admits. “And writing is to help me remember.”

“Got it,” I respond shortly, standing up and edging past him. He plasters himself against the desk in an effort to make more room for me.

“I hope you have a pleasant evening, Atlas.”

“See you next time, Henri,” I call, giving a flippant wave over my shoulder and mimicking his accent when I say his name. He starts to reply, but I’m already too far away to hear and I don’t bother to turn around.

Head down and hands shoved into my pockets, I walk home. The lawn is scattered with various groups of students. Some are lounging in the sun reading, while others throw frisbees or a football. As usual, I feel as detached from it all as if I’m watching a television show that’s set in college. I’ve never had the type of friends who’d willingly spend an afternoon on the grass, aimlessly tossing a frisbee. Half of me wonders if I’m doing college wrong, while the other half wonders why I even care. What would be the point of trying? None of this matters. We’re all going to end up in meaningless jobs we hate anyway, and college relationships don’t last. It’s all a waste of time.

When I get back to the house I share with four other guys, I’ve got a minor headache and a not-so-minor bad mood. I need a drink and a cigarette—preferably at the same time. I could also use a blowjob, but I’m not sure I have the fortitude to make that one happen tonight. Henri Vasel is so fucking exhausting, he’s used up all I have to give for socializing today.

I ignore two of my roommates that are congregated in the living room and head up the stairs to my room. I’ve got the smallest room in the house—just big enough to fit a full bed and a dresser that I also use as a desk. When I need to spread out, I usually do my homework seated on the floor. Whenever I get annoyed about the situation, I remind myself that it could be worse. I could still be in the dorms, listening to my neighbors fuck through the thin walls, and having to wade through hallway parties to get to the bathroom. Anything is better than that.

I pass Nate Basset’s door on my way to my room, cracked open enough to reveal him sitting at his desk—an actual desk, too, because his bedroom is larger than a kitchen pantry. Tossing my backpack in the direction of my closed door, I push Nate’s open without knocking. He looks up and makes a face at me, but doesn’t bother with a rebuke. We’ve shared a wall for the last two years—he’s well used to my “glooms” as he calls them.

“What’s up?” he asks as I close the door behind me and walk over to sit on his bed. He sighs as I flop backward and pull his pillow under my head.

“You play hockey,” I start, and he laughs.

“Sure do.”

“You know that Henri Vasel guy?”

“Vas!” Nate exclaims happily. “Yeah, he’s our top line winger. He’s great.”

“He’s weird as shit,” I correct. Nate frowns.

“I mean…okay, yeah, he’s a little odd. But he’s the most chill dude I’ve ever met. Nothing gets to that guy, Atlas, nothing . I’ve never once seen him lose his cool, not even when we’re down by five in the third and the other team is serving penalties like they’re going out of style. Everyone else will be pissed off and then there’s Vas—chill as fuck and telling everyone to play our game not theirs.”

“Christ, Nate.” I roll my eyes. “I don’t know what any of that crap you just said means. Be fucking normal for one second.”

“He’s cool,” he says succinctly, shrugging. “We love him.”

“He bothers me.”

It’s Nate’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Literally every person bothers you. I hate to break it to you, friend, but Vas is the most inoffensive person I’ve ever met. If you’ve got a problem with him, that’s on you.”

“He’s too fucking nice, man. He’s like… fake nice. Nobody is that friendly all the time.”

“Vas is.” He shrugs again .

“Well, then he’s got a lot of repressed emotions that are going to explode someday. He brought me an apple, dude. I told him he dressed like a prick and then today he brings me an apple . What the fuck?”

Nate laughs, shaking his head and swiveling his desk chair back to face his homework.

“God, you’re such an ass. You know, maybe if you pretended to be happy every now and again, you might find you’re happier by accident.”

“Wow.” I draw out the O dramatically and raise my hands to slow clap. “That was deep. You should sell that to Hallmark—slap it on a greeting card.”

“Fuck you,” he retorts, flipping me off over his shoulder. “This is exactly what I mean. You’re a dick and you expect everyone else to be as miserable as you are. Vas is nice, so of course something is wrong with him, or he must want something from you—he can’t be friendly just because he’s a good person. God forbid! Would it kill you to give someone the benefit of the doubt for a change?”

“Probably.”

“Maybe just settle for basic manners, then.”

“Whatever. I need a fucking cigarette.” I sit up and slide over until I’m sitting on the edge of his bed. He glances at me, stretching his arms above his head and groaning.

“If you’re going to smoke, shut my window on your way out. I don’t want that shit wafting in here.”

Scoffing, I step over to his window and slide it down, knocking the latch into place.

“Yes, I wouldn’t want to ruin the sanctity of your precious hockey lungs. You having company tonight?”

“Nah, not tonight. I’ve got a shit ton of studying to do—like, a ton —and I can’t put it off. No distractions,” Nate says, holding his palms out in front of him and closing his eyes like he’s trying to ward off said distractions.

“Me either.” I head toward his door. Nate and I aren’t friends, exactly. We’re more two guys who became friendly by the simple expedient of having bedrooms next to each other in a shared house. We’ve never once hung out beyond sitting together in the living room or chatting as I pass his room on the way to mine. Pausing in the doorframe, I glance back at him. Maybe we could be friends though, if we tried. “You got plans this weekend?”

He spins his desk chair around, looking at me like he’s already half checked out of the conversation.

“What? Oh, yeah, I’ve got hockey like usual. Why?”

“There’s a party at Foggers Saturday. You should come.”

Nate scrunches up his face in distaste. The stoners all seem to congregate together on campus, so their house was christened Foggers as a subtle nod toward the haze of smoke that seems to hover there like a fog. Not the most creative name, but the few of my friends who live there seem to find it hilarious. Although, since they’re usually high, they seem to find most things hilarious.

“Uhm, no, thanks. I don’t need to get kicked off the team because Coach decides to randomly drug test us and I piss out bath salts.”

Snorting, I shake my head at him. “Pretty sure that’s not how drug tests or bath salts work. Or weed, for that matter.”

“Thanks for the invite, but I’m going to pass. I’ve heard what goes on there, and I don’t want to be a part of it. I’m not trying to become the next statistic for college overdoses.”

“No worries. See you around,” I say, trying to backpedal from the conversation. I have no idea what idiocy compelled me to invite a jock to a party at the druggie house. The only time those two worlds collide is when someone wants to buy weed. They don’t pretend to be friends.

I leave Nate to his homework, stepping into my bedroom and snatching up my backpack on the way in. Kicking the door shut, I immediately crank open the small picture window beside my bed. My half-empty pack of cigarettes and lighter are sitting on the windowsill, waiting for me. I lean against the wall, making sure to angle my head so the smoke rolls out through the window, close my eyes, and enjoy the burn in my lungs.

I started smoking back in middle school on a dare, and mostly to try and get my dad’s attention. I’d nearly made it through an entire pack—weeks of smoking in the backyard of our house and leaving the butts on the patio—before he noticed. The resultant fight hadn’t been as satisfying as I’d imagined it would be, and only gave my dad another reason to dislike me. I have work to do, Atlas, I don’t have time to deal with this right now, he’d said, and then hadn’t even bothered to take the pack of cigarettes away. Same shit, different day.

Now, I mostly smoke because I like it. I know I shouldn’t—I’m not an idiot—and I don’t suck down a pack a week. I’m a casual smoker. The sort of smoker who lights up at the end of a hard day, when their German communication partner drives them nuts for no good reason.

Opening my eyes, I exhale through my nose and wave my hand to waft the smoke toward the window. Fucking Henri Vasel. I know Nate’s right, and it shouldn’t bother me that he’s nice. I also know it shouldn’t bother me that he’s a little different. But it does. Everything about him—from his hair, to his accent, to his goddamn polo shirts —bothers me. Everything about him seems fake to me, like he’s putting on a show. The only time people treat others with that level of respect is when they expect something in return.

Distaste dances in my lungs with the cigarette smoke. Tapping it out in the ashtray, I rest the unsmoked half across the top to save it for later. Leaving the window cranked open, I sit cross-legged on the floor and pull my backpack toward me. I need to at least get a head start on my homework before this weekend, or I’ll be stuck doing it with a hangover.

Dr. Robertson presents us with our first team project as though he’s handing out blank checks. Beside me, Henri is carefully writing everything down. I can see the tip of his tongue poking out from between his lips, and have to physically drag my eyes away and back to the front of the room. He’s so distracting. Even when he’s silently working beside me, my gaze seems to track to him like it’s magnetized. I have to remind myself that he’s not in any way my type, and I’m not going to have my first sexual experience with a guy be with someone like him.

Instead of staring at Henri’s profile, my eyes rest on the red apple sitting once more on the corner of his desk. Not today , I think waspishly.

“The case studies themselves are unimportant,” Dr. Robertson says to the room, pacing in front of us. “The point of the exercise is the discourse they evoke. There are no right or wrong answers. I do not need you to agree with your partner, I merely need you to converse with them. The Dropbox will open tonight and will remain open until Monday.”

Papers start to shuffle as everyone realizes class is over and it’s almost time to go .

“And one more thing,” Dr. Robertson calls, voice cutting through the ambient noise of the room. “Please remember that half of your grade depends on the work you complete with your partner. Take it seriously. That is all—enjoy your weekends.”

Henri is still writing as I shut my laptop and slide everything into my backpack. I wait for him, feeling annoyed that he can’t write faster than a five-year-old. When he finally sets down his pencil and looks over at me, I scowl.

“You write so fucking slow,” I tell him.

“Yes,” he replies, nodding. “I apologize if I am in your way.”

He scoots his chair into the table, making room for me to walk behind him and leave.

“We have to get together this weekend for an assignment,” I remind him. “I’m not planning on wasting my entire weekend on this shit, so let’s schedule something and get it over with.”

“Certainly. I have two hockey games this weekend. Saturday, the bus leaves at three. Sunday it is here, but I will be going to the rink earlier. Perhaps we could meet in the morning?”

Annoyed that I have to plan my weekend around something as idiotic as a sporting event, I hold my hand out to him.

“Give me your phone.”

He does. His background is the standard home screen that comes programmed on all iPhones, and I don’t see a single app that I could make fun of him for. Maybe hockey guys don’t need dating apps to get laid. He could probably walk across campus and pick up women without even trying. I create a contact and shoot a text message over to myself so that I have his number. When I hand his phone back to him, he smiles.

“Saturday or Sunday? Pick one,” I demand.

“Saturday will perhaps work best, if you are agreeable.” He does that weird nodding thing and reaches for the red apple he brought. Like he does after every class, he holds it out to me. Like I do every time, I ignore his outstretched hand and stand up.

“Saturday is fine. I’ll text you.”

With that, I slide past him and walk out the door without looking back. If he wants to pretend to be the nicest man alive, fine. Doesn’t mean I have to fall for the act.