Page 5

5

Henri

My morning with Atlas was a disaster. I hadn’t been so foolish to hope that he’d be in a better mood on a Saturday, but he seemed particularly acidic today. Usually, I’d take the responsibility for things moving slowly—I know my English isn’t perfect, and I still get tripped up over simple things—but not even I can pretend that I was the problem today. If Atlas and I are to spend an entire semester working together, something will have to change.

The thing is, I am certain that we could get along if he would allow it. He is prickly and rude, yes, but he’s also very sharp-witted. Every now and then I get a peek of his dry sense of humor, and I like it. I must also admit that I think he’s rather handsome, even despite the bad attitude. I’m certain the real Atlas behind the walls is worth knowing, as long as I can get past the Atlas guarding the gate.

Feeling uncommonly down, I don’t bother trying to work on any homework on the team bus. Instead, I stare out the window and listen as my teammates laugh and joke around me. Beside me, Max occasionally jostles my arm when the bus lurches.

“Sorry,” he apologizes after a particularly violent jolt that sends him crashing into my shoulder.

“That is no problem,” I tell him, smiling. “Will Luke be coming to the game?”

“Not tonight. His car is a piece of crap, so it’s better he just watches from home. Wouldn’t want him to get stranded.” Max smiles and I return it easily.

I play well in the game, able to compartmentalize and focus on the task at hand and not my tumultuous morning. Max—as though spurred on by the knowledge that this is his last year before he joins the NHL—bags five points with two goals and three assists. Nate, too, plays an incredible game and I tell him so when we are waiting to file back onto the bus afterward. He claps a hand on my upper back, smiling wide at the praise.

“Thanks, Vas! You too, buddy,” he says, before boarding the bus and finding a seat.

I follow him, taking the spot next to Max as I always do. He looks at me, eyes shining in the dim lighting of the bus. I am suddenly incredibly tired—exhausted from playing sixty minutes of hockey after an equally exhausting sixty minutes spent with Atlas this morning. Max jostles me with his elbow.

“You good?”

“Yes. Merely tired.” Max nods in agreement. “Also, I have a communications partner who is difficult. He is not fond of me.”

“Really?” He raises his eyebrows. “Huh. Are you sure? I can’t imagine anyone not liking you.”

“You are very kind, but I am sure. He is not shy about telling me. I am wondering if perhaps he is the communication assignment. If one can speak to Atlas effectively, they shall pass the class.”

Max chuckles, turning to face me in his seat. “That bad, huh? Worse than Carter?”

“Carter is easy,” I say, waving a hand. “Carter is like…he is like a rose. Thorns, yes, but also a flower. Atlas is only the thorns.”

“Oh my god, did you just say Carter is like a flower?”

“It’s a metaphor,” I explain. Max laughs delightedly.

“Holy shit, I can’t wait to tell Luke you said that.”

I sigh. “Okay, perhaps that was not quite right. But you understand? Carter needed a friend and was happy when I offered to become that friend. Atlas is not the same. He needs a friend, but does not want one.”

“Well, then you don’t need him as one anyway.”

I nod, because of course he is right. I cannot explain why I want Atlas to like me. I cannot even understand it myself. I just feel like it’s important. Atlas is important.

Almost as though my thoughts bring him to fruition, my cellphone buzzes with a text message as we exit the highway and drive toward campus. Beside me, Max is leaned back against the seat, eyes staring sightlessly at the passing darkness through the window. I squint down at my screen, unsure what I’m looking at.

Atlas

three melbourne place jslkdu big whit house

Henri

Good evening, Atlas. May I ask for clarification on your previous message?

Atlas

jesussssss just come hury up

Slightly alarmed, I type out several responses, but end up discarding them all. I wonder if he’s texted me by mistake. That makes more sense than him asking me to “just come hurry up.” Atlas would never invite me somewhere, unless it was off of a cliff.

Henri

Did you perhaps mean to text someone else?

There is no response. I stare at my phone, becoming a touch worried the longer I wait. Does he always text like that—with grammatical and spelling errors? I send another message to him, asking for more clarification. Again, I’m left with silence and my stomach erupts with nervous energy. The bus pulls to a stop in front of the rink and Coach Mackenzie rises to standing.

“Great job tonight. Go home and get some rest—I expect a repeat performance tomorrow.”

Max nods like Coach is giving him a direct order and several guys cheer. We get off the bus and gather our bags. I wait patiently for my teammates to get theirs before I attempt to grab my own, standing off to the side and nervously staring at my cellphone. Max steps over to me, his own bag slung over his shoulder and mine in his opposite hand.

“Oh, thank you. You did not have to get that,” I tell him.

“No worries. Can I give you a ride home?”

“Oh, no, thank you, Max. I am not far. I shall walk.”

Halfway back to my dorm, my phone rings. Thinking it might be Max or Coach Mackenzie needing me to come back to the rink, I stop and set my bag on the ground before fishing my phone out. Atlas’ name flashes across the screen and I press the answer button with more force than is strictly necessary.

“Hello?”

“Henri-i-i-i,” Atlas sings. He’s barely audible over the bass of the music playing in the background. “Henri, Henri, Henri-i-i-i.”

“Atlas,” I interrupt. He’s saying my name strangely, dropping the H and giving the I an extended E sound. Disappointed, I realize that I know exactly why his text was so strange. “Atlas, are you drunk?”

He giggles. “Maybe.”

“Perhaps you could turn the music down?” I shout into the phone, fighting against the noise. He laughs again. It’s an unhinged noise, and I wish he would stop making it.

“Are you coming?” Another laugh. “You’re coming, right?”

I bend down to pick up my bag, sliding the strap over my shoulder and continuing to walk toward my dorm. Fatigue settles heavy over me once more. I’m too tired to deal with drunk people right now. I’m too tired to deal with Atlas.

“No, Atlas, I am not coming to the party. I must go to sleep.” It’s already past the time I’d usually be in bed, and I don’t adjust my daily schedule to accommodate late nights. It doesn’t matter how late I go to bed, I still get up at the same time.

“You have to come. I need you to come.”

His voice trails off as though he’s no longer speaking directly into the phone, but letting it hang down by his side. The music stops suddenly, and his voice becomes clear again. He’s repeating please come over and over again. The back of my neck tingles with unease and I stop walking once more. I don’t feel right about this .

“Where are you?”

“Number three Melbourne Place,” he says in a singsong, before laughing.

“Atlas, I need you to try and focus, yes?” Turning back around, I peer across the dark campus. Max’s car is gone. “I do not want to come to a party. I am just getting home from the game, it is late?—”

“I need your help,” he whispers, sounding more lucid than he has the entire conversation. Immediately, I pull the phone away from my ear and put it on speaker. When I type the address he gave me into the map app, nothing comes up.

“I need the address, Atlas.”

“Number threeeee?—”

“No,” I interrupt. “That is not correct. Please, just…” I pause, thinking hard. I have no idea what to do, and I wish, more than anything, I’d agreed to letting Max give me a ride. “Share your location, yes? Do you know how to do this?”

He laughs and I barely refrain from cursing in frustration. Changing direction, I walk away from the dorm and toward the lot where I park my car. Tossing my bag into the back, I sit in the driver’s seat and desperately try to come up with a solution. At a loss, I try typing different variations of the address he gave me into the map, but none of them work. On the other end of the line, Atlas is singing nonsensically.

“Atlas,” I call, trying to get his attention. I keep my voice as even as I can, not wanting to betray my nerves or frustration. “Atlas, please share your location with me, yes?”

“Yes!” he shouts, before devolving into laughter again. Music flares back to life and I hastily lower the volume on my phone.

Tipping my head back against the headrest, I close my eyes and try to come up with another idea. I can’t very well drive around campus all night, looking for parties. In fact, I don’t even know that Atlas is at a party—he could be anywhere. I’m just coming to the conclusion that maybe I need to call in reinforcements, when my phone buzzes with a text message. I look down and breathe out heavily, dizzy with relief.

“I am on my way, Atlas,” I say into the speakerphone, even though I’m pretty sure he is no longer holding it. I can’t hear anything other than the indistinct noises one might hear if they were pocket-dialed. Pulling up the location he just shared, I note that it’s off campus and an area of town I’ve never been to before.

The moment I pull into the driveway, I realize there is probably a good reason for that. The house in which Atlas’ location has remained stationary looks dilapidated. The front porch is sagging—boards rotting and railing broken. The yard is littered with garbage, overgrown with weeds, and the driveway sports several large cracks that I have to slowly ease my car over. There are lights on inside, but I can’t hear any music. Stepping out of the car and adjusting the dress shirt I’m still wearing from the game, I approach the front door and knock briskly.

It takes several minutes of sustained knocking before the door is thrown open by a man who looks far too old to be a college student. Smothering my surprise, I smile politely.

“Good evening. I am here for—to pick up Atlas.”

Christ, but I am tired. If the man notices the way I stumbled over the sentence, he doesn’t comment on it. His eyes rake over me, top to bottom, and a sneer pulls up one side of his mouth.

“You here to sell fucking Bibles?”

“No, sir, I am here for Atlas,” I repeat .

“You look like a Bible thumper,” he says, lifting a bottle to his lips and taking a swig. He’s wearing a white tank top that looks like it hasn’t been washed in this century, and the view I have of the room shows a house in a similar state.

“May you ask Atlas to come to the door?”

“ May you ask Atlas to come to the door, ” he mimics. “Fuck off.”

He steps back and goes to swing the door closed. I put my foot between the door and the frame, planting a hand on the wood and shoving it back open. The man stumbles back, liquid sloshing out of the mouth of the bottle he’s holding. He rights himself immediately, eyes flashing in anger. I step inside, leaving the door hanging wide open, and make use of every inch of my 6’2” frame—straightening my spine and drawing my shoulders back.

“I do not want to cause any trouble. I would like to pick up my friend,” I repeat. I don’t want this to get out of hand, but I also don’t want to leave without Atlas.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” he spits, taking a threatening step toward me. He realizes—the closer he gets—that I’m a good deal taller and wider than him. He might also be cognizant enough to realize that I’m perfectly sober. He narrows his eyes, waves his bottle at the room, and changes track. “Whatever, man.”

“Thank you.” Stepping past him, and being careful not to touch anything, I quickly peer around the room. It’s filthy: carpet and wallpaper yellow with age, drink receptacles discarded around the room, and a white powder scattered across the coffee table. My skin itches, being in this house. I will need another shower before bed, just to scrub away the decay I imagine is already clinging to my body.

“Atlas?” I raise my voice, but none of the people lounging on the couch so much as raise their heads. It doesn’t matter anyway, none of them have hair dark enough to be him.

I tread down the hallway carefully, well aware that this is the sort of place one might step on a used needle. A slight headache is building behind my ears, and my head feels fuzzy with fatigue and nerves. I stick my head into a bedroom and almost gag at the smell of vomit that greets me. Breathing through my mouth, I step far enough in to gaze around at the occupants. A young woman raises her head off the bed where she is tangled up with another woman.

“I am sorry to disturb you, miss,” I say softly. “Have you seen Atlas?”

“What?” She sits up a little straighter and the sheet falls down to her waist. She’s naked. Politely, I maintain firm eye contact with her even though she makes no move to cover herself back up. Beside her, the other woman hasn’t moved an inch.

“Is your companion breathing, ma’am?” I ask, stepping closer and pointing to the unmoving body. People choke and die on their own vomit. I have read about this happening.

“What?” she says again, but obligingly puts a hand on the other woman’s shoulder and gives her a vigorous shake. I flinch at the roughness of the gesture, but it does the trick. Her companion sits up, and now I am speaking to two unclothed and wasted women.

“Where is Atlas?” I ask firmly, because I know from experience that the best way to deal with drunk people is to project confidence.

“The Chinese guy?” one of them asks.

“He is not Chinese, he…sure, yes, the Chinese guy. Where may I find him?” My headache becomes more insistent. I want to correct her, but I also know that getting into an ar gument about ethnic profiling with a drunk person will not be fruitful.

“Bedroom down at the end of the hall,” she grumbles, pointing a pale arm to the right before flopping back onto the pillow.

“Thank you.”

I bypass the rest of the doors until I get to the one at the end of the hall. It’s closed, so I knock gently before just letting myself in. The state of this house and its occupants are worrisome. I desperately want to leave. I desperately want to get back to my clean, orderly dorm room and crawl into my non-vomit-soaked sheets.

The moment I walk into the bedroom, I breathe a sigh of relief. Atlas is stretched out on the bed, flat on his stomach, with one arm and leg hanging over the side. His face is turned toward the door, cheek resting against the mattress, and he’s breathing softly.

“Atlas,” I murmur, placing my palm flat on the middle of his upper back and looking around. There are several small, white pills sitting on the nightstand as well as an empty bottle of cheap vodka. The pills keep my attention far longer than the alcohol. “Atlas, wake up, it is time to be leaving.”

“Mm.” He mumbles something incoherent and turns to bury his face into the dirty sheets. Alarmed, I grasp his shoulder and pull him back.

“Atlas, do not put your face there. This place is very dirty.” The rebuke has him opening his eyes and squinting up at me. A dopey, half-smile crawls across his face.

“En-reeeee,” he says, and immediately tries to sit up. I have to help him. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and tips backward until I steady him with my hand on his back. His shirt is damp with sweat and there is a feverish, waxy sheen to his eyes. They look like marbles.

“We are leaving,” I say, hooking a hand under his armpit and yanking him to standing. I cannot spend another moment in this place or I will lose my mind.

“Bossy Henri,” he says coyly, wrapping a surprisingly firm arm around my waist and plastering himself to my side.

“Do you have your things? Cellphone and wallet?”

He rolls his head until it’s lying against my shoulder, so I assume that means he’s not going to answer. Gently, I reach down and try to pat his pockets. He giggles.

“That’s not a cellphone in my pocket, I’m just happy to see you,” he tells me, before devolving into fits of manic laughter.

Sighing, I look around the room. His wallet is in his back pocket, but he’s right about the cellphone not being there. Pulling out my own, I call his number and listen for it. After locating his phone—in the closet, of all places—I walk him out the door. He’s mostly walking on his own, but still holding tight enough to me that we look like we are competing in a three-legged race. I have to turn him to the side to maneuver down the hallway. Together, we are too wide to fit across.

None of his companions stop us on our way out, and I don’t even see the man in the tank top who answered the door. I hope I never, ever have to see him again for as long as I live.

Atlas keeps up a steady stream of gibberish as I help him into the passenger seat of the car, occasionally bursting out into fits of random laughter. When I bend over him to click the seat belt into place, he places his hand on my side and runs his fingertips over my ribs.

“One, two, three, four,” he counts under his breath. I tighten the belt and gently close the door. When I slide into the driver’s seat, his dark eyes are shining in the interior light of the car, watching me.

“If you need to be sick, please let me know. We will pull over, yes?” I hand him a water bottle. “You should take small sips of this, please. Do not chug it.”

He takes the bottle from me and obediently opens it, sloshing some down his front as he tries to drink. Mentally, I add clean car to my to-do list for tomorrow. He holds the bottle out to me as though offering some to share.

“No, thank you. That is for you.” I glance over at him after carefully backing us down the driveway. His forehead is leaned against the window, with the water bottle balanced precariously in his lap. “Atlas, do you remember if you took anything?”

He rotates his head enough for me to see one glassy, dark eye. I don’t know what to do—take him home or take him to the hospital. I miss Carter and Max with an intensity that burns hot in my chest and makes it hard to breathe. They would know what needs to be done.

“Oh, probably,” he responds flippantly.

“What did you take? What are the white pills?”

“Blue ones, white ones, pink ones. I don’t remember.”

Pulling up to a stop sign, I verify that nobody is behind me and turn to him. He seems less manic now that we’re in the quiet, dark car. I put a hand on his shoulder and give him a small, gentle shake.

“You must try to remember, it is very important. You did not take all of those, right? Atlas? You did not take multiple pills?”

“Vodka,” he says with finality.

“You only drank vodka? ”

“Oh, who knows.” He sighs. Frustrated, I lean my head down against the steering wheel, and squeeze my eyes shut. A hand pats my back. “Don’t cry, Henri. Don’t cry.”

When I lift my face and look at him, Atlas smiles, hand still patting my upper back mechanically. It makes me sad to see that smile. I hadn’t thought it was an expression he knew how to make, and I hate that the first time I’ve seen it is when he’s wasted. Letting my foot off the brake, I continue driving us toward campus.

“Where do you live?”

“Number three Melbourne Place!”

I shake my head, but don’t bother arguing with him. We cannot waste the rest of the night driving around aimlessly while I wait for Atlas to provide me with proper instructions. He’ll have to come back to my dorm with me.

The campus is deserted by the time I pull my car back into the usual space. Beside me, Atlas is asleep, slumped against the door and breathing softly. He looks so peaceful, I feel badly about reaching across the car and touching his shoulder. I shake him gently, trying not to startle him. After a sustained thirty seconds of jostling, he blinks his eyes open and looks at me.

“We are here,” I tell him. He fumbles for the seat belt with shaky hands, and I watch him for a few moments before getting out of the car and walking around to his side. This time, when I lean over him to help, he doesn’t touch me.

It takes both of our efforts to unfold him from the car, and once we get there, he leans against the side and closes his eyes as though the movement made him dizzy.

“Where?” he mumbles, squinting around the parking lot.

“I have a single in Simmons Hall,” I reply, pointing toward the building. He stares at it, seemingly confused. I grasp a hand around his elbow and pull him gently into motion. “Come. It is late.”

He stays quiet as we walk toward my room, bumping against me as he struggles to walk. He stares hard at his feet, apparently confused as to why they aren’t working properly. When we get to my room, I lean him against the wall and unlock the door. He steps inside when I gesture.

“Do you have a bathroom?” he asks. Alarmed at the question and the thready sound of his voice, I walk him over to the door and click on the light. It’s a small bathroom, but more than most have when they live in a dorm.

“Are you going to be ill?”

“Yeah.” He sighs, sinking down to his knees next to the toilet. Trying to give him a little privacy, I leave the bathroom. Taking my shoes off, I line them up by the door, perpendicular with my others.

Pausing to listen at the door of the bathroom, I ascertain that Atlas is still occupied before pulling off my dress clothes and changing into sweats. Biting my lip, I consider laying something out for Atlas as well, but none of my sweatpants will fit him and I’m not sure he’s able to function well enough to change his clothes. Deciding I’ll wait and see what he wants to do, I rap my knuckles gently on the bathroom door before pushing inside.

He’s got his forearms resting on the rim of the toilet, spine arched and head hanging low. I can see sweat beaded on the back of his neck at the base of his hairline, and he’s panting like he’s just run a race. Silently, I step behind him and wet a clean washcloth in the sink. When I crouch down next to him, he lifts his head and looks at me blearily.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. There’s no malice behind the question, just curiosity .

“You called me to pick you up. We are in my dorm.” I hold out the washcloth and he takes it from me, wiping it across his face.

“I called you?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, sitting down on the floor and sliding backward until his back comes up against the vanity. He’s deathly pale, eyes and hair impossibly dark against his waxy complexion. He looks like a corpse.

“It’s all right. Are you going to be sick again?”

“No,” he says, before amending it to, “Not yet.”

I hold out a hand for him and pull him to standing, keeping hold of him when he sways dangerously. He laughs, apparently finding something funny in the situation. When we get to my room, I’m able to deposit him on the bed without a fight and hand him a fresh bottle of water. Faced with the conundrum of clothes again, I hesitate. Atlas doesn’t look at me, just sits hunched on the edge of the bed, hands shaking where they are curled around the water bottle. He will not ask for help, I realize, even though he needs it.

Without speaking, I crouch down and begin untying the laces on his shoes.