Page 1 of Slick & Spooky

1

“Pretty sure you don’t have to try that hard, Tyler.”

I drag my eyes over the mirror, taking in the whole mess of it.

Old ratty black gym shorts hanging far too low, the white elastic band of my jockstrap peeking out, and a half-smeared skull glowing faintly across my face like something a drunk art student might’ve done at 3 a.m.

I tilt my head, squint a little, and I'm sure maybe there’s some version of me in there that makes sense.

The look is not really subtle, but I'll be so honest... subtle’s never really gotten me anywhere.

“I think I look hot.”

My pledge brother Joey groans dramatically. “Hot, yeah, but also… kinda desperate.”

Joey is stretched across my bed like a bored house cat.

This look he's perfected that is this strange mix of half-impressed and half-annoyed. It's the same look he's giving me now. That paired with his own glow-in-the-dark skull paint is somehow managing to make his face less attractive, which is a feat.

Joey’s hot, but he’s the kind of hot that never has to prove itself, which makes him unbearable. He’s tan, Puerto Rican, curls crammed under a backwards cap like that’ll somehow hide them.

The man is five-eight on a good day with a stocky build like the universe ran out of inches and dumped the leftovers into his squat frame. He's nothing but bulging muscle stuffed into a skeleton tee with the sleeves hacked off, biceps threatening to rip what’s left of the fabric, while his thighs are practically exploding out of his black five-inch inseam shorts

He’s a total opposite of me. I’ve got a few inches on him, but it doesn’t matter. Next to Joey, I’m invisible.

People love to say I have “feminine features,” as if I should thank them for noticing.

I’m lean and wiry in a way that makes people assume I run track or do ballet or haven’t eaten today and most of my face is just… eyes. They're big and brown and taking up way more space than they should. A bunch of dark curls that refuse to cooperate fall over my forehead, resting against skin so pale it practically lights up under a blacklight. To top it off, freckles are splattered across my face like someone sneezed while holding a paintbrush.

I look less like a frat boy and more like some Victorian fever dream that got lost on the way to the graveyard.

Delicate.

That’s the word they land on.

Not hot.

Not sexy.

Delicate.

Like I’m a glass figurine waiting for the wrong touch to shatter me.

The thing is… they’re not wrong.

At least, they’re not wrong about the version of me I let them see.

Leaning into it works for me. I let my voice fall softer, let my shoulders round, let my smile stay light and careful. Because if people see delicate, then they don’t seeFinley. They don’t see the last name that gets me waved through doors I never asked to open.

So to the outside world I’m harmless and palatable and separate from the family power I never earned.

Out of all the things pledging Mu Lambda Nu gave me, including sleep deprivation, group chats I cannot escape no matter how many times I mute them, and the deep emotional trauma of lukewarm Natty Light, the biggest surprise was Joey.

He’s painfully straight, uncomfortably direct, and kind of a menace when he’s bored, and somewhere between being hazed within an inch of our lives and slipping each other Tylenol PM to survive, we stuck.

His friendship alone makes the dues feel worth it.

“You could wear a hoodie and he would still notice you,” Joey says.