“Such a tragedy,” Peg breathed, her pink nails splayed against her pink dress, the whole effect like one giant pink carnation expressing its deepest sympathies.

  “Yes. Yeah.”

  Peg blinked. Her eyeshadow was turquoise, which Theo thought might be a complementary color. The elevator dinged. The doors rattled open. Peg was still frozen with her nails spread against her chest.

  Theo had almost forgotten his line. “It’s, uh, been hard.”

  “You poor dear,” Peg said and started to sob.

  After that, Theo had to help her onto the elevator, and they rode up together to the third floor, where Theo guided Peg into the English department’s main office and got her seated at her desk. Peg ripped tissues out of a box like a magician with handkerchiefs up his sleeve, and Theo filled a paper cup with water and set it by her elbow. By then, Ethel Anne had arrived, and she started crying while she was taking off her coat—never mind that it was September and almost ninety degrees outside. Ethel Anne had to hug Theo, and he had to repeat his performance from the elevator, and then Ethel Anne and Peg had to hug each other, both of them still calling him Daniel for the simple fucking reason that they’d read it on his student account, and somewhere in the middle of the whole fiasco, Theo had to soothe himself by imagining Liversedge Hall imploding and the three of them buried in the rubble.

  When he finally extricated himself, he made his way to his office at the end of the hall, glad that the light was off behind the pebbled glass. He shared the office with two other grad students, and while Dawson rarely showed up to use the space, Grace spent most of her waking hours there. Technically, the semester didn’t start for a week, and Theo was hoping he’d have that time to settle in and—well, adjust was a pretty small word for it. Normalize? Somehow feel like the universe still made sense?

  He let himself into the office. He hadn’t been there since the accident; it smelled the same, a mixture of chai and pencil shavings and old books. Grace had hung four cardigans, one on top of the other, across the back of her seat, and her desk was covered with vinyl clings shaped like flowers and ducks and a Visigoth with a period-appropriate battle axe. Dawson’s desk had only an aging computer, supplied by the department, with what Dawson probably considered a discreet 4/20 sign taped to the side of the CPU. Theo’s desk was bare. Grace had been very thoughtful about that. She had taken down all the pictures, framed and unframed; she had removed all the trinkets from vacations and all the holiday gag gifts. Everything was in a banker’s box shoved into the desk’s knee hole. Theo caught the back of the box with his foot, balanced on the cane, and dragged the box free. He shoved it to the side. He’d have to deal with it eventually.

  Theo had barely powered on his computer when a knock came at the door. The pebbled glass made it impossible to tell who it was, but the spikey hair made him think of Ethel Anne. He considered the window. This was an old building; they had safety proofed everything. And anyway, he was only on the third floor, and he figured a jump would probably only land him in the hospital, and then he’d have to start this whole fucking terrible process over again.

  “Come in,” he said.

  It wasn’t Ethel Anne.

  The kid who stepped into the room was definitely not here for move-in day. He was older, that was part of it, but Theo had been late to college himself—and even later to start grad school—so it wasn’t the only factor that influenced his judgment. No, this kid didn’t move like he was new to the school. He waited respectfully in the doorway, yes, but he didn’t have the freshman timidity that made the kids buzz so fast they were almost hovering. Theo put the kid’s age in the early twenties; the kid had unkempt hair and small, dark eyes.

  “Hi,” he said. “Dr. Stratford?”

  Theo nodded but said, “Mr. Stratford. Actually, just Theo, if you’re comfortable.” Wheeling over Dawson’s chair, Theo pointed to the seat. “What can I do for you?”

  “Thanks. This is kind of awkward, but—” He produced a pink slip. “Is there any way?”

  Taking the slip, Theo glanced at it. Robert Poulson, senior. Fall 2013. Civ 1: Shakespeare in the World. Theo raised his eyebrows. “It’s already full?”

  Robert’s eyes shot down to his hands, which he clasped between his knees. “Uh, yeah. Guess so. Everybody registers in the spring.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve never had people lining up to take Shakespeare in the World.”

  Now Robert released his hands, and he scrubbed at his shorts. That was it. Nothing else. But somehow, Theo knew it had to do with the fucking accident. Everything in his life had something to do with that fucking accident now.

  “Robert? Or Robbie?”

  “Robert’s fine.”

  “We’re not supposed to add students. They cap the class sizes for a reason.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m really sorry. I realized over the summer that I could graduate in December if I took this class, but then it was too late to register online, and when I called the secretaries, they told me I had to talk to you in person and get you to sign it.”

  Theo laid the pink slip on his desk.

  “So, um,” Robert said. “Mr. Stratford. I mean Theo. I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Sure,” Theo said.

  “Oh, man.” Robert grinned and looked up. “Thank you.”

  “As soon as you tell me what they’re saying about me.”

  “Mr. Stratford, I don’t—”

  “This is an easy deal. And I won’t hold it against you.”

  Robert named one of the most popular rate-the-professor sites; he was scrubbing his shorts again.

  “All right,” Theo said, signing the slip and passing it back. “Have a great day.”

  “Thanks, Mr.—um, Theo.” Robert paused in the doorway. “And, uh, I’m really sorry.”

  “Yeah. Thank you.”

  Theo logged on to the computer, navigated to the site Robert had mentioned, and found his profile. It had ratings for classes he’d taught before—as well as the highly sought-after fire emoji that meant he was hot—and a section for general comments. There it was, laid out in staggered time stamps from June and July.

  —nearly died—

  —boyfriend decapitated—

  —husband, dummy, not boyfriend—

  —little girl didn’t make it—

  —she did, actually, but she lost her legs, I think, or—

  —just saying I had a class once where the professor killed himself and we all got A’s—

  —total bullshit, you stupid troll—

  He closed the tab. His hand was sweaty against the mouse. His pulse beat in his fingertips. Then, for the first time since June, he opened his email.

  Hundreds of unread messages waited for him.

  He scrolled all the way down, opened it, and the words blurred together. He started typing the phrase he’d be using for the rest of his fucking life.

  Thank you. That really means a lot.

  3

  In the Sigma Sigma frat house, Auggie hammered back another shot of Milagro and blinked tears from his eyes. An upperclassman was roaring in his ear—words, but Auggie had no clue what the guy was saying—and slapped another glass into his hand. A fist pounded on his back, and Auggie screamed something and threw back the shot. This time, he sputtered, and the upperclassman pounded on his back again, and that seemed to settle something—whatever the hell they’d been trying to settle. The crowd split up into smaller groups, and the upperclassman wandered off, and Auggie, all by himself, coughed until he felt like one of his lungs had come loose. When he could breathe again, he did a selfie, flashing a peace sign. The filter helped him look not totally wasted, and that was the point: Auggie’s internet persona was fun but responsible, the cute boy you could bring home to the parents. Internet Auggie couldn’t be seen wasted after doing a line of cheap shots.

  The Sigma Sigma Bid-ness Party was overwhelming, but it was the perfect capstone—Saturday night of rush week. Carly Rae Jepsen blasted from a speaker system that ran through the house, although house was a loose term. The building was approximately the size of the elementary school Auggie had attended. On the main floor, small groups of people talked and drank and laugh. Couples grinded against each other in dark corners—and sometimes, in not-so-dark corners. In some of the bigger rooms, furniture had been pushed back to clear space for impromptu dance floors, where crowds of guys and girls swayed and humped and tried to figure out who was going home with whom. A toxic mixture of sweat and a hundred colognes and perfumes hung in the air; somebody had already puked in one of the main-floor bathrooms, and in the kitchen, carry-out five-dollar pizzas were stacked in their boxes. Auggie posed with the stack, pretended to drool, and put a hand on his belly. He snapped the picture and posted it.

  “Pledge,” a scrawny guy screamed as he sprinted past Auggie, tugging on the sequined sash that Auggie was wearing. An even scrawnier girl came next, and she squealed, “Pledge” too and tried to rip the sash free. Auggie spun drunkenly into her pull, and then she released him and stumbled off down the hall. Auggie was laughing; he laughed so hard he crashed into a doorway, and the next thing he knew, he was sitting on his ass.

  “Jesus, you are a serious lightweight.”

  Orlando’s face—thick brows, heavy scruff, lantern jaw—floated into view, and then hands caught Auggie under the arms and lifted.

  “Oh, shit,” Auggie said, his stomach flipping.

  Just as quickly, Orlando released him, letting him slide down the jamb to rest on the floor.

  “Ok,” Orlando said. “I guess you’re staying here for a minute.”

  “Hey, man,” Auggie said.

  “Hey,” Orlando said.

  “Pledge,” Auggie said, tugging on the sash Orlando was wearing. Then he displayed his own. “Same.”

  “Holy shit,” Orlando said with a laugh. “Is it, like, my roommate duty to get you home or something?”

  “M’fine,” Auggie said. “You are really cool.”

  “How many shots did those guys make you do?”

  Auggie tried to hold up eleventeen fingers, which he was pretty sure was the right number, but he couldn’t seem to keep them all up. Then he started giggling.

  “All right,” Orlando said. “You’ve definitely had enough.”

  “M’fine,” Auggie said. “Les take a picture.”

  “Yeah?” Orlando said. “You going to make me a YouTube star too?”

  “Not a star,” Auggie said, tapping at his phone, trying to unlock it as the booze hit harder now. “Internet pers—internet pers—internet personality.” He crowed as he got past the passcode and showed the screen in triumph. “Come on.”

  Shrugging, Orlando crouched at Auggie’s side. Auggie couldn’t get the right angle—Orlando had a massive chest, a tiny waist, biceps the size of bowling balls, and it all deserved to be on display.

  “No, man,” Auggie said, grabbing Orlando’s arm and tugging. “You gotta—Jesus, have you never taken a picture before. And spread your legs. No.” He got his hand between Orlando’s knees to adjust his pose; when he bent closer, he could smell his own breath, the Milagro fumes thick enough to burn. “Back straight, chest out. Chin. Yeah, all right. Fuck yeah.”

  He took the shot. He slapped on a filter, scrawled bros on the bottom, and posted it.

  “You’re really good at that,” Orlando said.

  Heat rushed into Auggie’s face. His hand was still on Orlando’s knee.

  Orlando’s dark eyes were glassy; he was drunk too, Auggie realized distantly.

  “How trashed are you?” Orlando asked quietly, his breath whiskering against Auggie’s cheek.

  Before Auggie could answer, a trio of upperclassmen staggered into the hallway, two of them supporting the one in the middle, who was dry heaving like crazy.

  “Out of the fucking way, pledge,” one shouted, and Orlando scrambled away from Auggie.

  Right when the guys got even with Auggie, the one with the heaves bent at the waist and started to gag. Auggie felt his own stomach contract in response; he squeezed his eyes shut, fought a wave of cold sweat, and managed, just barely, not to puke. By the time he was back in control of himself, the upperclassmen had moved on. Orlando was gone.

  Auggie got to his feet. He wandered through a few of the rooms, looking for Orlando. Then the music was too loud. The burn of the tequila at the back of his throat was making him sick. His head was pounding in time with Rihanna, who was pulsing through the speakers now, and he staggered outside for some fresh air.

  The party was still going strong; from the outside, the frat house was a blaze of light, the building seeming to thump with the bassline. In California, the night would have been pleasantly cool now, all the heat dissipating once the sun went down. Here, though, the heat seemed just as dense, just as sticky. It was like a spiderweb clinging to his face; he took deep breaths, and the air smelled like hot tar and gasoline and trampled wild onions. The frat house had a low wall near the sidewalk, and he sat there, grateful for the chill of the stone through his jeans. He lay down. He wasn’t sure how much time passed, but after a while, his head was clearer.

  “Bum a smoke?”

  The voice was quiet and confident; when Auggie glanced up, he saw another pledge wearing the same sash. This guy looked a little older, like maybe he’d taken a gap year, and he grinned at Auggie’s expression and tapped his sleeve. “Cigarette? I left mine in the dorm, and I’m wasted. I always smoke when I’m wasted.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Auggie worked the pack free from where he’d rolled it in his sleeve, got out a smoke, and passed it over.

  The guy lit his and then asked, “You don’t want one?”

  “Nah. I already feel like I’m going to puke.”

  Blowing out a stream of smoke, the guy nodded. “Auggie, right?”

  “Yeah. Uh . . .”

  “It’s ok. Robert.”

  “Yeah, ok. Sorry. Lots of new people.”

  “No problem.”

  “Hey, Robert, not trying to be a dick, but could you just fuck off? I feel like shit.”

  “Yeah. Like, you need an ambulance?”

  “No, just—shit night.”

  “You got a bid from Sigma Sigma. I saw you blasting it all over Instagram. You got, like, a million likes on it.” Robert grinned around the cigarette and said, “Ok, so I follow you. You’re fucking hilarious. Anyway, what’s so shitty about tonight?”

  Auggie thought of his hand on Orlando’s knee, the soft, warm breath on his cheek, the question that had a kind of invitation in it: How trashed are you?

  Be careful, he told himself. Be careful. You’ve worked really hard, and you can’t just throw it all away. Not again. And it wasn’t just Orlando that worried him; it was the dark anger blossoming in his chest. The need to be seen. Really seen. And he told himself again, be really, really careful.

  But the Milagro was talking for him now.

  “Cock blocked,” Auggie said with a shrug.

  “Yeah, well, trust me: there are plenty of girls in there that’ll do you. You want me to introduce you to some?”

  Auggie stared out at the street. The asphalt was a black river.

  “I want to fuck some shit up,” Auggie said.

  Robert drew hard on the cigarette; the tip flared into a star and then dimmed. “Fuck,” he said. “That’s fucked up. Like, you want to fight somebody? I guess we could go find some dive-bar assholes.”

  Auggie couldn’t look away from the black ripple of asphalt. He was thinking about November, thinking about making another fucking video for the same fucking people, hearing Rihanna, and then the collision, the force whipping his body, the shriek of metal, the shattering glass.

  “I want to drive,” Auggie said.

  “You have a car?”

  Wiping his face, Auggie said, “No. That’s the whole point.”

  The cigarette’s ember glowed again, painting Robert’s face in red. Then Robert shrugged and said, “So let’s steal one.”

  Acknowledgments

  My deepest thanks go out to the following people (in alphabetical order):

  Austin Gwin, for keeping track of Evie, for pressing me to make some of my jokes clearer, and for his critical eye to this arc as a whole, with his usual generous kindness.

  Steve Leonard, for asking me to think more carefully about Somers’s behavior in the first few chapters, for keeping track of the timeline, for asking me about Nico’s reaction—genius—and so much more!

  Raj Mangat, for reminding me that Hazard takes his coffee black, for helping me with so many things (commas included!) that slipped past other readers, and for helping me remember that Hazard is very good at his job.

  Cheryl Oakley, for asking about Dulac and Darnell and another book, for catching so many things I couldn’t see (grocery story!), and for always being the first one to write back and tell me the book isn’t broken—not completely, anyway.

  Nichole Reeder, for catching name swaps (it’s not the first time Colt and Auggie got switched), for helping me keep my victims dead and my suspects suspicious, and for patiently correcting so many of my typos!

  Tray Stephenson, for reminding me that cars weigh more than they used to, for fixing my announcer, and catching my little (but amusing) typos (sprinkles is very different from sprinklers!).

  Mark Wallace, for reminding me: brake, not gas; for helping me clarify speakers and situations; and for always lending me his reader brain—Somers’s bandaged head!

  Jo Wegstein, for fixing (as always) my multitude of typographical errors, for pressing me (in a good way) on pit versus pitfall and glassy versus glossy, for keeping track of the number of desks–and so much more.

  Wendy Wickett, for attar of roses (they didn’t only use one!), for knowing I’d be secretly disappointed if she didn’t at least once recommend italics, and for a comment that said, ‘Oh God, just like Joel Osteen’ (and, of course, the boar story)!

  About the Author