It’s lane twenty near the wall where the guys are set up. Dmitri rises from his seat, a short, chalky-skinned guy with black spiky hair and thick glasses that remind me so much of Sam’s, I’d think I was staring at her if it weren’t for the blue and red tattoo running up his arm. He wears a black tank top and dark grey shorts that cut-off just below the knee.
“This is the one,” Brant says in half a whisper to Dmitri, though I hear it perfectly.
They lean into each other. “What one?”
“The girl.”
“Clayton’s?”
“Yup.”
Dmitri pulls away from his friend and shoves his hands in his pockets, facing me. He even smiles the same as Sam, his lips flat-lining. “Hi. I’m Dmitri.”
“Dessie,” I return.
Brant sighs. “Oh, hell. The fuckers are here.”
Dmitri squints through his glasses. “The who?”
“My dipshit opponents from Sigma Phi Dildo,” he answers, “whose asses I’m gonna whip into Saturday.”
“It is Saturday.”
“Sunday, then. I’ll get your water, Dessie,” he tells me suddenly, then hops away through the crowd.
The benches opposite us are quickly filled by the loud frat boys I saw in the arcade. Two of them give me a more-than-obvious once-over. I turn away, not appreciating the attention and growing more and more annoyed by the second at Clayton’s absence.
“You okay?”
I look up at Dmitri. “I’m just wondering where Clayton is, to be honest.”
“I could text him,” he offers, pulling a phone out of his pocket. “Not like him to be late to anything.”
“Thanks.” In stark contrast to Brant, he has no southern drawl at all. “You’re a poetry major?”
“That damn Brant! I’m a creative writing major.”
“Oh, okay.”
“And I’ve probably told him twenty or thirty times and he just blanks out. Poor guy can’t process a damn thing past his wiener, I swear.”
I laugh, then cross my arms and glance at the frat boys who’ve occupied the other half of our lane. There is at least ten of them, but only four seem to be changing their shoes. I wonder for a moment who else is on Brant’s team, as the only other one who seems to be here is Dmitri. Isn’t this supposed to be some kind of tournament or something?
“It all goes down at nine,” Dmitri explains to me.
I nod. “And Brant’s team is … where?”
“Who knows. I’m only here to support him. Oh, I forgot about Clayton. All that about Brant calling me a poetry major got me distracted.” He starts typing into his phone. “Clay … ton … exclamation point … Where … the … hell … are … you … question mark,” he narrates as he types. “And send. There we go. I bet he’ll walk right through the door any second.”
CLAYTON
It all starts at the corner store.
I go to pick up some drinks and a couple other things we’re out of. I don’t want to be presumptuous or assume I’m bringing Dessie back to our place, but just in case we do hit it off, I want our apartment to be in a good state and adequately … equipped.
When I get up to the counter, the clerk asks me a question. I don’t catch it, leaning forward to read his lips better. He asks it again, then points at my pile of stuff. Is he asking for my ID? I pull out my wallet and show it to him. The clerk rolls his eyes, then asks me the same damn question. I don’t know what the fuck he’s asking. I point to my ears and shake my head; usually that gives them the message.
And that’s when the asshole behind me taps my shoulder with more aggression than you give a person you don’t know.
I turn, annoyed. It’s some chunky dude in a polo, the russet skin of his face wrinkling as he glares at me under a mess of sandy-brown hair. He’s got two buddies with him, each carrying a six-pack. This kid spits a question of his own at me.
And I read his lips perfectly: “You deaf??”
No, he’s not actually asking me. He’s just being a little prick. I turn back to the clerk, ignoring the kid, then pull out my phone to type to the clerk, figuring it the best way to communicate.
The fucker behind me disagrees, grabbing my arm and spinning me around. His face crushed into a scowl, he waves his hands at my phone and spits more words and curses at me. I’m guessing he thinks that I am actually texting some buddy of mine and holding up the line deliberately.
I show my screen to the clerk while glaring at this dude, a second away from pushing a fist through his fucking face. Then, I return my attention to the clerk, whose attitude seems to have changed now that he knows I’m actually deaf. Whatever he was concerned with, he seems to not care anymore, ringing up and bagging the items. I pay for the goods, then swipe the bag off the counter.