Chapter 1

1

There was nothing particularly awful about the door. The paint was chipped around the frame and some urban wit with a Sharpie had suggested calling Julie for a good time. A taped flier advertised office hours for the two TAs whose offices were inside. A Post-It declared, “Things to Remember: 1) Alamo! 2) Johnson, Intro Lit, Paper Due 10/15! 3) Call Julie.” In short, a perfectly ordinary classroom door.

Except that it was closed, and Beau was late. Not very late. Just ten minutes.

Stupid. He’d scoped the room out the previous week so he’d know exactly where it was. He didn’t want to be too early and look desperate. Or worse, get stuck chatting with someone else who was early. He wasn’t ready for that. He didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to listen.

But now he was late, and the door was closed. And everyone would stop and stare when he opened the door and walked into the room. Beau reached for the knob, then dropped his hand. No, he couldn’t do it. Maybe next week. Except next week he’d be the guy who had chickened out from the first meeting. Everyone would know each other, have started forming their cliques.

“Shit.” He touched the knob again. Which turned under his hand.

“Fu—” Beau started to swear, stopped, jumped back. The door opened outward—that was standard. His uncle was in the volunteer fire department, and “volunteer” apparently meant, to Uncle Jeff, telling everyone everything about buildings and fire safety and first aid, whether they wanted to know it or not. And in this case, Uncle Jeff had explained that public buildings were required by law to have doors that open outward, to prevent crowd crushing in case of a fire.

“Oh!” The guy who opened the door was good-looking in a J. Crew catalog, casual way, with clothes that Beau would have sworn were tailored to draw attention. A tight, plain white, cotton shirt fit well over a lean and sculpted chest. A three-button vest in one of those colors that had strange names like wine or claret hung open over it. The boy wore tight jeans, and a large, black leather belt encircled narrow hips. He topped the outfit off with a rugged, oval face, adorned with four-day stubble and a ready smile. Beau admired the look, then blushed for his own outfit and appearance. As his brother said, Beau dressed in retro-chic-redneck. “Sorry,” the guy said, edging past Beau. “Go on in, man. I gotta tap a kidney.” The men’s room was down the hall and around the corner. Beau turned to watch him go, observing the flex of J. Crew’s thighs and ass, not even paying attention to the door swinging closed. It struck the frame with a solid thunk.

“Ah, screw it,” Beau muttered. He backed away, then fled—and knew it for a retreat—down the hall. It was farther to the exit; the elevator was to the left, and he’d have to take the stairwell, but really, there just wasn’t any other choice. He didn’t want to risk bumping into J. Crew. “What kind of fucked up name is Rainbow Connection anyway?” He dug the battered and folded flier out of his pocket as he thudded down the stairs, turning the corners blindly. He threw it to the ground angrily. No one would be in the stairwell, no one ever was. By the time he hit the ground floor, ten stories later, he was sweating and gasping for air.

The September evening was still muggy, unpleasantly warm, and the tang of cafeteria grease lingered like a noxious cloud. Beau took several deep breaths anyway. He threw himself onto the concrete banister that lined the well-worn steps and leaned against the column, staring up at the sky. There were no answers in the shapes of the sunset-stained clouds.

He dug through his backpack and fished out a crumpled pack of Marlboros. Two left. He lit one and pulled the nicotine-laden stress relief into his lungs.

Beau closed his eyes, smoked, and let everything fade out. This was never going to work. When he got back to his dorm, he was going to throw out the pamphlets, go firmly back into the closet, and lock the door behind him. It worked for Aunt Lucy, it would work for him. Fake it ‘til you make it.

He finished the coffin nail, stubbed it on the cement railing. After it cooled, he’d stick it in his pocket until he could find one of the very few ash cans left on campus. He smoked and he knew it was bad, and he annoyed every crystal-twinkie, new age, left wing, egotistical health nut out there that insisted he should quit. Which is why, Beau pointed out, smokers often acted like selfish bastards to begin with. You may as well have the fun when you’re gonna be stuck with the blame, right? Despite that, Beau was not a litterer, and there was nothing appealing about a grassy lawn covered with used butts.