09⎜The Starbucks

           “Thanks,” I said, accepting my bag of food as the brown-haired-brown-eyed-completely-average-in-every-way girl behind the counter handed it to me, our fingers just barely brushing. She shot me a shaky smile, her cheeks displaying a blush as she nodded. Not really knowing how to respond to the silent acknowledgement, and because I was fairly positive that our transaction had ended, I walked away from the counter after that, going over to an empty table meant for two, and then sat down.

           I dropped my backpack to the floor below my feet and then began to extract my just-purchased-for lunch from the brown bag with a Starbucks logo on the center of it. Since I had an hour between my next two classes and it had stopped raining days ago, I decided to explore the campus a bit. My exploration had been cut short when my stomach started to grumble, so I assumed that that meant it was time to eat something. I had consumed a granola bar for breakfast, but that had obviously not been enough. Thus, I ended up in a Starbucks on the Stanford campus.

           After opening up the paper container and withdrawing my plain bagel with absolutely nothing on it, for I wasn’t one to overly-adorn—even when it came to food, I bit into it, instantly knowing that the circle with a hole in the center wouldn’t be enough to fill my void of hunger. I would end up having to go buy something else to eat, eventually. The bagel was good. It wasn’t noteworthy in a way, shape, or basic form, but it wasn’t bad; it was just a regular old bagel.

           “Yo! Wilson!” someone called as I took another bite into my lunch (well, first part of it). I glanced up, a familiarly friendly face heading my way. Due to not being in the same grade, our paths didn’t really cross much during the school week, though for some reason I had made an unintentional habit out of spending my weekends with the Pennsylvania native who happened to like lacrosse.

           “Hey, Scott,” I greeted back with a single nod of my head.

           “So, bro, how’s it going?” he asked, sliding into the seat opposite mine.

           “Good, and you?” I returned politely, putting my bagel down, as to not appear rude.

           “Oh, I’m fine. I love college—minus the classes,” he said with a laugh, placing his own Starbucks bag on the table and removing a sandwich of some kind. He took a large bite out of the most-likely-meat-filled snack, looking at me expectantly to say something.

           “Well, considering that classes are basically the entire reason that you’re here, I’d say that they’re pretty important,” I assessed with a shrug.

           “I never said that they weren’t important—just that I didn’t love ‘em,” Scott said with a shake of his head. “What about you? Do you love classes?”

           I thought about the question for a moment, though it probably required an immediate response. It wasn’t a hard thing to answer, though, in a way, it was. The work side of things wasn’t ideal, though what sprouted from the assignments and late nights of studying was what I came to do: learn. Since the start of classes, I had definitely learned quite a bit, and despised the endless workload, as well. It went both ways, though I knew to which one I happened to be inclined. I liked learning, and I liked classes.

           “Yeah,” I finally replied after about two seconds, though the time felt as though it had been suspended and drawn-out longer than the ultimate outcome, “I do.”

           “I figured, dude,” he smiled. “You’re kinda like Superman, ya know that?”

           “Me? Superman?” I reiterated in disbelief, not even fathoming that he was making such a comparison.

           “Yeah,” he said with a mouthful of sandwich. I deemed it as good a time as any to continue working on my bagel once again, so chomped down on a small segment. “Like, you’re athletic, have the looks, the charisma, and I’m guessing the brains too. That’s, like, a quadruple threat or something!”

           “Who says I’m smart?” I asked, not looking too much into his compliments.

           “You got into Stanford, Eric. You’re not stupid,” he rolled his eyes as I wondered if that was the case with everyone. He was right. It was Stanford. Scott seemed like an average guy, but he too was at Stanford, so he definitely had to have some desire to learn and a capable enough brain. Everyone here had to.

           “Neither are you,” I returned. “Scott, why are you here?”

           “Why am I here? Because I’m hungry and wanted food,” he replied, demonstrating so by continuing to ingest his sandwich.

           I just shook my head at that, specifying further on what I had meant by my query. “At Stanford, Scott. Why here? Why not Penn State? Harvard? Columbia? If you got in here, then you could’ve probably gotten in anywhere that you wanted to,” I said. “Why Stanford?”

           “Location, I guess,” he responded with less of the joking tinge in his words to which I had become accustomed. “I was so done with the snow, you don’t even understand. When I left Pennsylvania, I just wanted to get away from the East Coast. I got into Stanford. It was my first choice and in California. I don’t really know why I chose it, I just did.”

           “So that’s why you chose it, but what’s keeping you here?” I decided to further question. I didn’t really know Scott. Sure, I had met him a few times and he was someone who I felt comfortable being around, but I didn’t actually know anything about him, other than that he was from Pennsylvania, was overly competitive (as proven by our golf outing), and played lacrosse. That was it. It wasn’t very much to know about a person, and with some people, it was a perfect amount of information to have—but with Scott, I felt like it was okay and required to find out more about him. I wouldn’t exactly have called us “friends,” though I could see the seven-letter label being put on our association with one another if we actually learned more about each other…and maybe hung out together a few more times.

           “The frat. I love it,” he smiled genuinely. “It’s hard to explain, but there’s just this sense of community about it that is indescribable and really special. Last year, when I was a pledge—”

           “I hate to ask, but what’s that?” I sheepishly interjected, glancing down at my bagel and realizing that I was fairly close to being finished with it. In about a minute, I would probably be getting up from the table, momentarily leaving Scott, in order to get something else to eat.

           “What? A pledge?”

           “Yeah.”

           “You’re kidding, right?” Scott laughed, staring at me like I had just asked if the sun was hot. I shook my head, indicating the negative. “A pledge is, like, a new member of a fraternity. They’re the ones who get hazed and have to go through the whole initiation process and crap. It’s hard, it’s fun, and it’s completely worth it after you’re sworn in as an actual ‘brother.’”

           “Oh,” I nodded, not fully understanding, but obtaining the general gist of what he was saying, so went along with it anyways.

           “Well, anyways, the frat’s great. I met my best friend there as a pledge, and even though he talks funny and can be a total asshole, he’s great,” Scott grinned fondly at what I assumed to be all the memories and crazy times he and his friend had had involving their fraternity.

           “Who’s your best friend?” I inquired, figuring that I would have either known him, met him, or had yet to interact with him.

           “Some loser named ‘Houston Walker.’ You might know him,” Scott shrugged casually, though then broke out into a smile.

           I nodded thoughtfully, standing up from the table slowly so that my actions wouldn’t be considered brash or too abrupt. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to go get something full of calories that’ll probably kill my heart,” I told him facetiously.

           “I don’t know, man. If I were you, I’d go with celery and carrot sticks for a while,” Scott said sympathetically, looking me over and shaking his head pityingly. “You’re looking a little chubby there, Eric.”

           I glanced down at my body, laughing, for I knew that he was joking, and I happened to thankfully dodge a bullet with not suffering body image issues. Being vein beyond belief for a moment, I knew that I was absolutely gorgeous. Hell, I was the hottest guy I had ever laid eyes on. Abs, calves, arms, and a face like no other. Damn, I was one attractively toned bastard. I had always been good-looking, but in about eighth grade, I really got into the whole concept of “muscles.” They were cool and I wanted them. Thus, after quite a bit of hard work and pushups (and maybe a few crunches and weights), I eventually earned them—and was damn proud of them. I wasn’t born looking the way I did (well, in some areas I was), I had to work to get there. The lesson applied to everything in life, really. But, yeah, I definitely looked hot.

           “A workout-aholic like me, chubby?” I gasped at Scott’s false accusation. “Well, instead of doing five hundred pushups this morning, I only did four hundred and ninety-nine. Maybe that’s why I don’t quite look like myself.”

           “You know, I think that may be it,” Scott agreed. “That last pushup really makes a difference.”

           “And what would you know about pushups?” I quirked a single eyebrow up, well, tried to. I was attempting to form my eyebrow into the perfect arch, though as I tried, I was fairly certain that all I was accomplishing was the raising of both my eyebrows. Clearly, I was no eyebrow aficionado. “Dude, do you even know what a gym is?”

           “Hey! Don’t be mean to your elders,” he scolded mockingly, patting his stomach affectionately.

           “Whatever you say, Grandpa,” I laughed.

           “Just go get your goddamn food, Wilson!” he instructed sharply. “When you get back, then we can discuss a workout plan revolving around you acting as my personal trainer.”

           “Sorry, Scotty-boy,” I apologized with not even an ounce of remorse in my tone, “but you’d probably rather die than have me as your personal trainer.”

           “I don’t know about that…” he trailed off, not aware of the extent to which I was being serious. When it came to physical fitness, I didn’t screw around. It was an aspect of my life that I took very seriously, and though I had quit football, I still made sure that it was one of my top priorities. It was important to me.

           Instead of saying anything more to Scott, I just casually walked away and back over to the counter, surprised that a line had yet to form in my leave of absence. I stared at the display case with all the endless choices of sweets, and finally elected one, set on the decision I had mentally made. Giving a ready grin to the girl at the register from before who was intently watching me, I was about to order, but then noticed a sign that I hadn’t seen my first time around, situated on the counter: “NOW HIRING.”

           NOW HIRING. Huh. I could honestly say that not once in my life had I ever yearned for those words, needed them, or even wanted them. I never had a job, for I grew up in an upper-middle class family with no requirement to do so. It was probably one of the main weak spots on my college applications, but the fact that I was Eric Wilson comma quarterback always seemed to make up for it. Like all of the other times in my life, today I wasn’t on a hunt for employment, so the sign didn’t exactly apply to me.

           My dad’s plan for me had always been the NFL—aka, the Nation Football League. It was his dream, and mine at some point, too. I would either play football as an occupation, praying that I never got seriously injured, or I would take over the family business. Both options promised a nice salary and benefits. And then when I stopped with the football, my dad essentially figured that the family business wasn’t a place for me, either, so ceased to push the idea on me.

           I was still young, so I didn’t really know what I wanted to do with my life. There were a million possibilities that I could explore, and I wasn’t really leaning towards any, but rather away from some. I knew that I didn’t want to do anything involving the medical field. Science was never my thing, and hospitals made me depressed. Teaching interested me, though not that much. I wanted to do something meaningful to me that I loved, whatever that resulted in being.

           “Uh, hi,” I said to the barista, “can I just get a blueberry muffin?”

           “Um, y-yeah, sure,” she stammered, speedily moving over to where the muffins were stored and placing one in a bag for me. Returning back to the counter with an identical brown paper back to the one that I had received earlier, she punched some keys into the cash register, and then kept talking. “That’ll be two-fifty, please.”

           I stuck my hand into the back pocket of my shorts and extracted a crisply folded five, sliding it over to her. My wallet was currently in my backpack, but because I had had a hunch that I would be returning to get more food, I took out a five before putting it away. “Here ya go,” I mumbled, waiting patiently for my change and muffin.

           “Thanks,” she said, accepting the bill and giving me back two quarters, two dollars, and my bagged muffin, “have a nice day!”

           “You too,” I muttered, walking back over to where Scott and my backpack still were—at the table. I sat down, noting that Scott’s eyes were glued to the paper bag I had just bought that happened to come with a muffin inside.

           “What’d you get?” he questioned curiously.

           Instead of answering, I merely withdrew my muffin tinted with blue (though the fruit had always looked more purple to me), and then took a large bite out of the top section, sprinkled with sugar. I then proceeded to place the muffin back into the bag, and slide it across the table to Scott, for I was now suffering a sugar overdose. Normally, I could handle blueberry muffins. They were neutral and extraordinarily tasty. This particular pastry, though, was a little too sweet…and not in a positive way.

           “Not what I thought it’d taste like,” I explained, watching as Scott cautiously inspected the muffin-with-a-bite-in-it, after taking it out once again.

           “It looks fine to me,” said the senior of us, “what’s wrong with it?”

           “Nothing,” I told him, “it was just…not exactly what I thought I was getting. Try it.”

           As if he was searching for some sign of poison, Scott scrutinized the muffin for a long while, contemplating whether or not he was willing to take a risk and eat it. Seconds passed and he finally reached an internal verdict—he was going to eat the muffin. He brought it up to his mouth, and bit into a place that my mouth hadn’t. Instead of spitting the mouthful of muffin out like I had been considering doing, he began to chew, and then swallowed. Apparently, Scott’s taste buds had more of a tolerance for extreme levels of sugar than mine did.

           “This is so good, dude,” Scott mumbled, inhaling more of the muffin.

           “Glad you think so,” I laughed, something in the back of my mind compelling me to check what time it was. I glanced down at the watch that was secured around my wrist, realizing that it would probably be in my best interest to head out sooner than later. I had my next class in about twenty minutes, and had no desire to be even remotely late. “Uh, Scott, I think I’m going go. It was great seeing you, though.”

           “Yeah, you too, Wilson,” he returned with a muffin-filled mouth. “Thanks for the food, bro!”

           “Yeah, sure,” I nodded, standing from the table and putting one of the straps of my backpack over a shoulder. I was ready to walk to the door, leaving the Starbucks in a comfortable peace, but then Scott broke out a strong interjection, putting my plans on hold for a bit.

           “Shit!” swore the boy who loved his fraternity and lacrosse. “Yo, Eric, before you go, I was meaning to ask you—would you be interested in coming to dinner at the frat this Sunday?”

           “Do I have any other socially acceptable options aside from saying ‘yes’?” I inquired hopefully.

           Scott thought about what I had asked, and then slowly shook his head. “Sorry, dude, you totally have to come. It’ll be fun! Houston will be there, Kay’s gonna be there, hell, even I’ll be there! Doesn’t that sound like a party to you?”

           “Not especially,” I said honestly.

           “Well, you’re coming, so end of discussion. Just show up, have a few cocktails, meet some douches, and then you’re all set to go!” he attempted to sound encouraging, as if the event was no big deal—which for him, it probably wasn’t. For me, though, I had absolutely no interest in interacting with his network of people, so wasn’t sure why I had been invited.

           As sad as it was, I was a people-pleaser, meaning that there was only one way to approach the situation, despite the fact that I didn’t really want to do so. “Where is it?” I sighed reluctantly.

           Scott exhaled, though I hadn’t known that he had inhaled. “At the frat house, it starts at seven—and seven sharp. Showing up ‘fashionably late’ or whatever is not fashionable. Don’t wear a tux. Don’t wear jeans. Find a middle ground, but class it up,” he advised as he delved into the details. “Oh, and unless you want to be the only solo guy there, I’d recommend bringing a date.”

           “A date?” I reiterated his last ending article and noun.

           “Ya know, those things that involve other people. Like, a girl—but we don’t judge, so if you want to show up with a guy, that’s perfectly okay too,” he winked at me as I rolled my eyes.

           Ever since I had started Stanford, I had been bombarded with this newfound form of complete and utter acceptance surrounding my personal sexuality—something I had never really encountered back in New York. In the suburb in which I grew up, it was very heteronormative compared to out here, in California. It was still New York, so everyone (except for my dad and the majority of Wall Street) was totally okay with the issue of gay rights and all that stuff, but where I was, it wasn’t as blatantly advertised as I had found it here. Maybe it was due to the location, or maybe it was just college and the new generation. Whichever, I was fine with it—it was just different to not immediately be pushed into a category labeled “straight” on a first assumption. Not bad, just different.

           “I like girls,” I said firmly to Scott.

           “And I’m sure they like you too.” He winked at me again, and I debated just walking away from him, though sought against it, for it would be rude, and I happened to not be a very rude individual.

           “More than you, at least,” I joked.

           “Look, just ask some random girl to come with you, and I’m more than sure that she’ll say yes.” I opened my mouth to object, though he kept speaking. “Here, watch and learn, freshman.” He stood up from his chair, not looking at me, but at someone or something behind me. I turned, wondering to what his interest had shifted, and then realized that it was the girl behind the counter. “Excuse me,” Scott rose his voice in order to gain her attention.

           The girl looked up, locking eyes with Scott, and then pointed to herself, asking, “Me?”

           “Yeah,” Scott said flatly. “Would you be willing to go to a frat dinner with this loser, here?” He pointed to me so that she knew to which loser he had been referring.

           She glanced at me quickly and then looked away, quietly answering with a weak, “Uh, yeah.”

           “See?” Scott exclaimed, having made his point—whatever that may have been. “Ask any girl and I’m betting that she’ll say the exact same thing!” He then addressed the Starbucks girl once again in a dismissive tone, “Oh, it was just a hypothetical, by the way. He’s not actually going to take you to a frat dinner.” The girl nodded, the edge of her lip finding its way to the space between her teeth as she nibbled nervously.

           “Sorry,” I added for good measure and so that Scott didn’t sound overly discourteous. I turned back to the guy before me, and frowned. “Asking out ‘some random girl’ isn’t really my thing.”

           “Fine, then ask some not random girl to come with you,” he reasoned. “You must know, what, fifty girls around here by now? Maybe more?”

           “More like five, actually,” I corrected, mentally aware that the number was probably more south than that. I hadn’t exactly made it my life mission to socialize, and that applied to with girls, too.

           “Oh! I know!” Scott suddenly cried excitedly. “Now, I was going to cheat and ask her to come with me myself, but personally, I don’t actually have a problem asking out random girls.” He paused, and I waited for the spark of brilliance that he had thought up. “You, Eric Wilson, should ask Ari to come with you!”

           “Ari?” I blinked, caught completely and utterly off guard by the idea.

           “Yeah, and even if you don’t verbally ask her, Kay’s probably dragging her along anyways, so I’ll make sure that you two are seated together!” he assured me.

           “So you want me to ask Ari to come?” I deducted.

           “Uh, yeah.”

           “Why?”

           “I have my reasons,” he smirked knowingly. “Just don’t hurt her. Like, seriously, Eric, don’t you dare even unintentionally hurt her. She’s been through a lot and she doesn’t need another broken heart to add to that pile of crap.”

           “Look, I really have to go, Scott, but I’ll think about it,” I said with a sigh, taking a large step in the direction of the exit.

           “Well, even if you don’t personally invite Ari, I’ll ask her to go with you anyways, so just keep that in mind!” he warned.

           “Bye, Scott,” I bid with one final roll of my eyes.

           “Bye, Eric,” he laughed.

           And with that, I was finally able to make it over to the door of the Starbucks, and walk through it with no interruptions or complications…on the exterior. Internally, I was a mess from a worry perspective. I couldn’t figure out why Scott wanted me to ask Ari—of all people—to come with me to the dinner, let alone why he even wanted me to come to the dinner itself. I had nothing against Ari—in fact, I liked her. She wasn’t nice, but she wasn’t not nice, either. As girls went, she was absolutely gorgeous, and there was this distinct air of mystery about her that was so vague, and was what helped make Ari Ari.

           Going to a dinner with her wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, though asking her to go would be. It was abrupt and random and I barely knew her and I was just nervous that she would turn me down. I wasn’t hoping for a relationship to sprout between the two of us, for my past two had both resulted in misery, so it was all a very strange territory for me. All I knew was that I would try my hardest to conjure up the courage to ask her, and that I was currently leaving the Starbucks, praying with all my might that I wouldn’t be late for class. After all that was what I was here to do—go to the class.