Auggie added him as a friend so fast that he almost sprained his finger.
“Private showers,” Fer reported, adjusting his junk as he came back into the room. “But it’s just curtains, so you could still get ass raped.”
“Go home, Fer. Go catch your shuttle. Go stand in the middle of the street until someone runs you over.”
Instead, Fer shut the door. “You and I are going to have a talk right now, Augustus.”
“Oh God. Hold on. I should probably record this.”
Fer pushed Auggie’s phone down and shook his head. Then he said, “Condoms.”
“What?”
Taking a foil-wrapped condom from his pocket, Fer said, “Condoms.” He pronounced each syllable distinctly, wagging the packet for emphasis. “Your fuck-up father isn’t around to give you the talk—”
“Fer, no. Please. No. Please. You already gave me the talk. You gave me the talk when I was thirteen. You used a cucumber. Please don’t make me go through this again. I’ll never earn enough money to be able to pay for the therapy I need to get over this.”
“That was the straight-Auggie talk. This is the flaming-homo-Auggie talk. I’ve been doing some research because I wanted to get this right.”
Auggie groaned.
“You’re young. You’re an ugly little fucker, but you’re still probably going to get some dick.”
“I will use a condom. I will be safe. End of discussion.”
With his free hand, Fer jabbed a finger into Auggie’s chest to punctuate each word. “Every. Dick. That. Goes. In. Your. Ass. Suits. Up. Do you understand me?”
“Suits up?”
“Rubbers up. Learn the fucking lingo, Augustus. And I’m not fucking kidding with you right now. I don’t care if he’s your little fancy man and you think you’re head over heels in love. Rubbers. Rubbers. Rubbers. I will buy you a lifetime supply if you want, but you use a rubber every fucking time. Same goes for you if you decide to stick your Vienna sausage somewhere.”
“What do I have to say so that you will leave? What do I have to do? Is it money? Do you want money?”
“Save it for your fancy boys,” Fer said. Then he wrapped Auggie in a huge hug, squeezing him tighter and tighter until Auggie grunted.
“I can’t breathe.”
“I love you. You’re basically just one really fucking annoying snipping of ball hairs, but I love you, and I want this year to be better for you. I want you to be safe, and I want you to find some stud who can cornhole you all night long.”
Black specks danced in front of Auggie’s eyes, which was probably why he had such a hard time fighting off Fer when Fer started kissing him all over the face like a lunatic.
“Go home,” Auggie said, shoving Fer away, laughing and wiping his face. “God, you are so weird sometimes.”
“Fine. I’m going. Now you can hunt down that guy you were throwing a bone for and deepthroat him or however you gay guys say hello to each other.”
Auggie found a sneaker and pitched it; it caught Fer in the shoulder, and Fer stumbled back, laughing.
2
Theo sat in Dr. Wagner’s office, flip phone at his side, trying to look like he was paying attention to whatever Dr. Wagner was saying. The office was cramped, and it felt even smaller because the walls were lined with books. They made the space smell like moldering cloth and old paper. Dr. Wagner currently had his red, bulbous nose buried in the Riverside Shakespeare; he was looking for a specific passage that he had suddenly decided to add to the lesson plans.
Tell him you’ve got a sister you want to set him up with.
The text was from Howard Cartwright. Cart was a police officer, and he had been partnered with Theo’s husband, Ian, before Ian died in a car accident. In the year since that accident, a lot had changed between Theo and Cart—some of it good, some of it . . . well, Theo couldn’t quite tell. One thing that hadn’t changed was that Cart was a redneck pain in Theo’s ass.
Aren’t you supposed to be working? Theo had gotten pretty good at texting on the flip phone. He still didn’t understand the rush to get a smart phone; he was just barely getting the hang of this one.
I am working.
Really working.
I am really working, dumbass.
“Mr. Stratford,” Dr. Wagner said, lifting himself up from the pages of the Riverside Shakespeare with what looked like a great deal of effort. The booze on his breath when he faced Theo directly was strong enough to overpower the smell of the old books. “It’s lost to me now. I suppose I’ll have to find it later.”
Then he stared at Theo, his head bobbling on his neck, his eyes cloudy with cataracts and drink. Theo wouldn’t be surprised if the horrifying old fossil just dropped dead—the female grad students would probably have a parade out of pure relief.
Wagner was still staring.
“We were going to talk about grading expectations,” Theo said.
“Well,” Dr. Wagner said, his jaw working soundlessly for a moment. “I don’t know if that’s really necessary.”
Tell him you’ve got an eighteen-year-old cousin who will do things to his limp little lizard that Shakespeare never dreamed of.
Theo fought to hold back a smile.
“It was your idea, sir.”
Last year, at this time, Theo had been planning his own class. Last year, Theo had worked out an entire semester’s worth of material exploring adaptations and versions of Lear. Last year, he’d gotten some major work done on his thesis, and he’d also had the highest instructor evaluations in the department—for graduate students and professors. He’d turned some of his course materials into an article that was in the second-round review at Shakespeare Quarterly. This year, though, Theo was a teacher’s assistant. He was going to shuffle papers, sit in on discussion groups, make copies, and scratch his balls. He’d be lucky if he didn’t have to carry Dr. Wagner’s briefcase and mop up his drool every time a co-ed bent over.
“I believe I do have a rubric,” Dr. Wagner said, hoisting himself out of the seat and tottering toward the filing cabinet.
Stop a crime. Shoot up a bank robber. Get in a car chase. Rescue a kitten from a tree if you’ve got nothing better to do than bother me.
Gotta leave the kittens up there or the FD won’t have anything to do.
Theo smiled in spite of himself.
“Here it is,” Dr. Wagner said, holding a yellowed sheet of paper between two fingers. He waved it around and then blew dust off it. “Yes, I remember this. ’59 was an excellent year for rubrics.”
Kill me.
Not until you buy me that burger you owe me.
Mother. Fucker. You are one miserable son of a bitch. I was joking. It wasn’t a real bet.
A bet’s a bet.
“You can take a look at it for yourself, but I think you’ll find it’s perfectly up to snuff. I don’t understand why there’s all this rush to innovate these days. I really don’t. Edwin Markle developed the six-point rubric in 1959, and it’s just as good in 2009.”