My foot crunches a piece of paper as I’m leaving to go study in the library that night. I lean down and pick up a small yellow Post-it note; someone must have slipped it under my door.
It takes two tries for me to read the words scrawled in black ink.
“But the greatest among you shall be your servant. Whoever exalts himself shall be humbled; and whoever humbles himself shall be exalted.”
I would like to rise to the top, too, and I’m sure you want to stay there. Meet me under the guise of dusk (5:00 a.m.) in the courtyard to train to be the best.
—Bambi
I roll my eyes. Dusk is sunset, not sunrise, you idiot.
I shove the note in my pocket as I pull my door closed, turning the key in the lock. I really have no interest in “training” with him, but he seems like a nice kid. And this could be good material.
Hours later the library lights are bright, keyboards click and pages turn, although it’s been dark for hours.
My phone vibrates audibly against the wooden desk. I glance around the room, embarrassed.
A girl with thick glasses looks up at me from her biology book before turning to lie sideways across her leather armchair, as if facing away from me will save her from my noise pollution.
I duck my head behind my MacBook.
The largest hall in the library is always the loudest, the arched ceilings sending even the smallest sound bouncing around the cavernous space. And the creaky, antique furniture makes it such an obstacle course of noise that I often find myself more stressed out by shushing strangers than about keeping up my GPA.
I brave it anyway for the arching windows looking out over the palm-tree-lined quad and the shelves of old books with cracked spines and thick pages that smell earthy and natural. Not that I’d sniff them, what with all the judgmental grad students around.
My phone buzzes again, and three people clear their throats. I grab it before they start their own version of the Salem witch trials.
“Connor (2),” the alert says. I slide my thumb to unlock the phone.
C: hey
C: what u up 2?
Studying, I type back. I’m about to set my phone back down on the table when it vibrates in my hand.
C: aw
C: no fun
C: come hang
I glance at the time. Twelve thirty. I shake my head, trying to banish the part of me that wants to say yes. I’m basically done with this assignment, and it isn’t even due until three tomorrow, and he hasn’t texted me all week...but no.
Me: sorry! I have to be up early
C: lame
His typing text bubble pops up and then disappears. My heart sinks with it. Stupid Bambi. This frat boot camp he’s dreamed up had better be good.
* * *
The next morning I cover my yawn as I stumble down the stairs and out to the courtyard. Bambi’s already there, setting up a folding table. “Why so early?” I ask him.
He looks up at me. “Do you want people to know we are doing this?”
I tilt my head and consider this. “All right. But five o’clock?”
“Have you ever seen this house empty at another hour? Just late enough that people aren’t still partying, but an hour before the athletes go to practice.”
“Did you, like, track this or something?”
I’m being sarcastic, but he nods vigorously. “Of course.” He pulls a stack of red cups out of his backpack.
“Do you...get up this early every day?”
He shrugs. “Not every day. Sometimes I sleep through my alarm. But I like time to just be myself, you know, and not have to worry about an upperclassman lobbing a beer can at me.”
“This is where you live, Bambi. That time should be always.” But even as I say the words, I know I’m being hypocritical.
“It’s fine. Sure, if I was in a dorm I could play ‘World of Warcraft’ or watch anime during the day instead of at the crack of dawn. But DTC is my best shot at getting into the Warren Finance Club, considering I’m only in Econ I right now. And I need to get in if I ever want to work on Wall Street like my dad.”
I try to picture Bambi hopping out of a cab in a thousand-dollar suit, yakking into a phone about stock prices and bull markets.
“That’s not a bad plan.” I smile weakly.
“Yeah, but it won’t work if I end up bitch pledge.” He finishes arranging the cups into a pyramid. “Okay, let’s start, then.”
I stand at attention, suddenly more willing to go along with his game.
“I was thinking water pong,” he says as he pours an inch or so of Dasani into each cup. “Since it’s so early.”
“Really? It’s five o’clock somewhere. Hell, it’s technically five o’clock here.”
“Ha-ha.” He makes a face at me. “You’re so funny.”
“I really am.” I smile and toss a Ping-Pong ball at the cups. It bounces off the rim of one and onto the courtyard floor.
“See, you’ve got the angle all wrong.” He runs over to his backpack. “I’ve read up on this.” He pulls out a notebook. “And it’s all about the physics, how much arc you have in your throw.”
I just nod. This is going to be an interesting morning.
After a few extremely meticulous games of water pong and an in-depth analysis of flip cup, we move on to shotgunning.
“Now we only have approximately twenty minutes until we need to clean up so no actives see us, but I think it’s really important we master this one. It’s a fundamental, you know?” He pauses.
I nod, realizing he was waiting for my reaction.
“So there weren’t many articles about it, but I did find a really good YouTube video, so I thought we could watch that and practice.”
Bambi produces a six-pack of sparkling water from his backpack and then sets his laptop on the table.
He leans over and starts typing.
“You know what, Bambi, I think you’re actually gonna make quite the analyst someday.”
He pops up, smiling goofily. “You really think so?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “I do. Get ready to lose now, though.”
After the third round (I won two) we take a break, the carbonation rumbling in our stomachs.
We sit on the courtyard floor, surprisingly bare of weeds, despite the fact that no one does any gardening. I guess the alcohol spilled on it every night smothers them. The sun is just beginning to warm the stones.
“Who was that girl you were with at the party?” he says, breaking the silence.
“Who, Alex?”
He stares blankly.
“The blonde?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He nods, his eyes sparkling.
“Yep, that’s Alex.”
“Does she—does she, uh, have a, is she single?”
“She actually just broke up with her girlfriend.”
He turns back to me, eyes huge. “You mean she’s a lesbian?”
I exhale. “She’s bi.”
“Oh my God.” He looks around, like he’s wondering who else was hearing this, but obviously we’re alone. “Do you think she’d have a three—”
“Bambi, no.” I point my finger sternly. “Do you really think that’s what bi girls wanna hear every time they try to share that part of their identity with someone? Strangers requesting threesomes?”
He ducks his head. “I guess not.”
“All right. So just don’t do it again.”
“Okay.” His voice is timid.
“Now let’s look up some kegstand techniques, and I’ll explain how sexuality is a spectrum.”