Clusterfuck

xiv

On Friday of that week—three days since Toby pretty much ran away from his problems, leaving Leo in the dust, the two of them not having communicated since—they give their presentation.

Toby scores an eighty-five. Leo gets a ninety-two.

Clearly, their professor can tell, out of the two of them, who actually understood—understands—the information they put down.

After class is dismissed, Toby hears Leo say his name once, twice, three times—and all the times, it's like a taser zaps somewhere around his head, not touching him, but just enough to make him flinch. Violently. He refuses to turn around. He made a promise to himself, and he was going to keep it, damn it.

Friday is also the day that Toby gets his grade back on his creative writing assignment. A seventy. It's like a punch to the gut, even though Toby knew that, realistically, he didn't have a chance of scoring much higher.

Imagery needs work, the professor had scribbled onto his rubric in patronizing red ink. Remember that showing is better than telling. The plot is good, but it was boring to read. Make it more immersive for the reader.

He wads up the assignment—all ten pages of it, plus his rubric—and throws it into the trash when he gets home.

Friday marks one week since the party at Jordan's. (Only one week.)

It's not like it's an important milestone, or anything. But the thought looms in Toby's mind the entire day.

Reggie's been acting a bit strange recently. Withdrawn, quiet. Very un-Reggie. Toby wonders if he and Vicki ever ended up having that conversation Toby advised him to have with her. If they did, then maybe things didn't go exactly as planned on Reggie's part. Vicki hasn't been over since Tuesday, either.

Friday, Toby has to work again. And Blue has returned from New York.

"Woah," Blue says as Toby slumps through the doors to the back room. "You look like you've seen some shit since I last saw you."

"What are you even talking about," Toby says, not fully deflecting the comment, because a part of him has no choice but to agree.

"I'm talking about the bags under your eyes, the stress zit on your forehead, the lack of pep in your step. Have you been eating, man? Staying hydrated? Are you—"

"Okay, never mind, I get it," Toby growls, pulling on his uniform. "I look like a hot mess. You don't need to paint a picture for me."

Imagery needs work.

"A hot mess," Blue agrees, nodding. "So what's up?"

Toby eyes the clock on the wall; there's about three minutes until they need to clock in, and he thinks that there is absolutely no way he'll manage to unload everything he has stored in his mind in such a fleeting amount of time.

"I'll tell you later," he mumbles, fumbling with the buttons to his shirt. "Uh, how was New York? Your anniversary?"

Toby's not even looking at him, but he can feel the atmosphere brighten with the giddy smile he just knows has crossed Blue's face. It's almost enough to make him smile, too.

"Oh my God, it was so great," Blue sighs. "I haven't been to New York in years, and going back was just—ugh. Amazing. And Jack was such a sweetheart the entire time. He was always asking what I wanted to do, what I wanted to eat, what I wanted to buy. He made it so special. Oh, he even bought tickets for Wicked ahead of time, because he knows that it's my all-time favorite show. And we also saw Hamilton, The Lion King, The Phantom of the Opera—ugh, it was all just so great. I have no idea where Jackie got the money to plan such a fantastic trip, but I mean—as long as it was legal, I'm not really gonna waste my time asking questions, you know?"