PART OF me refused to believe his story. David was many things – a friend, a lady’s man, a mean soccer player, motivational speaker – but he was never one to obsess about school enough to join a study group. That’s why he chose political science as his major.
When he took off for his “study group,” I followed. Donning a Gators cap and grabbing a copy of the day’s Gator Times newspaper, I did my best to look inconspicuous as I watched him return to campus. He made a very brief appearance at the Student Union, where he changed clothes into all-dark attire. He then remerged and continued on to his true destination.
At this point, the sight of David walking around at night in black brought back some memories of my last night as a fraternity pledge. Was he back to doing pranks for the Alpha Iota house? That seemed like something the pledges could do on their own, without their former House president.
It was a kind of surreal experience, spying on my best friend. But what could I do? I knew he was up to something, and I needed to know what.
After he left the Student Union, he made his way across the old Stadium Road and stopped in a parking lot at the Florida Gym.
The University has this weird, idiosyncratic taste in architecture – in one building, it can embody post-modern, almost absurdist designs; in the next, it could be acting to preserve outdated elements that lend the campus its historical value.
The Gym’s parking lot was pretty empty, so I could still keep tabs on David while remaining far enough away that he was unlikely to notice. This was a good thing, because I didn’t want to get too close. I may have had no qualms about spying, but I sure was not about to get caught doing it, at least not until I knew more.
After a moment of standing there alone, in the dark, two other figures approached from the other end of the parking lot. Like David, they were dressed in black. One had bright blonde hair I would have recognized anywhere. He was hanging out with Chloe!
Okay, so her arrival convinced me that this definitely had nothing to do with the Alpha Iotas and their infamous, ongoing feud with the confident jocks in the Sigma Eta Tau fraternity.
The three of them crossed the lot and approached one of the historic dormitories. I followed, doing my best to keep my distance. They entered the common courtyard to these older dormitories while I did my best cartoon impression by hiding behind the ancient oak tree out front.
Realizing how ridiculous my cover had been, I flipped open the newspaper to at least pretend to make use of the disguise. I leaned back around the tree for another glance when I saw it.
The quartet was being ushered into Buckman Hall’s staircase. I had to act fast if I were going to be able to follow any further.
I tossed the newspaper to the ground and began walking briskly toward the courtyard area. I passed under the historic archway entrance.
Creak.
I froze in mid-stride. What was that?
“Mike!” someone whispered.
I looked over my shoulder.
“Deven?”
Deven Kedar was a tall, scrawny freshman of Indian descent whom I had met once or twice through the Dorm Association. He seemed panicked for some reason. I turned my back on Buckman Hall.
“What’s up?”
“One of our dealers never showed!”
“Putting on a Casino Night?”
“Yeah, and we have no one to run the craps table, so everyone’s crowding the blackjack table and people are getting bored. The night is almost ruined!” He sure knew how to be dramatic.
“Why not you?”
“I’m the usher.”
“Do you need my help?”
“You’d be a life saver!”
Deven opened the door wide to welcome me inside Murphree Hall. I looked back at Buckman Hall, its doors closed and my mission a failure.
BREAKFAST AT OUR apartment was an exercise in Darwinism at times. Most of the time, though, we just wolfed down a bowl of cereal. We might eat even less, if we were late to class. Soon after my late-night debacle, I found myself stumbling into the kitchen after David. I grabbed a glass of orange juice and joined him.
I needed a few minutes to wake up. With the last drop touching my tongue, I realized what was in front of me. Then a flood of memories about Buckman threatened to give me a headache. I decided to focus on the present.
“What’s with the course catalog?”
He looked up, revealing dark circles under his eyes. Was he pulling all-nighters with his “study group?” As a matter of fact, I could not recall when he had returned to the apartment the last few nights.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I’m thinking of changing majors.”
“What?” I was astounded.
“Criminology just makes so much more sense for a career at the FBI,” he explained.
“Isn’t criminology basically a pre-law major? Isn’t that a lot of work?”
“I can handle it.”
“What about the Iotas?”
“The House can manage without me.”
I was too stunned to continue the conversation, so I got up and grabbed an apple from the kitchen. When I got back, he closed the catalog.
“I really have to get going,” he explained. “I’m meeting with the Academic Advisor this morning.”
Who was this guy and what did he do with my best friend?!?
THE OLD GUY had fainted. Just before class, Wilkerson was placing his transparency on the projector when he collapsed. I arrived shortly thereafter, followed quickly by the paramedics.
The crowd parted as the guys with the stretcher whizzed by. I found myself standing next to a short kid with spiky hair and bifocals. He looked like a hipster Harry Potter. He had a small notepad out, and was taking notes.
“I don’t think this will be on the final,” I said.
“I wasn’t-“
My hands went up in mock surrender. “It was a joke.” I pointed at his notebook. “You’re a reporter?”
“How did you know?”
We watched as Professor Wilkerson was wheeled out of class. His TA was getting ready to take over for him, meaning there would be no free period today. I silently sighed before returning to my conversation.
“I took Journalism 101 last semester. More of a fiction writer myself, but I do the same thing. Any time I get a bit of inspiration, I have to have my notebook ready.” I patted my backpack.
He laughed. “My trusted notepad here has broken many a story.” He extended his hand, and I shook it. “The name’s Bo White. I work at The Gator Times.”
“That must be fun.”
“It is, if you like working long hours for only minimum wage.”
“Have you broken any stories lately?”
“Please take your seats,” the TA announced.
I rolled my eyes.
“Yeah,” Bo said as he handed me that day’s edition of the Gator Times. I sat down next to Bo as I began reading.
“Everyone ready?” the TA asked.
I looked around the half-empty hall. Most of the regulars had stuck around, huddled in their usual groups. It took me a moment to find Chloe. She was wearing a whole new outfit; gone was the signature pink outfit, replaced by a solid polo and plaid skirt. Her hair was not the long, wavy blonde I had grown accustomed to seeing. It was shoulder-length, straight, and auburn. And she was wearing sunglasses.
“Alright, let’s talk,” the TA began, “about the social problems that can arise when public policy fails to bring about needed change.”
I leaned over to Bo, pointed at his article, and asked, “Is all of this true?”
He glared at me in disbelief and took back his paper.
The TA walked across the front of the room. “Does anyone have anything to add?”
“NEXT!” THE BARISTA barked.
“Café vanilla cappuccino, please,” I ordered.
I was not always a coffee drinker. I hung out at a local coffee house because of my friends and the occasional poetry bash, but it was hard to deny the sweet taste of that par
ticular drink. Sometimes a warm dessert really hits the spot. And at the moment, I needed it.
I took the drink from the second barista and took it back to my table. Sitting with me that afternoon was Grant Samberg, a tweed-sporting, philosophy-spouting graduate student. I had met him the previous year through a mutual friend.
“Have you talked to him about it?” he asked me. Grant was the only one I could go to about this particular dilemma.
“He had other things on his mind.”
“And you’re certain?”
“That reporter’s story—“
“—which is based on 3rd Floor gossip and literally nothing else,” Grant said, dismissing Bo’s reporting.
“Well, he insinuates that David was tapped a week ago.”
“It could be a coincidence.”
“Yeah?”
“It happens.”
“But you don’t think so,” I intuited.
“No,” he admitted.
I took a sip of my cappuccino. That helped.
“Look, Mike.” Grant rested his arms upon the table. The stereotypical leather padded elbows on his tweed jacket almost got me giggling despite everything. “You have to tread carefully here.”
I looked around. We were the only ones in the coffee shop at the moment.
“I’ve been on this campus a long time, and seen a lot of different things happen. This leadership honorary he’s joined is a piece of work.”
I nodded.
“It’s been around for decades. Some say it was around during Prohibition, that it got its start before there was even a Student Government.”
“So Bo is right?”
“A lot of his article has been known in certain circles for some time. Every group has its open secrets, and this honorary in particular flaunts its membership as a kind of access to money and power after we