Dylan didn’t answer any of Auggie’s snaps the next day. Or the next. Or the next.
Theo didn’t answer any of Auggie’s texts the next day. Or the next. Or the next. He wasn’t in class either. Auggie thought about driving out to the little brick house on the edge of the city. He even left the Sigma Sigma house a few times. Once he got as far as the Civic. Then he remembered Theo trashed on whatever cocktail he’d mixed of booze and pills, and he got so angry that he made himself go back to his room so he wouldn’t do something he regretted.
By the next Saturday, Auggie had stopped trying to contact them. He worked on a few skits. Every idea was crap. He put together the numbers for August, looking at which videos and tweets and snaps had been most successful, trying to make a plan for how to build similar content and capitalize on his success. He barely got through the initial setup for his spreadsheet. Then he just slumped over in bed and lay there, staring at the wall.
Eventually, someone knocked on the door.
Auggie closed his laptop and pulled his pillow over his head.
Sometime later, another knock came. And then more knocking. And then more.
“Go away,” Auggie shouted from under the pillow.
“Open up, Augs.”
Auggie squashed the pillow against his ears.
The door rattled in the frame. “Augs, open this door right now!”
“Fuck off!”
“I’m not going away. I’ll get somebody to unlock your door if I have to.”
Auggie allowed himself to scream into the mattress for a few seconds. Then he made his way to the door and opened it.
Orlando was standing there, his thick eyebrows drawn together. He was wearing a Wroxall Wrestling tee and knit shorts. He smelled like Axe and Dove shampoo. When Auggie met his eyes, Orlando smiled uncertainly.
“Hey, man. How’s it going?”
“Great,” Auggie said and tried to shut the door.
Orlando was too fast, though, and he got his foot in the way. After a few moments of trying to crush Orlando’s bones, Auggie gave up and retreated to his bed. He pulled the pillow back into place and breathed the smell of his own hair and the All detergent from the house laundry facilities. When the mattress dipped under Orlando’s weight, he rolled to face the wall, taking the pillow with him.
“So,” Orlando said. “How are classes?”
“Really, really good.”
“Awesome. I have this bitchin’ class on the history of rock.”
“Oh my God, did you just say bitchin’?”
“How’s your family?”
“They’re really, really good.”
“How are you, um, feeling?”
“Really, really good.”
“Augs, come on.”
Auggie lifted the pillow from his face. Orlando was studying him.
“What’s going on?” Orlando said. “You’ve been totally shut down this week. Everybody’s noticed. And—and, people saw you with Dylan.”
“It’s just a bad week.”
“I know we have this weird history, and I’ve tried really hard to make things right. I mean, I know I can’t make them right totally. But I want to make them better. I hope you think I’m your friend.”
“What? Yeah, obviously. I mean—” Auggie fumbled for a way to say it. “Yeah.”
“So you’d, you know, tell me. If something happened to you.”
“Huh?”
“With Dylan.”
Auggie shook his head. “What?”
“Like, when he was in here with you.”
“Oh my God,” Auggie said.
“If he raped you, Augs.”
“Yeah, I figured it out.”
“Well, you were staring at me like you had no idea what I was talking about.”
“He didn’t rape me. Jesus Christ. Wait. Has he done that to other guys?”
“I don’t think so.”
“So why in the hell would you say something like that?” Auggie scrambled to sit upright. “Why would you even think something like that?”
“I don’t know. We were just talking about how different you were acting, and somebody said maybe, you know. I mean, he’s older than you, and he’s got a reputation, and you’ve seemed so upset this week, and it just kind of made sense.” Orlando flushed and stood. “I’m so stupid. I’m sorry. I just—I know you think I’m, like, super pathetic and hung up on you, but I care about you, and it makes me sad that you’re sad, and I wanted to make things better.”
He was halfway to the door before Auggie said, “You’re not stupid.”
Orlando stopped. He rucked up his shirt absently, scratching his belly and the thick, dark hair there. The pinkish white of the scar was barely visible.
“It might help,” Auggie said, and then he stopped. “I mean, if I could just talk about it.”
This time, the smile was full and bright. “I’m pretty good at listening.”
So Auggie told him all of it, everything with Dylan, even the stuff about Theo. While he talked, Orlando sat on the bed, and then he pulled his legs up, hugging his knees to his chest. The smell of Axe and Dove shampoo was oddly comforting—sometimes Chuy used Dove, and it reminded Auggie of home and high school—and Orlando really was a good listener.
When Auggie finished, Orlando said, “I don’t get it. What is it about him?”
“Theo is—”
“Not him. You guys are crazy in love, you’re both just seriously fucked up.”
“I don’t know if I’d say—I mean, I think I might feel something really strong, but—”
“I’m talking about Dylan. What’s the deal? I mean, I get it: he’s hot. But there are a lot of hot guys, and you don’t go on dates, you ignore it when dudes try to pick you up. What’s the deal with Dylan? Why are you hung up on him? He won’t text you back; big deal. Go find some other hot fuckboy.”
“He’s not a fuckboy. That’s the whole point. He’s mature.”
In the hall, somebody turned on Beyonce, and then two voices competed to sing “Single Ladies” at the top of their lungs.
“He is,” Auggie insisted, catching Orlando’s doubtful look. “He wants a real relationship, and he doesn’t want to play games. He’s smart. He’s funny.”
“He’s funny?”
“Yeah. He’s really funny.”
“How is he funny? Give me an example.”
“I don’t know, he just is. And he’s not doing stupid, teenage stuff that I don’t care about.”
“Augs,” Orlando said gently, “you’re a teenager. For another year, at least. You don’t need to be ready for a real relationship. You don’t need to be past playing games. You get to do all that stuff because that’s what people are supposed to do at this age. If you don’t want to do it, that’s ok too. But you can also just have fun and hook up and figure out what you like and who you want to be with. That’s kind of the whole point.”
“Yeah, but—you know what? Never mind.”
“No, no, no. I’m sorry. I’ll try to help. You know the drugs thing is a little scary, right? I mean, you saw what happened to Cal.”
“It’s not like that. It’s spiritual. And it’s part of this experience of being together, really being together. Our souls, I mean.”
Making a face, Orlando said, “You’re sure about this guy? I mean, there’s definitely something about Dylan?”
“We have this connection. I don’t know how to explain it. I felt it when we met, and it’s like—it’s like we’re connected.”
Orlando got a huge grin that vanished almost immediately.
“What?” Auggie said. “You’ve never felt it, so you don’t get to talk.”
“I was just thinking of my English paper. ‘The symbolism of black is death.’”
Auggie threw the pillow at him.
Laughing, Orlando batted it away. He was still sitting with his knees to his chest, arms wrapped around his shins, his dark eyes wide with amusement. Even after his injury, he was still so big—so much muscle, on a large frame. How could someone so big make himself so small, Auggie wondered. And then he thought about being called Peepee, and how Wayne sent him to the kitchen for a beer, and how Billie acted like he didn’t even exist, and Auggie realized maybe it wasn’t that much of a surprise after all.
“You’re a really good friend,” Auggie said.
Orlando shrugged. “You know, a lot of guys would love to hang out with you. Just friends, hook ups, whatever you want. If things don’t work out with Dylan, I mean. I know you and Theo—no, I guess I don’t know.” He turned the end of it into a question.
“I don’t either. I thought I did. At the end of last year, I said a lot of things to him. And then he turned around and started dating Cart, and—and I don’t know, I feel like everything’s different, and I get mad at him all the time, and I don’t know why things have to be so awful.”
“Fuck ’em,” Orlando said. “Fuck both of them.”
“I guess so.”
“You deserve a great guy, Augs. We’ll find one for you.”
“Thanks. You do too, you know. Guy or girl.”
Orlando just shrugged again. “Come down to dinner with me? The guys want to know you’re ok.”
“Yeah, just give me a few minutes to clean up.”
After Orlando left, Auggie pulled his laptop onto his chest, opened it, and pulled up Facebook. Then he opened tabs for Twitter, Craigslist, and Google. He logged out of his social media accounts and created dummy profiles. Then he started trawling white supremacist forums, posting brief requests. He wanted drugs. He wanted to know who sold drugs. He did what he’d learned to do with his own social media platforms: he scanned the traffic, learned the lingo, and made it his own.
Orlando deserved answers about his brother’s death. Every other road had led to a dead end, so now Auggie was going to do what he should have done at the beginning: he was going to follow the drugs. And according to Theo, that meant the Ozark Volunteers.