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2. Not Statistically Unlikely-1

Not Statistically Unlikely

LukeI’m questioning all my life choices tonight. And all because of a vending machine.

Here I stand, starving in the student center at eight o’clock on a Thursday. I don’t work another shift at the club until tomorrow night, so cash is tight. So I put my last two singles in the snack machine and punch the button for the peanut butter pretzels. The metal coil turns, and the bag begins to move.

My stomach gurgles in anticipation. Skipping dinner to geek out in the statistics lab wasn’t my smartest move, I suppose. But I’m trying to save both money and time—two things in short supply in my life.

I’m not a lucky guy, though. So before my meager dinner has a chance to fall into my hands, the coil stops turning. And my pretzels are caught there, drooping from the rack, hanging by a corner of the plastic bag. Stuck.

“s**t,” I mumble. I give the vending machine one swift thunk with my fist. And nothing happens. Figures. “f*****g shitty luck!”

“It is unlucky…” a faint voice agrees with me. “…but not statistically unlikely.”

I turn around to see a skinny girl in giant glasses waiting for her turn with the goddamn machine. “Any chance you were going to buy peanut butter pretzels, too?”

She shakes her head. “Peanuts put me into anaphylactic shock.”

“Bummer. That’s also bad luck, but not statistically unlikely.”

She grins. “Want to borrow a couple dollars?“

“No thanks,” I say quickly. I make it a point to never borrow anything from the rich kids I go to school with. That way, when I graduate summa c*m laude and then snag the best possible job, nobody will be able to say that I won it because of their help.

I wish her luck and leave the library. My only choice is to go home to Alpha Delt and make myself yet another cheese sandwich. So I hike my backpack strap a little higher on my shoulder and head for the door.

Crossing the leafy campus always makes me feel like a guy on a movie set. The red bricks. The vintage gas lamps casting yellow circles of light on the pathways. The young Rockefellers and Carnegies, and whoever-the-f**k-else-is-worth-a-mint, crossing past me in their preppy dock shoes.

I love it and hate it at the same time. I’ve spent my whole life on the outskirts of this town. Nobody from the college ever leaves the campus unless they’re headed for the airport. For them, it’s like the town doesn’t exist off the flagstone pathways.

It exists. And it ain’t pretty. Darby is an old mill town that fell on hard times about a century after the college was founded. It used to be quaint and wholesome. Now it’s a total shithole.

When I turned eighteen, though, I found a golden ticket in my chocolate bar. Seriously, it was almost that magical. The high school counselor told me to fill out a Darby College application. “The fee is waived by the school for locals. Just roll the dice, kid. You never know. With your test scores, we already know you’ll get into State. This application is just for fun.”

I’d submitted it and then forgotten about it. But that April, I got a fat envelope in the mail.

“Welcome to Darby College, founded 1804. Here is your scholarship award.”

A free ride for the townie. I didn’t even believe it when I read the letter. Apparently the state of Connecticut had put pressure on the college to improve their town/gown relationship. And scholarships for townies were the upshot.

Tuition is free. If I can just keep my life from crumbling for three more semesters, I’ll have a degree from one of the most celebrated colleges in America.

Unfortunately, the scholarship doesn’t cover room and board. It’s assumed that locals wouldn’t need a spot in the dorms. And up until last year, I was fine staying at my mom’s place.

But living at home isn’t an option for me anymore. So my sophomore and junior years at Darby have been all about fending off homelessness and starvation until I can graduate. Dorms and meal plans are expensive, so I rushed Alpha Delt and took the cheapest room. Problem solved.

Sort of.

Last year I worked two shitty jobs until I found a better gig at a club. The new job pays me more for twelve hours of work than I used to make in twice that much time. But the late hours are killing me.

Come senior year, my school workload will be even more brutal. So I’ve been brainstorming ways I could cut back on my work hours. Two weeks ago, during a drunken movie marathon with a couple frat brothers, one of them revealed something I hadn’t known.

Fun fact: the president of the fraternity doesn’t have to pay rent. He gets a free room.

A. Free. Room.

So guess who’s running for president?

The Alpha Delta house is a big old Tudor mansion on the outskirts of campus. I strut into the front door like I own the place. Because I do—at least as much as anyone else. It doesn’t matter that I’m not third generation Alpha Delt like some of the pretty boys who live here. My dues checks don’t bounce, and that’s really all that matters.

“Hey, boys,” I greet four of my brothers. It’s eight p.m. and since none of these guys have jobs, they’re playing poker.

“Bailey,” grunts Jako, my closest friend in the house. “How’m I doing?”

I move to stand behind him and consider his hand. He has a pair of queens, and there’re two tens and an eight on the table thanks to the flop. Two-pair isn’t a bad hand, but it wouldn’t do to go crazy. Judd just needs one ten in his hand to have three-of-a-kind. As I watch, Judd raises and Jako calls.

I study Judd’s face for a second and determine that he’s not holding three tens. He’s bluffing. But of course I’m not dumb enough to say anything. Judd hates me. So I just wait and watch. After the turn—the queen of hearts—Jako has a full house. He bets again, and everyone else folds.

“You called that mostly right,” I say to Jako as he rakes in his winnings. “Probably coulda squeezed Judd for more cash if you’d bet that last round.”

“No way,” Judd argues, because that dude can’t stand me. I unknowingly hooked up with his ex last year at a toga party, which is a serious violation of the bro code.

In my defense, it really wasn’t malicious. Therese was cute, I was a bit buzzed, and not once did she mention Judd’s name to me. Needless to say, that was the last Alpha Delt party I ever attended. Now I only go to the mandatory events.

According to Jako, the whole disaster could’ve been avoided if only I was more “engaging.” Uh-huh, apparently I don’t engage.

This is true, but it’s not all my fault. I wish my life at Alpha Delt were more like a Hollywood comedy, where my besties and I c***k jokes together into the wee hours and enjoy the camaraderie of our crazy college years. And maybe the other guys are living that dream. But I’m working like a dog and trying to keep all the proverbial balls in the air. The guys here have no idea what it’s like to be me.

And I don’t tell them, because that s**t is both dark and boring.

So I haven’t gone out of my way to get to know each and every brother, and I guess that’s a huge crime. Jako says I would’ve known about Therese if I’d spent even thirty seconds conversing with Judd.

But why would I converse with Judd? He’s been obnoxious to me since the first minute we met. In life, not everyone is going to become BFFs. Some personalities pull you in, others repel you. So I’m friends with the brothers I get along with, and I ignore the rest.

Or I used to, anyway.

Sadly, this perfectly reasonable strategy needs to change if I’m going to be elected president of the frat. I can’t afford to have enemies. Which is why I swallow my pride and address Judd. “You played that really smart,” I praise him. “Solid bluffing skills. Didn’t reveal a tell at all.”

There’s an awkward silence while he eyes me, his brow furrowing suspiciously. “Thanks?”

I shrug and head for the stairs.

“Play a hand?” Jako calls after me.

“Can’t. Got a paper to write.” It’s not a lie. Although a single compliment for Judd is all I’m able to muster. Besides, I’m starving.

I climb a flight of stairs, and then I climb another one. The third-floor suite consists of a big bathroom and two oddly shaped bedrooms—one giant, one tiny.

Mine is the closet-sized room, obviously. It’s the cheapest room in the house, and the one that nobody ever picks. “It’s, like, the servant’s quarters,” one guy had said during last year’s rooming draw.

I’d pretended to do them all a favor by claiming the miniscule room, but I can barely afford even this. When I reach the top of the stairs, I pause on the landing, keys in hand. I don’t hear any voices. Or any s*x noises.

Sweet, sweet silence! Keaton must be at his girlfriend’s place.

Yes, my neighbor’s name is Keaton. It’s worse than that. He’s Keaton Hayworth III. And even worse than that?

He’s my opponent in the race for frat president.

Most of the other guys think he’s a shoo-in to win. And fine, he does tick off all the presidential boxes—on paper. He’s well liked by almost everyone. His father runs a multinational pharmaceutical company, so he fits the wealth criteria. He’s a football player, so he has the athlete thing going for him.

But like I said, it’s all on paper. Off the page, he’s a bit—fine, a lot—self-absorbed. The frat president has to put the needs of everyone else before his own. I don’t think Keaton is capable of doing that, and the others are going to notice as the campaign unfolds.

“Dumb” and “selfish” will definitely be the descriptors I use if I decide to run a smear campaign against Mr. Jockface.

“Seriously hot” also works, although it kills me to admit that. Still, even though the guy’s good-looking, he’s not my type at all. I don’t go for preppy jocks. When I’m in the mood for a guy, I like ‘em a little rougher around the edges. But, hey, if you like handsome rich dudes, Keaton is your man.

I lock our door behind me. My stomach is growling like a beast.

You’d think that the kitchen would be a good place to keep my sandwich ingredients. But you’d be wrong. The guys I live with help themselves to whatever is in the refrigerator, because they have no shame. And they can’t conceive of a world where those last four cheese slices are all I’ve got to eat.

I learned that lesson the hard way. Now I keep my food in my room. I have an ancient dorm fridge under my desk. The compressor is loud, but it keeps my cheese and mayo cool. And there’s a loaf of bread on the desk.

Making my sandwich takes only a minute. I put it on a paper plate and sit back on the bed, my phone in one hand to entertain me while I eat.

I still have more studying to do. But I can burn a few minutes on a game. Or—and this can be even more fun—scrolling through the Kink app.

It’s been a while since I had a hookup. There’s been too much schoolwork and too many weekend hours at the club. Lately, I fall into bed in the wee hours of the morning and try to sleep a few hours until Mr. Jockface starts playing loud classic rock while he does sit-ups and pushups in his room. At home I’ll bet he has an entire wing to himself. Keeping quiet for others has probably never occurred to him.

The app’s home screen loads, offering me a tantalizing question.

What are you hungry for today?

As if s*x is a handy buffet table I could sidle up to whenever I feel the urge.

Actually, it’s a viewpoint that fits my s****l appetites pretty well. Some people use Kink to find partners who will fulfill a precise s****l fantasy. But I’m more of a variety seeker. Sometimes I’m in the mood to party with curves and the lighter touch of feminine hands. But guys are a whole lot of fun in bed, too.

Sometimes I don’t have to choose at all. Kink also has a section for couples looking to add someone to their bed. That’s what I tap on now. Threesomes waiting to happen.