I’m outside the Bar Code downtown, standing on the curb with my hands shoved deep in the pockets of my sweatpants and trying hard to look worlds more interesting than I really am, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I whirl around, stepping back, but it’s only Ritchie. He’s drunk and there’s a wild look in his eyes, a devilish gleam that excites me, though I don’t let him know it.
Ritchie’s cool in a way I’ve always wanted to be but can’t seem to attain, no matter how ripped my jeans are, or how disheveled my hair, or how worn my T-shirt. He’s crazy, man, craziest guy on our floor, and I know the only reason a lot of other dudes in our dorm know who I am is because I’m his . He’s the kind of guy who will stage mattress fights at three in the morning, and even if you have an exam the next
