All That and a Bag of Chips

Chapter 28

Collin's blood was boiling. He could literally feel the fire running through his veins, reddening his ears, and clouding his vision. His hands balled into fists and all he wanted to do was punch something. Break something. Anything. He craved a throw-a-television-out-of-the-window level of destruction.

Sam was lucky she wasn't home because, even though he'd never been in a fight before, he was ready.

Why had she done this?

If she had told Heather right away, he would have summed it up as some self-righteous sense of sisterhood. Of fighting against the patriarchy. She'd chewed him out for objectifying a woman he didn't know and placing a literal price on her head. A bounty.

In retrospect, that had been pretty gross. The money aspect, anyway.

On Thursday, he had finally told Tom that the bet was off. As they set up the store, he couldn't shut up about how amazing Heather was. He told Tom about how she had compared his being trans to the San Lorenzo River and about how they both felt like they were transitioning between worlds. Tom had only been half paying attention until Collin said that they had kissed.

"Well, there goes my tip money," he had joked. Although, maybe he hadn't really been joking.

"Dude, I owe you my tip money, because without you I'd have never had the guts to approach her so shamelessly," Collin had responded.

And it was true. Yes, the money had been a bit sleazy, but it had all worked out in the end.

Heather wasn't just some object. That was never the point. And while she might have been a distraction in the beginning, she certainly was so much more than that now.

Sam knew that! Sam had seen them at the party. Seen them just the other night when he cooked dinner. And she'd taken him up on his offer of leftovers. So why, just a few days later, did she stab him in the back like this?

When Sam told Heather, "See you at yoga," how could Collin have known that it was a warning to him?

The only explanation was that she had sided with Avery and she was pissed at Collin for not being more open to reconciliation. She told Heather about the bet in order to give Avery an opening to get him back.

Well, it would not work that way. Just because he had lost Heather didn't mean he would fall back into Avery's embrace. If anything, the opposite would happen.

If Sam had told Heather about the bet right away, he almost would have understood, but this level of betrayal was unforgivable.

He stalked over to his bed. When he had thrown it, his phone had hit his headboard and fallen on the mattress. He picked it up. It was okay–not even a crack in the screen.

Flipping it open, he scrolled down to Sam's name on the contact list and hit dial. As it rang, he checked the time. He was going to have to get going for class soon.

After four rings, the call went to voicemail. He waited until the beep. "Sam, it's me. Why did you tell Heather about the bet? That was so fucked up, dude. Soooooo fucked up." Then he ended the call.

Maybe she was avoiding him.

Maybe she was in class.

He took a deep breath, rolled out his neck, shook out his arms and legs, and then pulled on his backpack and walked to the bus stop. The same bus stop where he and Heather had kissed only a few nights before.

After a few minutes, the bus came and he climbed on, showed his student ID, and then took a seat, slumping against the window.

He arrived on campus and went to his first class, which was Latin. He turned in his assignment, but he couldn't focus on the lesson. Professor Lynch called on him to translate the Pliny quote, "​​Bruta fulmina et vana." But he forgot what "fulmina" meant, took a guess, and said, "It's gross to condemn people who are vain."

"No," Professor Lynch corrected him in his usual monotone voice, "Fulmina is the subject of the sentence. Look at the ending and the context. It is a noun, not a verb."

It had been a stupid error. Another student answered correctly. "Blind thunderbolts strike in vain."

If only Sam had thrown her thunderbolt blindly at him, but no. It had been purposeful, targeted, and its result was effective.

Would Heather ever talk to him again?

After Latin, he trudged across campus for his lecture on Ancient Greek Literature. He dropped his printed out essay on the front desk in his TA Jordan's pile and then walked up the stairs of the lecture hall to find a seat in the back. He tried to listen and take notes–there were always a few questions on the final that related to the lecture and couldn't be found in the reading–but he just couldn't.

He doodled abstract shapes in the margins of his notebook. Swirling and fluid lines that climbed up the spiral of his notebook like flames.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He slipped it out to check the caller ID. Sam's name appeared on the screen. He pressed the button on the side of the phone to send the call to voicemail. Then he sat, staring at his phone, waiting to see if the voicemail icon popped up. It didn't. She hadn't left a message.

As he sat there, not paying attention to what the professor was talking about, only catching occasional names–Xenophon, Lucian–he wondered what Sam would have said if he had picked up.

Would she admit to what she had done? Was she sorry? Or would she be defensive?

His doodles became more angular. Sharp edges at acute degrees cut across the bottom half of his open notebook page. Scythes and devil horns. Daggers of betrayal.

He became so focused on the dark lines zigzagging across the faint blue of the college ruled paper that he was startled by the sound of people around him closing books and zipping up bags.

The lecture was over, and he had missed everything, including details about the upcoming final. Maybe he should go out to the club tonight, find Jordan on the dance floor, and get him drunk enough to tell him what questions would be on the exam. As Pliny said, In vino veritas, in wine there is truth.

If only that had been the quote Professor Lynch had called on him to translate!

He shook his head at the idea of using alcohol to get inside information on a test. The idea was ludicrous, but at least it showed he still could have a sense of humor, despite what Sam had done.

Sam.

She would probably be waiting for him in the living room, and the thought formed a pit in his stomach.

He packed his bag up and left through the rear exit of the lecture hall. He then walked to the bus stop, keeping his eyes down, ignoring the chitchat of his classmates.

When the bus came, he crowded in with everyone else. There were no seats, so he stood, shouldered against some guy with a patchy beard who reeked of patchouli oil, swaying along with everyone else as the bus bumped along the campus circuit and then down the hill towards town.

All of his earlier simmering anger had condensed into an icy ball of dread by the time he got off at his stop and walked down the block to his door. Instead of molten hot, he felt brittle and close to shattering.

Closing his eyes, he turned the knob, pushed open the door, and then slowly climbed the stairs.

As expected, Sam was waiting for him on the couch.

Upon seeing him, she stood, her hands both held up in front of her. "I swear I didn't tell Heather about the bet," she said. "But I know who did."