Page 20 of Backlash

The other method of testing involves social invisibility, or the belief that if I show up at a party, say nothing to anyone, grab a bottle of booze, and take off, no one will even notice. But is this because I’m invisible or because people are shit-faced? I don’t know. But I’ll keep testing the theory until I can be certain.

There’s one more theory, but I haven’t given it a name yet. It’s basically that a son can’t ever escape becoming his father. I might not be the first to think of that one. I’d ask a professor, but I can’t be bothered to actually enroll in a philosophy class. Not if it means skewing the findings of my first theory, which I’m dedicating myself to completely, and have been since the night of Adair’s birthday party.

The door cracks open and Cyrus steps inside. His gaze sweeps over the room before landing on me.

“Hey,” I grunt, grabbing a t-shirt off the couch and pulling it over my head. Today, we’ll talk.

“I just needed to grab something,” he says, as if it’s some sort of revelation.

“Cool.” I pick up a few bottles to check their contents, but each of them is bone dry. Cyrus stands there, watching me.

“When was the last time you even went to class?” Cyrus asks. “I haven’t seen you in Econ in two weeks.”

“What do you care?” I drop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. If he noticed I wasn’t in class, it undermines my working theory. He shouldn’t notice my absence, and he definitely shouldn’t care. I’m going to have to reconsider some things.

“No reason. I just thought you were on scholarship.” He waits for me to respond, when I don’t, he continues, “You okay, man?”

“Don’t worry about me,” I say flatly. “I’m living my best life.”

“I can see that.” He looks around our dorm room. “You want me to have my maid stop by?”

“Doesn’t bother me,” I say.

“I can see that, too.” He sighs, and it’s a sound I recognize. Disappointment.

I must have achieved a new standard of disappointing, if full-time party animal and part-time roommate Cyrus Eaton thinks I’m underachieving.

“Look, have you talked to…” he trails off as my phone begins to buzz on the coffee table. “Your phone is ringing.”

“I hear it.”

“Are you going to answer it?” he asks.

“Nah. It does that a lot. Nobody I want to talk to.” I shift away from him, considering a nap.

The phone stops ringing, but then I hear Cyrus say, “Hello? Yeah, hold on.”

I roll over and glare at him. So much for my nap.

“It’s Francie,” he says, holding it out to me.

It’s too late to pretend that I’m gone, and he knows it. Cyrus is putting me on the spot. So much for being the cool roommate who’s never here. Now he’s definitely sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.

I jump off my bed and swipe the phone from him. “Hey.”

“Sterling!” Francie’s voice is a curious mix of relief and annoyance. “I’ve been calling you for a week.”

I can picture her standing in her small, outdated kitchen with its shabby, seventies wallpaper and notched cabinets. She’s probably leaning against the beige fridge, tapping her foot. I’d seen her do that a million times on the phone with whatever bill collector was on her ass that month. Now she’s busy tracking me down.

“Sorry. Been busy. Classes and stuff.”

Cyrus shakes his head at the lie and wanders into his side of our small closet. It’s about the only thing he comes around for: a fresh change of clothes. He spends the rest of his time bouncing between random beds and rooms at his family hotel. This place is just his oversized suitcase. I can’t remember the last time he actually slept here.

“I bet you’re busy,” she says. I think she hopes this will prompt more conversation.

“Yep.” I, on the other hand, prefer to keep our chat as short as possible.

“I’ve been thinking,” Francie says, and a warning bell goes off in my head.