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he looks at melike he’s concerned. Is he really? You know, I never know what’s real or fake with the guy.
    â€œYeah”—I fake a yawn—“just a little tired.”
    Jon-Jon leans forward. “That so? How tired are you, on a scale of one to ten, ten being chronic insomnia?”
    Uh, I go with an eight, which means I really tell him, “About a five.”
    Jon-Jon clicks his tongue, looks up at one of the girls, kind of cute, brown hair tied back, red lipstick—no one knows any of Jon-Jon’s girls, their names or anything else; I’m pretty sure they don’t go here—and the girl hands him a notebook.
    Brad with his mouth full: “Is that...?”
    It is. It’s yesterday’s betting pool.
    See I kind of started betting on football, baseball, basketball, whatever everyone around me was betting on, because it kept things cool. If I won, I get some cash. If I lost, then whatever. I don’t have a stake in any of these teams. I don’t even really find it all that interesting. Watching Brad as he flips through the book quickly, for him it’s more than just money.
    â€œHell yes,” Brad shouts, “you owe me! Pay up, pay up!”
    This is how it goes. Then there’s still all the talk about stats, which player to pick, who’s got the better team. I just want to make it until fifth period so I can get some sleep.
    I lean against the wall while Brad and Jon-Jon talk sports, then about this rapper who’s supposed to be in town soon, how Jon-Jon can probably get tickets for cheap, which gets Brad excited. “Get me a few. Perfect bait for landing a date!”
    I glance over at Jon-Jon’s girls, or assistants, or whatever. I know they find this as dull as I do. Or maybe they don’t.
    What’s the big deal?
    I used to feel kind of bad about not being interested in sports or music or that kind of stuff. Culture, I guess. I mean, I still do. I can see how learning about the stats and predicting how ball games will turn out could be really cool. I bet it’s satisfying. But before I can really get used to it, they’re talking about other things. Never reallybeen into hip-hop or the stuff I hear coming from people’s cars. At least at the parties they blast it so it’s all bass.
    But I guess I never got into it.
    I don’t really know what I like. Music can be fun to listen to, but sometimes I just like sitting back and listening to podcasts, people chatting about, I don’t know, new technology, space, time travel. Weird stuff that doesn’t come around often. I guess that’s kind of insane.
    Jon-Jon didn’t bring me here to listen to them talk business.
    He asks me, “Too tired for one on me?” He holds up a bottle of vodka.
    This guy, there’s no way he’s getting away with this stuff just by being careful. I say yes and we both take swigs from the bottle, Brad included. We take enough to ease off a little, but right before Brad and I walk back for class, Jon-Jon calls me out: “You ran, huh?”
    Back turned, I kind of freeze, feeling the more powerful lull of liquor, how it kind of feels heavier than a beer buzz. Brad nudges me. “Bro...”
    I know.
    I tell him the truth, the lie I’ve practiced enough for it to be truth. Trick is to believe it yourself.
    â€œYeah, man,” I say, playing it smooth, “I did.”
    Jon-Jon stares at me. “Why wasn’t I invited?”
    Brad chimes in: “Wasn’t really planned, like, we got in each other’s faces, this guy and Steve... you know Steve? Steve the creep?”
    Jon-Jon nods his head once. “I do.”
    Brad continues: “Well, our boy here got in dweeb’s face and then just fucking ran Falter like it was nothing.”
    Jon-Jon puts his phone down on his right knee and claps five times, slow, like this—clap, clap, clap, clap, clap.
    â€œYeah”—I sort of