Page 157 of The Initial Insult

“Hey, Hugh? Why are you being so nice to me?”

He smiles, his teeth bright as his shirt. “Maybe I’m not being nice, Felicity,” he says. “Maybe I actually am nice.”

I watch carefully, weighing what I know of him against what I’ve heard. “I thought you were just some big, dumb bruiser.”

He nods, like he’s heard that, too. “Football, beer, and pussy.”

“Yeah,” I say. “So why do you let people think that?”

His hand falls from the doorknob, his eyes boring into mine. “What’s your last name, Felicity?” he asks.

“Turnado,” I say.

“And what’s that mean in Amontillado?”

“Money,” I say automatically. It’s one half of the power equation, the secret everyone knows about you but doesn’t resent as long as you keep it quiet, too.

“And what’s my last name?” he asks.

“Broward,” I answer.

“And what’s that mean?”

“I . . .” I search, all the other answers came easily, but this one eludes me.

“Nothing,” he says. “Not a name that matters, no money behind it. What’s my first name?”

“Hugh,” I say, and he cocks his head at me. “But people call you Huge.”

“Yep, and there might be a football scholarship at OSU with my name on it, if I play my cards right,” he says. “Get the fuck out of here.”

I think of the jewel tones of shampoo and conditioner lined up under my sink, one of them for colored hair. I recently went with the silver look because that’s what Gretchen did and everyone else followed suit.

“So you’re just doing what you’re expected to do,” I say. “Being the thing you’re supposed to be.”

He shrugs. “It’s easier than proving I’m any different.”

I nod, because I get it. He opens the door, and we go back out into it, together. He’s pulled away from me in a second, guys asking for the details about my . . . Oh, that’s nice. Assholes. Brynn’s at my elbow immediately.

“Twenty-three minutes,” she says, her mouth a firm line.

“What?”

“You told me to time you. It took twenty-three minutes for you to take a piss, and”—she spins me around—“apparently swap clothes with—” The humor in her voice falls flat when she sees the name on the back of the jersey I’m wearing.

“Hugh Broward, huh?” She spins me back around, the smile on her face a little forced. “Didn’t know he was on the buffet.”

“He’s not,” I say. “I mean, we were just—”

“Taking each other’s clothes off, yeah,” Brynn says. But her eyes aren’t on mine anymore. She’s scanning the crowd. “Oh God, seriously?”

I follow her gaze to where Ribbit is letting a freshman superglue the cut on his lip. She’s cute, but I know that guy pretty well—it wouldn’t matter if she were a two. He’s had a couple of beers, and she’s in front of him. He wants her to be happy. So he’s letting her superglue his face.

Twenty minutes later the tube has been passed around the room and Ribbit’s eyelids are glued open, constant watering tears running down his face as he smiles at everyone who asks for a selfie. Or at least . . . he tries to smile.

A guy from Prospero glued his lips shut.

I’m at the park. I’m a beautiful girl, and it’s a beautiful fall day, and I’m with a beautiful boy, and beautiful families are walking past us, smiling at the beautiful couple.