//------------------------------// // Chapter 4: Careful What You Do to My Head // Story: Monophobia // by Aquaman //------------------------------// Here’s a fun fact I learned when I was doing frat party research yesterday: despite all the medical advancements humans have made over the centuries, we actually still don’t know exactly what causes hangovers. There are lots of theories, of course, and contributing factors and correlations and other science-y ways to make it sound like we know, but… we don’t! Could be anything, really. But as of about ten seconds ago when I woke up, I’ve come up with a new theory, and it goes like this: I think hangovers happen because some sort of God exists, and He or She or It hates us and wants us to suffer. Which is really just unnecessary, I think. Because I also think I hate myself enough right now for the both of us. I should clarify: I didn’t really wake up just now. Waking up requires you to have been asleep at some point, and I don’t feel like I slept last night or even remember getting into my bed. Mostly, I just feel like my tongue has shriveled up like a prune and my stomach’s dissolving in its own acid, and my head hurts so bad that I almost can’t focus on how close I am to throwing up again.  Which is also unnecessary, because one thing I do remember is throwing up last night. A lot. On my way from a frat party I shouldn’t have gone to back to a dorm I never should’ve left. I can still taste it in my dry mouth, and feel it in my burning throat, and groan as the memory rises from my chest into my neck and almost up to… I shift just enough to poke my head off the edge of my bed, so I can at least hurl off of it rather than in it. Ultimately, though, I don’t do either. I stare blearily at the floor, and gulp like a fish on the floor of a boat, and feel really jealous of that imaginary fish because it only has a bit more thrashing to do before it mercifully gets to die. I am not lucky. I am hungover. Because God hates me, and I hate me too. “You okay?” I don’t look up. Looking up is a bit beyond me at the moment. And besides, I know who’s talking already — from the creak of the bed across the room from me, and the perfectly gormless question they just asked. Good morning, Bit. I made bad choices last night. “No, I am not,” is what I try to say, but what actually leaks out of my throat is “Nnnnnneeeergh,” which I guess gets the point across just as well. Nevertheless, Bit’s bed creaks again. He has more gormlessness to inflict on me. “Did you go out last night?” “Mmmmrrreh.” “Are you, uh… gonna go to class?” “Eh.” “Um… okay. Well… see you later, then.” Goodbye, Bit. Please lock the door on the way out so my corpse doesn’t stink up the hallway. I hear the lightswitch flip off, then the door click shut, and then I don’t really hear anything because I’m not really conscious for a good while after that. But eventually, I “wake up” again — head still pounding, drool soaking my sheets where my face was pressed into them — and manage to paw around blindly on my school desk next to my bed until I find the water bottle I was pretty sure I’d left there.  It’s mostly empty, and some of what was in it ends up joining the spit in my sheets, but draining it leaves my mouth less dry and washes out some of the awful aftertaste of my awful-er decisions last night. If I want more water, I’ll have to get up.  Sure. I can do that. Also, I just realized I’m gonna pee myself if I don’t, so that’s two reasons to start moving.  I can’t find my shoes once I sit up and can’t really be bothered to look that hard either, so I shuffle out of my room and down the hall to the bathroom in my socks, wrinkled dress shirt crackling against my aching skin the whole way. Once my body’s completely emptied of liquid rather than just mostly, I shed the shirt and everything else I’m wearing, stumble into a shower stall, and slump on the floor under the hottest water I can stand, which feels really nice until I remember that I didn’t bring any soap with me or, y’know, a towel.  Whatever. These clothes are already ruined. I’ll dry off and change once I get back to my room, which I’ll do once I feel like standing up, which might be never. Who knows? It’s a mystery, like hangovers and God and the existence of both, and whatever part of me thought I could ever in a million years be the partying type, let alone the type of partier that other party people would like. Eventually, though, the hot water turns lukewarm, so I force myself to stand up so I can turn the shower off, drip-dry for a bit, and rub out the little pink-ridged imprints that the shower floor’s tiles left on my butt. One soggy trip back down the hall later, I tug on sweatpants and shrug on a pullover that I really meant to wash at some point, and I’m ready to face the day.  Which, judging by how bright it is outside, has steamed past noon already and isn’t about to slow down on my account. Guess that means it’s lunchtime. Maybe the dining hall will sprinkle some ibuprofen into an oatmeal bowl if I ask nicely. The pullover isn’t thick enough to keep the January chill out, but it feels appropriate to be miserably cold on top of regular-miserable right now. So, shivering with every step, I make the plodding journey to the dining hall, which is fresh out of oatmeal and prescription-strength pain medication. I settle for a single plain bagel instead, which I already know I’m gonna get through three bites of, max. Hey, if it didn’t work for Sweetie Belle, why shouldn’t it not work for me? And really, I should’ve known better than to follow her lead for hangover food, or think about her while I’m looking for a table to slump over, or try to act like anything other than a colossal dork she used to know and eventually thought better of staying in touch with. Because just like God hates me, so does the Devil, and speaking of him… “Hey there, party animal.” Sweetie Belle’s dressed for the weather in a fur-lined purple coat and matching boots, hair hidden under a snow-white beanie and rosy cheeks peeled back into an impish smirk. She has a backpack slung over her shoulder by a strap lined with little pins — cartoony flowers and musical notes, and something with hooves that looks more like a cat than a horse. She shrugs it and her coat off as she plops down in the seat across from me, then folds her arms on the table as she leans forward, still smirking.  I’d have blushed if I could feel my face, and probably tried to smile back if the thought alone didn’t make me want to blow chunks again. It’s probably just the hangover. If I keep telling myself that, maybe at some point I’ll start actually believing it. “You didn’t text me when you went out,” Sweetie says, in a tone that’s somewhere between playful and pouty. Yesterday she looked cute even through a hangover, but today — cleaned up, made up, wearing a fuzzy turtleneck that fits snugly around her narrow waist — she’s a magnet drawing eyes towards her from all over the dining hall. “Care to explain yourself?” “Sorry,” is the best raspy answer I have at the moment. “My bad.” “It is your bad. It’s rude not to tell your friends you’re out partying. I may never forgive you.” “Please forgive me,” I mumble. I can’t pair it with a pleading look because my eyes are closed, because the dining hall’s spinning around me and I’d very much like it to stop. Over the blackness and the blurry pixels flashing inside it, I hear Sweetie Belle let out a put-upon sigh. “Well, since you asked nicely,” she says. When I feel steady enough to look up at her, she has her chin balanced on top of her laced fingers, piercing gaze leveled straight at me. “So how was it? You have fun?” Instead of knocking me further off-balance, staring right back at Sweetie Belle feels kind of steadying instead, like watching the horizon so you don’t feel quite as carsick. “I genuinely don’t remember,” I tell her. “So… hard ‘maybe’ on that.” “A hard ‘maybe’?” She makes a face like she’s scandalized. “And after all that work you put in to get invited...” “All right, I know, I’m full of shit,” I groan, rubbing my eyes. “I’m not a party animal.” “You sure look like one right now.” “I look like I got mauled by one. And feel like it.” Her smile widens as she chuckles. “Well, practice makes perfect. If you still wanna practice, that is.” When I don’t say anything, she leans forward again. “So, do you wanna?” “Does it matter?” I mumble, and then I look up at her and see her expression and realize that, somehow, it really does. She really wants to know what I want to do, who I am — whether I’m the type of person she should want to hang out with. This is a test. I’m in the social arena with her, and I’m close to failing gloriously. “I mean, sure,” I tell her. The shrug I try to pair with the words almost sends me teetering off my seat. “I met some cool guys last night. Probably try to hang out with ‘em again.” She nods — and for just a moment, almost looks disappointed. But a blink of my gummed-up eyes later, she’s grinning again, just as sincere as ever. “Nice. Where at? Which house did you go to?” “KNZ. Kappa Nu, uh…” I trail off as I realize I don’t remember the right Greek letter. It’s not “Zed,” is it? It’s… “Zeta,” Sweetie says — and there’s that look again, flashing through her eyes for the split between seconds, just long enough to stick in my head as a question I don’t know how to phrase. “Yeah, I’ve heard good things. You think it went well last night?” “Dunno.” I can’t help but chuckle — painfully, thanks to the throbbing that little motion starts up in my skull. “Don’t remember.” “Well, keep me posted, all right? I wanna know how it goes.” I nod, eyes closed and thumb raised. “Yep. I’ll text you.” “No, actually, you’re gonna tell me in person. We’ll get lunch here tomorrow. You suck at texting.” I mean, she’s right. Recent evidence suggests I do. And we’ll… wait, get lunch? Like a… is this a… “You gonna be up for that?” she asks, and finally I get a grip on myself. If it was a date, she’d have called it one. She just wants to know how rush goes, because she wants to be friends like we used to be and I’m messing it up by not playing along. So I nod, and smile, and start playing too. “Up, yes,” I say. “Awake, no promises.” “Oh, you better be awake,” she shoots back as she stands up, donning her coat and bag mid-movement. “I’m taking a Stage Combat class this semester. I can and will pretend to kick your ass.” “I’ll just… pretend it doesn’t hurt?” I say, getting an eyeroll for my efforts. “We’ll have to see tomorrow, won’t we?” she says as she leaves, before turning back and adding, “Drink water!” I offer another thumbs-up while I watch her leave, and the second she’s out of sight, I let my hand drop hard onto the table and lean back as I rub my face with the other.  Nice one, Button. Now you have to go out again tonight, and probably get sick again, and feel even worse tomorrow, all because it’d feel the tiniest bit awkward to be honest exactly one time with a girl who has exactly zero interest in being anything more than friends. Or actually, do I have to go out? I told Sweetie Belle I’d try to keep rushing, not that I’d succeed, and I haven’t heard anything about where the next rush event’s supposed to be, for KNZ or for anybody else. So all I need to do is finish not eating my bagel and go back to my dorm and sleep the rest of the day away, and by the end of it I’ll have missed my chance to go out altogether.  Hell, the KNZ guys probably don’t even want me back in the first place. I probably looked like a jackass last night. I bet they’re at their house right now, cracking jokes about it and – Somewhere deep inside my sweatpants pocket, something buzzes. I fish around inside it and eventually find my phone, which forces me to swipe away a passive-aggressive low battery alert before it lets me read the message I just got from a contact called “Source KNZ”: Hope you’re still alive, bud. If you are, next rush thing is at Upper Crust tonight, 8 PM sharp. No booze, just a meet and greet. Wear something business casual. Ties optional. ;) Okay. So now I have heard something. But that’s just one problem solved, and the smaller one at that. I still don’t know if anyone besides Source wants me there, and it’s not like I can ask Woody about it now. I didn’t even get his number, and hunting him down somewhere on campus before tonight would be like finding in a needle in a – “Button?” – baggy athletic sweatshirt and jeans a size too big for him, standing right in front of me with a sandwich and chips on a tray and a look of happy recognition spreading across his face. “Hey!” Woody says, moving to sit down in the seat Sweetie just vacated before hesitating at the last moment. “Uh… cool if I sit here?” I nod and gesture for him to sit, and he does a bit gingerly, as if part of him is surprised I let him do it. Devil-speaking-ness aside, I really am glad to see him. I don’t remember much of what I actually said to him last night, but the vague feelings I have about it are happy ones — like we really talked, rather than just mingled. “Sorry I bailed so early last night,” he says, plucking the biggest chip off his plate and eating it before continuing. “Got… kinda overwhelmed.” “Trust me, you made the right call,” I say, and I can tell I don’t need to say more than that. His sympathy radiates across the table, even as he keeps eating the lunch that suddenly I’m really hungry for. “Was that your first time out?” he asks as I pick up my bagel and bite into it, before adding a moment later: “It was mine too. At least, going out like that. Like… fraternity style.” “Was I that obvious?” I ask between chews. “Honestly, no, not at first. Just once we started talking, about games and high school and stuff. Kinda got the sense we were pretty similar.” Snatches of conversation are coming back to me, like disconnected bits of dreams that slip out of your memory the moment you stop thinking about them. We talked about games, sure, but mostly about Fate 2. He mains a Titan, still needs to do the newest raid, and in high school he got stood up at his first homecoming dance by a girl he’d done all the work for on a group project the month before. “Yeah, me too,” I tell him. “I mean, I got that sense. About… you. Us.” Woody blinks across the table at me, I blink back — and then awkwardly, guiltily, we both laugh. “We’re so good at conversations,” he says. “Just killing it over here,” I agree. Still chuckling, Woody picks up his sandwich, then sighs as he puts it back down. “God, what are we doing?” he mutters. “Why am I rushing? I’m not my brother, y’know? I’m not… social.” “I thought you were fine,” I reply. “I mean, I had fun hanging out with you.” “Yeah, same with you,” he tells me, “but we’re both rushes. We need the brothers to like us too.” “Alkaline seemed like he loved you,” I chuckle. Now that’s one part of the night I actually do remember — and, in the harsh light of day, am finally starting to understand. “And hated me.” “Al loves my brother. Hawthorn was his Big.” Once Woody sees my blank stare, he clarifies. “His Big Brother. It’s a fraternity thing. Once you get a bid… I mean, once they officially invite you to be a member, they assign someone in the frat to be your mentor, kind of. And that’s who Hawthorn was for Al.” I file that info away in the cobweb-covered section of my brain reserved for social intelligence. “Okay, so Alkaline… wants to be your mentor?” Woody chuckles at a joke I definitely didn’t mean to make. “Hardly. He’s a business major, y’know? All party, all the time. His dad owns some big marketing firm too, so he’s all set for work after graduation already. He just wants another version of Hawthorn to go crazy with for his last semester, not… me.” “Yeah, I know the feeling,” I say — and somehow it’s easy to say it to Woody, to be honest about how I felt last night and now and every day since I got to college. I don’t feel like I have to impress him, and I feel like what would impress other people wouldn’t work on him. Probably because it wouldn’t work on me either. “I mean, Source is cool, I think, and most of the other guys seem fine. I just… I don’t know if I’m their type, I guess.” Woody pauses mid-bite, sandwich halfway between his mouth and the table. “You gonna keep rushing?” I sigh, and tell him the truth again. “I don’t know. I really don’t –” “Please keep rushing.” That wasn’t implication, or me trying to read someone else’s thoughts or guess what they wanted without them saying it. Woody’s dropped his sandwich and leaned towards me, his voice and face and even the tension in his shoulders all tinted with the same shade of quiet desperation. “Dude, I… I have no idea what I’m doing,” he says, with the speed and shakiness of someone speaking straight from the unfiltered heart. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to act or who I’m supposed to be at these things, and literally the only time I felt halfway normal last night was when we were hanging out together. And I know we just met and I’m putting way too much pressure on you, but… I can’t do this alone. And between the two of us, it seemed like we kind of had it figured out, so…” He sinks back into his seat, lips tight and face turning pink. “Sorry,” he mutters. “That was a lot. Never mind.” “No, it’s fine, it’s…” I don’t really know what to say, but suddenly I want more than anything else to figure it out. “It was good having someone to talk to. To… feel normal around.” There’s another pause, longer and awkwarder than the last. I guess Woody’s still recovering from his outburst. I know I would be — and I guess knowing that, more than anything else, is what finally gets me to nod. “All right,” I tell him. “I’ll keep trying. At least one more night.” Woody blows out a sigh and grins, meeting my eyes just long enough for me to know how much effort it took for him to do it. “Thanks, man,” he says.  “And one night’s all I could really ask for anyway. They make first cuts after tonight.” I blink at him as he takes another bite of his sandwich. “First what?” “‘irst ‘uts,” he mumbles, before putting a finger up and swallowing. “Sorry,” he continues. “Hawthorn told me about it. The first couple KNZ events are public, then after that you have to get invited. The brothers text people, or DM them or whatever, if they want ‘em to keep coming out.” My throat was already dry from dehydration, but somehow it’s even drier now. “Huh,” I mumble, folding my hands under the table so they don’t start shaking above it. “So, um… all frats do that?” “I don’t think all of them do,” Woody says, focusing on his chips instead of all the color draining from my face. “But KNZ does. They have this whole system,  like, seeing what guys are like in public and then whether they’re cool in private.” He looks up as he slots a few chips into his mouth, and stops chewing once he sees my expression. “I-It’s not a super formal thing, though,” he adds after quickly swallowing. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.” Right. We’ll be fine. It’s just a casual, informal popularity contest where I’m going against frat stars and party animals. My picked-last-for-dodgeball, straight-edge-from-birth, once-got-uninvited-from-a-birthday-party-at-the-actual-party ass will be just – “Hey.” I blink and look up, and Woody’s looking straight back at me, with a firmness in his voice I haven’t heard from him before. “We’ll be fine,” he says. “You helped me, I’ll help you. I don’t know all the guys, but I know some of them. I’ll introduce you tonight.” I don’t want him to. I want to flip the table and scramble out the window above me and go hide in the woods where there are no humans to see me or think about me or decide they think I’m a hopeless loser. But he wants to, and he’s my friend. So I steady myself as best I can and nod again. “You better make me look good, then,” I reply, hands still wringing in my lap. “Lie if you need to. Say I’m rich or something.” Woody laughs. “You’re rushing a frat, they’re already assuming you’re rich,” he replies. Then he glances at the clock on the wall, and his eyes go wide as he scrambles to pile what’s left of his lunch back onto his tray. “Oh shit, I gotta go. Keep forgetting there isn’t a bell for classes. You know where the KNZ thing is tonight?” “Upper Crust, eight o’clock,” I say absentmindedly, feeling like I’m forgetting something — which of course, I am. I still don’t have Woody’s phone number. And I’m about to ask him for it, but he beats me to it. “You on Eris?” he asks me as he stands up. “Uh… yeah,” I say. “SuperMashBro-five-four-two-nine. Same thing on JoyBox Live, but with just a five on the end.” “Okay, cool. I’ll send you a friend request later. If you get something from ImperatorWoody, that’s me.” “Cool. I’ll… see you later tonight, then?” “Yeah, for sure.” And then, with a nod and a little half-wave, he turns around and hurries toward the dining hall’s exit, dropping his tray off at the return station just before he shoulders his way through the double doors leading outside. I’m all by myself at my table again — but not quite alone either. I’ll get a message from Woody on Eris soon, and get lunch with Sweetie Belle tomorrow. I’ll be IRL social. I’ll have friends. And all I have to do to keep them is the single scariest thing I can imagine. In my sweatpants pocket, my phone buzzes. I just got a text message, and it’s not from Woody or Sweetie. Hi, honey! How was the party last night? I hope you’re not too tired for school today! <3 Okay, at this point, God and/or Devil, it feels a little personal.