One time, when I was about five years old, I almost drowned in a public pool. I’d gotten good at “swimming” — bouncing my feet off the bottom of the pool and floating forward a few feet while splashing as much as I could — and I didn’t know the water got way deeper if I bounced a bit too far in one direction, and my mom looked away just long enough to miss me stretching my toes out for the pool bottom and not finding it until my head was a foot under the surface.

I didn’t realize what was happening at first, that all the air I’d just blown out in big surprised bubbles had started a timer that would end everything if it ticked down to zero. I remember my chest feeling tight, and my head starting to spin, and then a giant splash as the lifeguard jumped in next to me and pulled me up to the surface, my mom right behind him about as frantic as I can remember ever seeing her. And in the moment, I just stared back and giggled at the sudden attention, squirming to get out of the lifeguard’s grip so I could get back to swimming.

It wasn’t until later, after I spent the afternoon seated firmly on a deck chair under Mom’s obsessively watchful eye, and after we went home and got cleaned up and I went to bed for the night, that it all hit me: that was almost it. That was almost what happened in movies when cartoon houses caught on fire and cartoon lions didn’t get back up, why we’d had an old cat named Butterball when I was really little and then suddenly we didn’t, what would someday happen to my mom and my dad and my big brother and me.

I didn’t sleep at all that night. I clutched a little stuffed tiger I’d gotten from the zoo earlier in the summer, and I stared at my night light until its glow burned itself into the backs of my eyes, and I only nodded off later once I’d gotten up and had breakfast and nestled so hard into my mom’s side on the couch that she couldn’t have pried me loose with a crowbar. And I didn’t get back into a pool until fifth grade, when a splash from a boy I didn’t like and a giggle from a girl I did got me right back out.

I didn’t drown, obviously, and I don’t really know what dying feels like. But I know what starting to die feels like, the very first moments when your skin crawls and your heart pounds and your whole body knows something is very fucking wrong. It feels like the pool being deeper than you thought, that step being a little lower than it looked — like standing between speeding cars and a gentrified pizza joint, where a cluster of cleaned-up frat brothers are all waiting patiently to be disappointed in me.

On the bright side, it’s very unlikely that going to this rush event will actually, literally kill me. But based on how close I feel to drowning in bone-dry winter air right now, it’s about to get really goddamn close.

I should’ve already gone in, technically. I was supposed to show up at eight P.M. sharp, and according to my phone screen — bereft of message notifications from Source or Woody or even my mom — it’s 8:07 right now and steaming towards 8:08. Maybe I could make a joke about musical 808s, say I was waiting for the rhythm to be right before I arrived. No one would get it. I’d still be late anyway.

At least I brought a coat tonight, so I’m only shivering from fear instead of cold. And I’m just wearing a polo shirt under it instead of a button-down and tie, so I can tug nervously at my collar without ruining the whole outfit. Silver linings, y’know? Little shiny bits of metal, shaped into pointy little bullets aimed right at my head.

I can’t even see Woody in there through the windows, or anybody I recognize from last night. Would they even recognize me? Can I just leave now and pretend this never happened, and go right back to being lonely forev–

I don’t scream, to my credit. Not even a little “god dammit I got snuck up on again” yelp. I do jump fully off the ground, though, and almost stumble backwards into the street once I land. To his credit, Woody grabs me and steadies me before I do.

“Sorry,” he says, chuckling sheepishly as he slips his gloved hand back into his coat pocket. He’s got a thick wool cap on that covers the top of his ears, with just an inch or so of green hair tailing out from under it. “You just get here?”

“Y-Yeah,” I reply, trying to meet his eyes and not entirely failing. I catch a glimpse of his expression before I go back to staring at my shoes — rosy-cheeked, smiling, happy to see me. I think that’s what it was, anyway. Looking back up and double-checking feels way beyond me right now.

As Woody trails up, I manage to glance up again, and I realize — watching him flex his hands inside his coat pockets and shift from one foot to the other — that he doesn’t know what he was just doing.

“I thought you might not come,” he mumbles. “‘Cause I was weird earlier, and…”

“No, you were fine,” I tell him. “I said I would come, so… here I am.”

“Here we both are,” Woody says with an odd little laugh. “Guess we oughta go in, then.”

Neither of us move. Woody blows out a sigh that clouds in front of his mouth like a thought bubble in a comic strip. If it were one, I’m pretty sure I know what it’d say.

“It can’t be that bad,” Woody says, more to himself than me. “It’s just a pizza party, it’s like… elementary school stuff. Right?”

“Yeah. Easy. Just gotta stop thinking about it and go for it. Like… jumping in a pool.”

And drowning, I want to say. Sometimes when you jump into pools, you fucking drown, Woody.

But then again, sometimes there’s a lifeguard — a friend to pull you out if your feet can’t reach the bottom. And looking at Woody now, I realize he’s not going to jump in unless I do too. When I put it like that, I don’t really have any other choice.

“Hopefully the water’s nice,” I say firmly, and despite the pit that’s still in my stomach and the pressure around my chest, I force myself forward towards the restaurant’s entrance and nod for Woody to follow me — and after a moment, he does.

Maybe it will be just a pizza party. Maybe this is all a huge mistake, and I’ll trudge back to my dorm later tonight and lie awake all night agonizing over it. But if I leave now, I’ll definitely agonize over it later, and if I don’t, maybe I won’t have to. It’s worth a try, right? With Woody here with me, I feel like it is.

For about five seconds. Then the restaurant’s door clatters shuts behind us, and the sound of radio pop music washes over me along with the body heat of the massive KNZ crowd, and my hands start shaking again.

“Are you wearing a tie?” I ask him — but I hardly needed to, between the Windsor knot I can see poking out from the top of his coat and the petrified expression on his face.

“I thought that’s what ‘business casual’ meant!” he hisses. “I… shit. Shit.”

This time, Woody jumps halfway out of his skin right along with me as a hand claps onto each of our shoulders. The new voice and hands both belong to Source, who’s standing behind us with his brow raised and his rhetorical question still lingering in the air.

“N-No!” Woody sputters. “I mean… I don’t know. Maybe. I wore a tie.”

“I see that,” Source replies, trying — but not that hard — to stifle a laugh. “Nice of you both to dress up on our account.”

Woody’s still rambling. “Sorry, I… m-my bad. We should… I can change, i-it’s not…”

“Dogwood. Buddy. Breathe. You’re fine,” Source assures him, before turning to me. “And speaking of fine, how are you feeling?”

Source looks up in thought for a moment, then shrugs. “Yeah, fair enough. Should’ve thought that one through. Any event, glad you’re alive, glad you’re here. Pizza’s on the tables in the back there, soft drinks from the bar if you want ‘em, and we’ve got the tab so feel free to hit it hard.”

I nod and swallow hard. Neither slows my heart down a single solitary beat. “Any last-minute advice?” I ask him. He shrugs again.

“Talk to everybody you can, and be yourself. Oh, and toss your coats over there. Don’t wanna get your tie all sweaty.”

Woody and I both get friendly pats on our respective backs, then Source saunters off and dissolves into the crowd. Woody looks like that little bit of physical contact just about folded him in half.

“This was a bad idea,” he wheezes. “We should leave. Can we leave? I wanna leave.”

Honestly, same. But now that we’re inside and Source has seen us, it feels like we’ve got too much social momentum going to quit now. Might as well hang on for the ride.

“Fuck.” Woody blows out a bracing sigh, then loosens his tie with one hand as he shrugs off his coat with the other. “Okay, so… who do you know already?”

Woody tosses his coat on the table Source showed us, and I do the same with mine as he stuffs his undone tie into his pants pocket. “Right,” he says, “All right. Let’s, uh…” He stands on his toes as he considers our options, then points at a tall guy with a beard and a baby-blue button-up on. “Over there. I think I remember that guy.”

I think I do too, actually — from early last night, around the kitchen table with ping-pong balls in his hands. Guess that’s as good a place to start as any. Woody and I make our way over together, and as we get closer I catch a bit of the conversation our target’s already part of. Or rather, based on the look he’s giving the wavy-haired kid doing all the conversating right now, having inflicted on him.

“– so we got fucking blasted, man, just annihilated. Had the cops come and everything. It was fuckin’ lit. Best night of high school, no cap.”

“Nice,” the brother intones, sipping at a can of soda and looking like he really wishes it was beer. “You get arrested?”

“Nah,” the wavy-haired kid — another rush, I guess — says, grinning proudly. “I was too fast. My boy wasn’t, though. Think he’s still on probation.”

“Sucks for him,” the brother says, face unreadable behind his can. All of a sudden, I feel like Woody might’ve had the right idea a moment ago. My competition among the other rushes is apparently all the guys in high school who never gave me the time of day, let alone booze at a party that the cops came to. If going that hard before college isn’t enough to impress this guy, what possible chance do I have?

I guess I’m about to find out, because he’s seen me and Woody and — almost eagerly — looped us into the conversation.

“Oh, what’s up, party animal?” he says, chuckling at me before nodding at Woody. Party animal? “Good to see you out, Woody.”

“Likewise,” Woody answers. “Uh, Button, this is Mandarin. He was… is two years behind Hawthorn. Mandarin, this is, um… this is Button.”

“We did?” I ask before I can stop myself — before the dots connect in my head, and numbing horror starts to spread through my chest.

“Oh yeah. About…” He makes a pinching gesture, index finger and thumb held two inches apart. “... here in Al’s whiskey bottle.”

It’s not a feeling anymore. Woody was right. We should’ve left. “Oh… s-sorry, I was, um…”

“What, you black out last night?” the other rush butts in. Unlike Mandarin’s, his grin comes off as more of a leer. He recognizes me too — as every kid he used to push past in the hallway and flick hornets at during class.

“Pretty sure blacking out on purpose is just alcoholism,” Mandarin cracks. Then he nudges me on the shoulder with the fist his soda can is clutched in. “I’m just razzin’ you, man. It’s all good. Nice to soberly meet you.”

“Y-You too.” The other rush is still half-leering. Should I loop him back in too? “Did I meet you last night too?” I ask him.

“Bro, I don’t know,” he says — looking at Mandarin as he answers instead of me. “I was faded too. Sick party, by the way. You guys go way harder than the other frats.”

“Don’t let the Pikes hear you say that,” Mandarin shoots back, before focusing on me and Woody again. “That’s one good review, though. How about you two? We livin’ up to the hype yet, Woody?”

“Okay, so three stars out of five. I’ll take it. Button, what’s your one-night verdict?”

“Um… best party of the semester so far?” I tell Mandarin — which is technically true, and also seems to be an answer he appreciates.

“Oh, you’re gonna be a PoliSci major for sure,” he says with a smile and a nod. “You should meet Case once he gets here. You’ll be insufferable together. Meantime, I’ma hit the pizza table, so catch you guys around, yeah?”

“L-Later,” Woody says as Mandarin departs, leaving me and him standing awkwardly with the other rush — whose name, I realize, I don’t even know. I’m about to ask him when I notice he’s glaring at me.

“Fucking dorks,” he mutters, before stalking off towards the bar. I stare after him, then look at Woody, who looks just as confused and chastened as I feel. What did we do? Interrupt his conversation? Exist?

I can’t exactly blame him. But something Mandarin said is echoing in my head: you should meet Case. I haven’t heard that name before, but I could tell from how Woody reacted to it that he does. I don’t want to force him to stay, but he did promise to introduce me to people — plural, not singular.

“Oh… h-he’s the president,” Woody manages to say. “Of the fraternity. This chapter, I mean. But I don’t think he’s here, so –”

“Oh God,” Woody whispers, as I think more or less the same thing. Alkaline’s wearing a wrinkled button-up tonight that’s open halfway down his oversized chest, and has a flask in hand that he takes a pull from as he grabs Woody and drags him towards a cluster of brothers and rushes, none of whom have faces I recognize even in a foggy-blackout-memory way.

Nobody notices me at all until I wedge myself into the circle next to Woody, whose desperate expression got me to follow him even though every part of my body wants to sprint for the exit. “And Button,” Alkaline says, in a tone somewhat between suspicion and surprise. “Couldn’t stay away, huh?”

Last night, I was so drunk I barely understood a word Alkaline said to me. Now, though, I’m dry as a desert, and I understand him way too well.

“Guess not,” I weakly reply, before gesturing to his flask. “Think I’ll skip that this time, though.”

“Well, this is actual good shit, so yeah, you will,” he says, putting on a grin way too late that sticks around way too briefly. “None for you either, Woody. Gotta play fair, y’know?”

“S-Sure,” Woody stammers. “W-We were kinda on our way out anyway, so–”

“Aw, c’mon, Woody, don’t let this guy talk out of a good time. You gotta make the rounds, man, it’s rush. I saw you met Mandarin, that’s Sloop…”

Alkaline rattles off the names of every older-looking guy in the circle, skipping past all the wide-eyed rushes who seem unsure what to make of any of this.

“And that’s Button. The kid who blacked out last night… and that’s basically all I know about him.” Alkaline turns to me. “Who are you, anyway? What are you into?”

It’s like a mirror image of last night: Alkaline all over Woody, Woody looking frantically to me for help, and everyone else staring at me like jury members deciding on the method for my execution. And instead of drunken courage, all I have right in me right now is regular old fear — the same weakness in my legs and fluttering in my chest I know from every gym class and school dance and social experience of my life.

“I, uh…” I start to say, but I don’t know how to finish the thought of, “I’m gonna abandon you now because I’m a fucking coward, Woody” in a way that sounds less pathetic than it is. “Y’know, I…”

“Okay, so into parties, not into talking,” Alkaline says. A few of the brothers around us chuckle. Each little laugh feels like a giant knife plunged into my hammering heart.

I don’t fit here — like a piece from the wrong puzzle, taking up space that was never mine and bending painfully to occupy it anyway. I know it, Alkaline knows it, everyone in this whole restaurant knows it, and I’ve been kidding myself thinking I could fake it long enough that it wouldn’t matter.

And now… what do I do now? Now that I’ve missed every opportunity I had to save myself from this exact situation playing out exactly this way? Source’s advice echoes in my head again: be yourself. Is that what I should do, Source? Is that what anybody in your whole frat wants from me?

Of course it fucking isn’t. But there’s a void in my gut that’s getting bigger, and rising into my throat, and driving me towards putting an end to all this one way or another. Be myself, huh, Source? Okay. Fine. My social life in college started with you. I can end it all by my fucking self.

“Actually, I’m not even into parties,” I say, trembling with adrenaline, barely getting enough air with each breath to keep saying things I shouldn’t. “I never went to any in high school, never got drunk, never even had a girlfriend. You know what I did instead? Ogres and Oubliettes. And not even in person! Over the Internet, with people I’ve never met in real life. Not even just playing, running games too. I’m running one right now, actually. So yeah, that’s what I’m really into: making shit up, and telling it to people I don’t know, and…”

I want to keep going, but my throat closes up before I can think of anything worse to say. So instead I stuff my hands in my pockets and stare at the floor, and try to blink back the prickling tears beading in my eyes until the silence is suddenly, jarringly broken.

I look up. The guy next to me — a rush about my height and age, baby-faced with navy-blue hair down to his shoulders — doesn’t look bemused or uncomfortable. “You’re running a game right now?” he adds, and I could almost mistake the hitch in his voice for… excitement.

“Y… Yeah” I say. “And… not technically running it right now. I mean, we took a break over the holidays, but…”

“No shit?” It’s one of the brothers this time — Sloop, I think. He looks interested too. “Fifth edition?”

“Uh… five-E as the base, yeah, but it’s actually my own campaign. Wrote a few modules and made some –”

Now the frat guy is name-dropping an O&O podcast that I’ve literally never heard anyone mention in person before. I don’t know what’s happening right now. I think I might’ve blacked out again.

“Yeah, he got half the frat into it,” another brother adds. “It’s better than I thought it’d be.”

“That’s dope, though,” the first brother — Sloop, I guess — says. “Fucking impossible to find a good DM.”

“Man, if you’re a DM that exists, you’re good. Especially if you’re homebrewing on top of that.”

The only answer I can give to that is a shrug — and, before I can stop it, a grin. This can’t be happening. In a weird way, I don’t want to believe it’s happening. There’s just no way that, in any version of any universe, I just impressed a group of hard-partying popular guys by telling them I play tabletop RPGs. This isn’t how the world works. It’s not how I knew this was supposed to go.

“Welp, guess the Council of Nerds is in session,” Alkaline interjects as he bumps Woody on the shoulder. “Come find me when you get bored.”

“Sure,” Woody says, without even really looking at him. He’s looking at me instead — eyes wide, mouth hanging open, like he just saw me crit my way out of an impossible encounter. Which, I guess, I did. Alkaline glances at me, then shrugs and sighs as he peels off, pulling from his flask and pulling his phone out simultaneously. Everyone else stays right where they are.

“I’m Crescent, by the way,” the navy-haired kid says, extending a hand that I shake once I look his way. “I was in A/V Club in high school. Talk about a Council of Nerds.”

“Button,” I reply. “And hey, you kept the lights on. Someone’s got to.”

He laughs, and I laugh too, and just like that I’m part of the group. Exactly like I didn’t plan and would have never thought to expect. And since I’m already in over my head, I guess there’s nothing left to do but keep swimming.

===

For the first time in my life, time I spend in the middle of a crowd of people passes quickly. After he quizzes me about my homebrew campaign and we swap stories about brutal dice rolls we’ve had to play through, Sloop introduces me to a junior he calls his “Little” — I guess to go with Sloop being the “Big” — who then introduces me to his Little, and before I know it I’ve spent two hours learning names and telling jokes and carrying on honest-to-God conversations.

It still sort of feels like I’m dreaming, like I’m standing on a particularly plush rug that’s gonna get yanked out from under me the moment I look away. Sure, I’ve held my own chatting about O&O and movies and, with Crescent in particular, running Fate 2 dailies with Woody later — but all told, I’ve only really talked to a dozen of what has to be at least forty KNZ brothers who showed up tonight. Maybe the rest of them are more like Alkaline, who’s spent the whole event buried in his flask and phone, ignoring the other rushes and especially me and Woody just like we’ve been ignoring him.

Actually, more than ignoring anybody, Woody’s kind of just been following me, answering questions he’s been asked directly but otherwise letting me do the talking for both of us. Maybe that’s another thing I should’ve worried about: making sure he was included. Maybe the brothers noticed I wasn’t doing enough to help my friend, and this was all a test I didn’t realize I was failing.

I shake my head and sip the soda I just got from the bar. Or maybe, I tell myself, as I watch Woody have a totally normal conversation with a couple brothers he knew from Hawthorn’s time here, you’re overthinking things again. Wouldn’t be the first time. Also wouldn’t necessarily be wrong, but that’s the thing: I don’t know. I keep thinking I do and then quickly learning I don’t, and yet here I am, finding new things to worry about when I really should know better by now. I don’t know why I’m like this. It’s probably something the frat brothers noticed too.

At the very least, one’s definitely noticed I’m alone by the bar, because he’s coming over towards me with an empty cup in hand. He signals the bartender for a refill, then flicks his gaze my way as he leans forward, elbows propped casually on the bartop.

“I think so,” is the most honest answer I can give him. “Had some good conversations. About, uh… stuff I wasn’t expecting to talk about here. Nerdy stuff, really.”

The brother shifts a bit — he’s connected my face to a name he seems to have heard already. “Oh yeah. Button, right?”

“That’s me,” I say, sticking a hand towards him that he grasps without repositioning against the bar. One upside to overthinking stuff, I suppose: I picked up on the firm-handshake-introduction part of all this quickly. “I don’t think I’ve met you, though.”

And now I have a face to connect to that name, and a little spike of anxiety to go with it. Every chill conversation I’ve had tonight was just a warmup. Now I’m about to go up against the end-of-level boss.

“Glad you could too,” Case evasively replies. “Heard you’ve been hanging out with Woody.”

“Oh, yeah. Met him last night. He’s… I think he’s cool. It’s nice to have somebody else here who’s, uh…” I was about to say “like me,” and catch myself just in time. “... y’know, a friend. Some support, I guess.”

Case nods. “Not a bad move. Rush can be pretty intimidating alone. How you feelin’ about it, though?”

About what? My chances of getting invited back? My future as someone who might actually have IRL friends? “I… don’t know,” I say, choosing each word carefully. “It hasn’t really been anything like I expected.”

Source’s advice does another lap around my head: be yourself. Unlike earlier, I feel a little better about taking it this time — because hey, it’s the final boss, right? No sense saving anything for later.

“To hate it, honestly,” I say. “You guys, frat stuff in general… I thought I’d never have a chance of fitting in. But I came out and tried it anyway, and it’s been really fun. And I guess no matter what happens, whether I’m… I don’t know, cut out for being in a frat or not, I already met Woody and a bunch of other guys, and I got out of my dorm and did something. I guess no matter what, that’s good.”

Case is quiet for a bit — a long enough bit that the spiny ball of anxiety in my chest starts swelling again. “Well, I appreciate your honesty,” he finally says, a completely unreadable smile flashing across his face as he does. “Thanks for coming out.”

“Thanks for having me,” I reply, doing my best to smile back. “Um, so… for the rest of rush, it’s invite-only, right?”

“That’s right,” Case says. “But in your case, Button, I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” He gets his refill from the bartender, then gives me a final nod. “Good meeting you.”

And then he leaves, and I’m alone at the bar again, and that ball of anxiety I mentioned? It’s more of a naval mine now, tethered to the rock in my stomach and primed to explode in the base of my throat.

I wouldn’t worry too much about it? What the fuck does that mean? Don’t worry because I’m definitely getting invited to the next event, or don’t think I have a prayer of ever seeing any of these guys again? He couldn’t have said anything that would’ve made me worry more!

More caffeine sure isn’t going to calm me down, but at this point I can either keep drinking my soda or let the cup fall out of my trembling hand. So I choose the former, and once the cup’s empty I set it down on the bar so I can grip that bar’s rim with both hands. I’m overthinking this. I have to be. I always, always do.

But knowing that is one thing, and stopping it is something I’ve never once managed. Despite everything, I’m slipping underwater again — and even Woody ending his conversation and joining me at the bar isn’t enough to pull me completely out.

“Sorry I left you alone, got caught up over there,” he says. “Was that Case you were talking to?”

“Oh.” He stares for a second, watching me quietly hyperventilate. “Do you wanna leave?”

It’s all I can manage to stride quickly towards the coat table rather than sprint. Once we’re outside, though, the frigid night air clears my head enough that I realize I probably should’ve checked in with Source at some point. In the few seconds I have before my fingers get too numb to type, I send him a text:

Hey, Woody and I are heading home. Fun night. Thanks for keeping me in the loop.

And as the message flits off through the black blanket of clouds overhead, I try as hard as I ever have in my life before not to overthink things. Maybe I thought all those conversations went well because they did go well. Maybe Source will tell me as much when he replies. Maybe I’m being stupid and way too hard on myself, and jumping into this proverbial pool with Woody tonight was brave and cool and unquestionably good.

No problem, glad you could make it out. I’ll let you know tomorrow if you’re cool enough to hang out with us. Doubt the answer will be much of a surprise, though.

On second thought, maybe that lifeguard when I was five should’ve just let me drown. Would’ve saved me a lot of stress in the long run.

Monophobia

by Aquaman

Chapter 5: Headed for the Stars