I'm exhausted. Working at the Tresidder Memorial Union café is, without a doubt, a full-time job, even though I'm technically only hired part-time. The problem is that when I leave here, my life doesn't stop. My studies at Stanford are teetering because my parents can barely afford the tuition. They cover the basics, but books, supplies, and anything extra are on me. Between classes, endless shifts serving lattes to students who seem to have no worries, and nights studying until my eyes burn, I don't have enough time to keep up with all my academic responsibilities. Still, I try, even though I feel trapped, like there's no room to breathe.
When I finally serve the last cup of Americano espresso and take off my coffee-scented apron, I feel a small wave of relief. It's time to rush back to campus, hoping to make it to my next class and dreaming that, at least in the afternoon, I'll get a moment to rest in my dorm at Stern Hall. That fleeting thought is what keeps me afloat.
I step out of the café and breathe in the fresh campus air. I walk along the palm-lined paths, the California sun beating down hard. In the distance, the sand-colored buildings with their red-tiled roofs and pristine arches look like they belong on a postcard. Everything at Stanford is perfect, as if someone polishes the campus every morning. But all I can think about is getting to the School of Humanities and Sciences on time for my next class.
I'm not exactly thrilled about it: "Philosophical Thought." Two hours of listening to the professor ramble on about Kant and Nietzsche, as if their ideas are going to pay off my debts. I walk while mentally preparing myself, my backpack carrying more exhaustion than books. Suddenly, a blond guy in a red polo shirt bumps into me so hard I nearly fall. He doesn't even turn around, let alone apologize.
"Hey, watch where you're going, jerk!" I yell, furious.
The guy keeps walking without stopping, too rushed to pay me any attention, though I'm sure he heard me. I brush the dust off my shirt in frustration and check the time on my phone. Damn it, the bell's about to ring. I hurry across campus, dodging bikes that zip by and groups of students laughing as if life were an endless picnic. For me, every minute feels like a weight on my shoulders.
I get to class late. I slip into Dinkelspiel Auditorium, and Jackson is already there, waiting for me with that look of his that's half patience, half mockery. I slide into the seat next to him, where Julie is too.
It's funny to think that these two ended up being my best friends, especially after the mess of freshman year. I hooked up with Julie, and she fell for me in a way I didn't see coming. If I'm honest, it's not entirely surprising; I've always known I turn heads. The dark hair I got from my mom, the green eyes from my dad. They say I look like my grandfather in his teens, and from the photos, the man was a heartthrob. But Julie never clicked for me. Breaking things off with her was tough, not because I didn't care about her, but because it forced me to confront something I already knew: I'm not into women. I'm openly gay, and though I don't fit the stereotype some people expect—I love soccer, skateboarding, and hanging out with friends—I'm completely comfortable with my sexuality. It doesn't define who I am, and I don't need to shout it for it to be true.
****
I don't know when it happened, but suddenly a female voice snaps me out of my daze.
"Seriously, you fell asleep again?" Julie says, her tone teetering between scolding and laughter.
I'm wiped out. I was up at the crack of dawn to open the café at Tresidder, and now I'm stuck in class. Last night, I was up until three in the morning trying to study, but between work and assignments, my brain is fried.
"Again? Studying late again?" Jackson asks, giving me that mix of disbelief and camaraderie he always has.
"Yeah, again. Lately, I'm spending way too much time working and barely have any left to study. It's definitely going to show in my grades," I reply, grabbing my backpack, which feels heavier from exhaustion than from books.
We leave Dinkelspiel Auditorium together. As we walk along the campus paths, I flip through half-read notes and head toward the CoHo, the student café in the heart of campus, to grab a coffee. Ironic, I know. After spending hours serving lattes, the last thing I want is more coffee, but I need it to avoid collapsing before I get to my dorm. That fleeting thought gives me a tiny push forward.
"You need a girlfriend," Jackson says with a mischievous grin, shooting a glance at Julie.
She rolls her eyes, her face showing something I can't quite read, as usual. Julie's an enigma, even after everything that went down between us.
"I meant boyfriend," Jackson corrects himself, practically laughing.
Julie looks down, sighs, and tosses out a line dripping with restrained reproach: "Well, how was I supposed to know you were gay? When we had our thing, I had no way of knowing."
I look her straight in the eye, a mix of discomfort and exhaustion washing over me, but also the need to set things straight.
"Of course you couldn't have known," I say. "But you also couldn't expect every gay guy to be a walking rainbow covered in glitter. Not all of us have to be a caricature or act like a woman to be gay."
I pause for a second, letting my words sink in, then continue with conviction: "I'm pretty comfortable being a guy. I like guys, that's it. And I already apologized for what happened, Julie."
I enjoyed our fling, I won't lie, but I'm gay. Sex with women doesn't do it for me. With guys… it's different. It lets me be myself. I can't deny it, or lie to myself, or to anyone else.
Julie's undeniably attractive. Those hips could drive anyone wild… anyone except me. Her fiery red hair and impeccable style make her stand out—she always knows how to highlight what's already eye-catching. Jackson's not bad either. If he weren't my friend, I might've made a move on him. But that's not happening; I never mix friendship with anything else, and I'm pretty sure he's straight.
"So, what's your plan now?" Julie asks with a hint of concern. "Sleep for a couple of hours and then work another eleven-hour shift? Or wake up at dawn again?"
"What else can I do?" I reply, drained. "I barely have enough money to live and buy books. Work's the only thing keeping me at Stanford. My parents can't cover everything. I'm not like those damn rich kids from Alpha Centauri."
I say it with a mix of anger and resignation that's been hanging over me lately. I've never been into fraternities or their ridiculous rituals. I'm not interested in jumping through their stupid hoops to earn a spot, and most of their members are a collection of insufferable snobs. Like that jerk who crashed into me on campus: Noah Whitman. I recognized him instantly. He's the kind of guy who, since freshman year, hooked up with anyone who crossed his path. Always with the hottest girls, and yet everyone—guys and girls alike—wanted him. I won't lie: he's good-looking. Blond, blue eyes, with that rich-kid vibe that screams he can get whatever he wants. If things were different, I might've imagined something more than a campus collision. But guys like him? Not my type.
"How's it going with exams?" Jackson asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
"Honestly, a disaster. I haven't had time to study. I think I need tutoring, but it's crazy expensive. I can't afford it with my paycheck," I say, shrugging.
"I heard some fraternities offer free private tutoring," Jackson suggests, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Hard pass. I'm not into their vibe," I reply with a smirk.
"Maybe you should've thought twice. You had a chance to join one… what was it called? Delta something?" Julie says, her tone a mix of teasing and pity.
"Delta Sigma Phi," I say, rolling my eyes. "But their initiation challenge was stealing a foreign language professor's underwear. I'm not doing that kind of nonsense. It's pathetic."
"I would've done it," Jackson says, laughing. "All to see those panties, right?"
"I don't know if I'd fit in with them. The last time I went to one of their parties, I got drunk and I'm pretty sure I kissed someone's girlfriend," I say, half-joking, though it's true.
"Seriously?" Julie asks, surprised.
"Yup. Plus, even if I wanted to join a frat, there's a problem. One: you have to pay semester dues. They're not outrageous, but with my cost of living, I can't swing it. Two: all the fraternities have already closed their recruitment cycles. So I can't exactly beg for 'help' to get out of this exhausting misery."
****
As we keep walking toward Stern Hall, a lively buzz stops us before we reach the dorm. A big crowd of students is gathered in White Plaza, the heart of campus where something's always going down: protests, club fairs, or, like now, a frat spectacle. Curiosity gets the better of us, and we inch closer. To my dismay, it's the Alpha Centauri crew—the infamous fraternity everyone's obsessed with joining.
"All right, all right…" a guy's voice booms over the crowd, clearly used to being the center of attention. "As you all know, last semester's recruitment cycle didn't exactly go as planned."
The crowd lets out giggles and murmurs. I recognize the speaker: it's Morgan, the president of Alpha Centauri, all charisma and confidence, rocking a tight T-shirt that practically screams, "Check out my biceps." Classic. I keep listening, more out of morbid curiosity than genuine interest.
"Because of that," Morgan continues, raising his hands to hush the whispers, "we've decided to reopen recruitment season." The crowd buzzes again. "Yes, you heard that right. We know we have certain standards for joining, but since we still have open spots after our top candidates ended up, uh… indisposed at an off-campus party—" he pauses, letting the laughter die down, "which, of course, was totally not our fault, we're giving anyone here a chance to apply today. You'll go through the initiation rite, and you could become part of our prestigious brotherhood."
I can't believe it. Seriously, five minutes ago we were trashing fraternities and their nonsense, and now these guys show up with this circus? The irony makes me laugh internally, though on the outside, I just roll my eyes.
"Seriously?" I say, crossing my arms. "These clowns? I'd rather sell a kidney than go through their stupid rituals."
Julie lets out a giggle but glances at the crowd with a hint of curiosity.
"I don't know, Ethan. Maybe it's not such a bad idea," she says. "You said you needed help with tutoring, and they've got resources. Plus, not all of them are that bad."
"Like they're some gift from the heavens, right?" Jackson chimes in, throwing his hands up like he's presenting a Broadway show.
"Oh, please," I shoot back, dripping with sarcasm and exhaustion. "They're a bunch of smug rich kids who think the world revolves around them. Come on, guys, let's get out of here before I'm tempted to chuck a coffee at them." I start walking away.
But as we move on, I can't shake a tiny pang of curiosity. What if Jackson's right? Not that I want to join Alpha Centauri, but if they've got free tutoring or some kind of help… No way. I'm not stooping to their level.