Jason, Pete, and Fred

1.

Abby and Jason Discuss the Night Before

"I can't believe you're still on this."

"What's not to believe, Abby? It was obvious to everyone."

"What was obvious to everyone?"

"The dude, trying to score. It was obvious. Everyone kept asking me, 'What's up with the dude?' nodding your way. I played your angle, though they didn't believe it either."

"Jamie being a friend from high school isn't 'an angle,' you creep. We were in chemistry together."

"So, he's queer."

"No." She giggled. "No, he's definitely not queer."

"Why 'definitely not,' like you're so sure?"

"Alright. So he's queer, Jay. Is that what will get you to shut up?

Jamie's queer, 'as a football bat' as you like to say."

"See, Abs, fact is, any dude's not gay's looking to score. Everyone'll tell ya. I'm not overreacting here, you know."

She was just about to tell him he was overreacting. Her leg was damp from resting against his. She scoonched closer to the wall, turned her head to face it. He propped up to face her.

"So you think this is me, overreacting again?"

"I think I need to leave. In fact, yes. Let me up, Jason."

The sheet was tucked in tightly on her side against the wall and his propped elbow had it pinned across her chest on his side of her, and there she lay strapped, as if on a psych ward gurney.

"Look, I've got everyone asking who the dude is, and there's the dude, his face buried in your ear; and, there's you, with a smile bright as the, as the damn Stroh's neon sign above your head, laughing and nodding, and tapping him and motioning his ear to your mouth to ask if he 'remembered the time when.' What's a guy to think, Abs?"

"A man might put down his darts for a few rounds to come scope it out for himself, Jay. He might shake hands, join the conversation, weigh the competition if there was any. A guy? He'd give beady eyeballs from afar, pound another draft, head-butt his teammates, and draw his own conclusions, like you did. Now let-me-up."

Her head flopped with each word. He really had her pinned.

"Okay, picture this then. I'm all cuddly with this girl —"

"— don't put me in your shoes, Jason Braswell. If you want me to yourself, take me on a date. A real date. Take me someplace that doesn't have a DJ, that doesn't check your ID at the door. I'm starting to feel like a groupie, like I'm supposed to give high-fives when you trip on twenties, whatever the hell that means."

"It's when you hit three —"

"— Jamie at least talked to me, Jason. And not only did he talk to me, he wasn't drinking, so I actually understood him over that P-Diddy crap, the third time they played him."

"Wasn't drinking? Maybe he is gay."

"Let. Me. UP!"

"What? Oh, come on, Abs! We went to dinner. I even had reservations."

"Jesus, Jay, we went to The Stuffed Mushroom. Decent restaurant, okay, until 10:00, when they move the tables. Toughest bar to get into, unless you eat there first. Ask everyone, they'll tell you. Your motives are all too clear, for Christ's sake."

"It's Sunday, Abigail. You really shouldn't talk like that."

"That's it." She found the strength.

The digital read 11:47. This was ridiculous. Abby McNeil had things to do, school for starters, and since she'd met Jay Braswell a month prior at Slammy's Halloween party she seemed to have placed that second.

Just like her, too, her housemates would tell you. Abby needs her a man.

2.

The Halloween Amoeba

Jason had broken free from the third head-hole of the queen-sized white sheet he shared with his two friends long enough to grab a Coke at the bar and to tickle Abby's interest.

"A guy who doesn't drink," she said. "How rare."

"I'm the driver," he said, nodding towards the two-thirds of his costume, now jerking about like bobble-heads on the dance floor, tripping over his share.

"I want to guess a ghost, but —"

"— an amoeba, darling. An amoeba. Those black things are vacuoles. Our legs are the, um, the flagella I guess."

"Right. And your heads?"

"They were to be the nuclei, but I see no major life functions being carried out now." The impaired, single-celled organism had engulfed a scarecrow.

"I'm Abby."

"Sean Reynolds, Abby. Pleasure." He held out his hand.

Sober, responsible, smart, and polite, all in the first two minutes, Abby thought. Guy sure wasn't saving himself.

She shook his hand, and his other brought out his ID. "Wanna show you something."

"It's okay, I believe you," she said, putting up both hands in surrender.

"No, just look at it. Really. There's something funny, you look closely enough."

Abby had a penlight on her keychain which she shone on the laminated card beneath the bar, because she knew how uncool the whole idea was, and she looked for something funny.

"Other than your middle name being 'Ernie' and that you're from, where?"

"Bailey's Crotch."

"Right. Well, that is funny."

"But that's not it."

Abby looked closer. "I'm obviously missing something."

"Yeah," he said casually, taking the card back. "That's the only thing sucks about the ID, the middle name and the place. Might have put 'Ernesto,' given a more Latino ring to it. And Bailey's Crotch really catches the eye, might cause a bouncer to linger a bit longer."

"So you're not that guy in the picture? Holy shit. Lemme see that again." She held the light closer this time, lowering her head closer to the bar and seeming to forget how uncool the whole scene was; but the bartender was across the way, busy prepping tequila shots for two obnoxious cavemen.

"Yeah, okay, I see it now. But wow, that's close. Man. Dead ringer. You know this guy?"

"Never met him. It just sorta came to me, a hand-me-down some random dude I met at a party. Gave him only twenty-five bucks, if you can believe that. It'll last me 'til I turn."

"Which'll be?"

"Over a year. I'm twenty in April, a sophomore at Brinkley."

"And your name, for real this time?"

"Jason Ottomar Braswell."

"Ottomar?"

"Yeah. Can't win there, can I?"

3.

The Game Called Punch

Abby McNeil dressed in clothes smelling like Marlboros and did a once-over in the bathroom that rivaled a gas station's. "Okay, I'm going," she called. "And you might want to get a plumber for that toilet."

"What'ja leave behind this time?" No response. "Abby?"

The front door shut like someone had a purpose. Son of a bitch.

As there were no more cool spots beneath the covers or on either side of the pillow and the mattress springs were identifying themselves, and his boxers and undershirt were warm and twisted and saggy, Jason Braswell decided he'd overdone bed.

Indeed, the toilet water was at high tide, a small plastic sailboat riding the slow whirlpool of regurgitated paper shreds. Jason peed tippy-toe into the sink, aiming for the hollow drain with the stopper long removed and running the water for not only the flush, but for the disguise, as if his two housemates might care. He squeezed the rolled-up bottom of a half-full, cap-less tube, and a thin line of blue toothpaste squiggled through a...