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I stopped an arm’s length from the piano, not wanting to encroach any further on their territory. I couldn’t help but agree with Charlie that my small-town rural white opinion was hardly relevant on this topic. “I don’t know,” I said.

  Charlie made an I-told-you-so gesture, but LA persisted. “But would it make you uncomfortable? As a white person?”

  I shrugged. “I guess I’d have to hear it.”

  Charlie groaned, and Cynic let out a bark of laughter. LA beamed and hopped down from the piano. With his typical exuberance, he delivered a comical scene from Act II in which his grandfather haggled with a shop owner, this time with a strong Japanese accent. Usually the scene made me smile, but now I was careful to keep my face neutral.

  “Well?” he asked at the end, tossing his fringe of black hair to the side. “Did that make you uncomfortable?”

  “A little,” I admitted.

  “Why?”

  “Because now I’m not sure if laughing at the jokes makes me look racist.”

  His face settled into a thoughtful frown, and he returned to his perch on the piano, legs swinging. Charlie looked vindicated, and I couldn’t help but feel a bit gratified that I’d pleased him.

  “Besides, LA,” he said, “if you do the accent, you’re going to end up with a bunch of white people quoting your show and thinking it’s okay for them to do the accent because you did.”

  “But I’m Japanese-American,” LA argued.

  “But you don’t have an accent,” Charlie returned.

  There was a pause, then Cynic put in, “I’m with Charlie. I hate it when white people use AAVE.”

  “But you don’t use AAVE,” LA pointed out. “You talk like a British schoolboy.”

  “I can code-switch,” Cynic said haughtily.

  After much deliberation, LA decided that he would do one show with the accent and one show without to gauge the audience’s reaction. “It’s a social experiment,” he insisted, and Charlie couldn’t argue with that. Ultimately, both shows were a huge success though the one with the accent did induce a more tense, somber atmosphere. Those who attended both were delighted by LA’s artistic choice, and it was the talk of the campus for a few days. Since Cynic was in the show, I sat next to Charlie in the front row. He watched the performance with rapt attention, stage lights glinting in his glasses, and I spotted him mouthing the words to every song. At the end of the final production, while LA and Cynic were swarmed by admirers, he stood up, slung his coat over his shoulder, half-turned back to me, and said, “You coming?” I didn’t know where he was going, but I went.

  It turned out there was a surprise party being thrown for LA back at his dorm. Charlie and I and a handful of thespians were going ahead to set up, while Cynic kept him distracted. It was a crisp fall night, and dead leaves skittered across the sidewalk as we walked, crunching under my boots. The thespians chattered amongst themselves, rehashing the highlights of the performance, while Charlie kept quiet and smoked. At one point, one of them accosted him and exclaimed, “That last song, Charlie! I cried! Seriously, you made me ruin my makeup. You have to warn me next time you write something like that.”

  Charlie smiled and murmured some platitude. After she left him alone, I asked, “You wrote the songs?”

  “It was a group effort,” he replied. “I’ve got the words, Cynic’s got the music and LA’s got the showmanship.”

  I was startled by the envy that pierced me suddenly. I had admired them all but never particularly envied them until that moment. I hadn’t had a best friend since high school, and I’d never had friends I could create things with. It dawned on me that I might have made a terrible mistake wasting two years in community college instead of committing to a four-year program from the start. Now I was a newcomer surrounded by people who had been bound together by years of shared experiences, who had settled comfortably into their friend groups and forged bonds that would last a lifetime. They might accept me, but I would never really be one of them. I had arrived too late.

  LA’s dorm was on the opposite side of campus from mine, a picturesque old stone building, no bigger than a large house, covered in creeping ivy. Yellow light blazed from every window, and music and laughter assaulted me in a wave as the front door swung open. The party had started prematurely, and everyone panicked for an instant when we walked in, thinking LA was with us and the surprise was ruined. Then they returned to their festivities while the thespians blithely joined in and Charlie, who seemed annoyed, began straightening up. I helped him set up the food and drinks in the kitchen and took out the recycling, which was already overflowing with bottles, while he attacked the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. Cynic texted Charlie when they were on their way, and everyone scurried about, turning off the lights and finding hiding places. Charlie and I crouched behind a couch close to the door, and for several long minutes, the only sound was his soft breathing next to my ear.

  Then the door opened and LA’s voice demanded, “Why’s it so dark?” The lights flicked on, and we all jumped out with a mixed, unintelligible shout. LA, ever the performer, tried to theatrically faint into Cynic’s arms, but Cynic was distracted by a girl handing him a drink and failed to catch him. LA recovered quickly and began making his rounds, hugging and thanking everyone, including me, though I tried to tell him I’d played no part in the arrangements. The party resumed with more gusto than ever. I’d been to parties on campus, but not with the performing arts students. They were a rowdy, show-offish crowd, talking over each other, vaunting their talents and scrambling for the spotlight. I drifted here and there, being sucked into vivacious conversations, accepting drinks when they were offered, playing the small-town boy dazzled by the virtuosity around me. And I was dazzled.

  LA was so mobbed by fans it was impossible to get anywhere near him, but I could hear his animated voice across the room as he reenacted certain parts of the show by popular request. I also heard others quoting the show and saw Charlie’s fear realized as white and other non-Asian people made heinous attempts at Asian-American accents. Cynic, fueled by a steady supply of drinks from various devotees, commandeered the piano in the common room and thoroughly captivated half the guests with his thunderous and haunting renditions of popular songs, which the vocalists present were eager to sing. After an evocative performance of Adele’s Set Fire to the Rain, he paused to gulp down a scotch and soda, and said, “Don’t tell my mother, but I fucking love white girl music.”

  Charlie kept to the sidelines, fielding compliments on the show while refusing to take any credit. He drew my eye occasionally, but I didn’t try to join him. I had no idea what I would say. He looked young compared to his peers, with a slight frame under his oversized sweater, sleeves rolled up so they bunched around his skinny forearms, and fine features half-hidden under his overgrown tangle of chestnut curls. I watched the way he coolly downed his drinks and wondered if he was even twenty-one. I knew he was a junior, but maybe he’d skipped a couple of grades as a kid—he seemed like that sort of genius. He was average height, but his slouched posture made him look shorter, especially when Cynic, who was well over six-foot, slung an arm around him, causing him to spill his drink, and dragged him over to the piano to sing Mad World.

  Charlie disappeared a while after that, and Cynic got too drunk to play anymore. He weaved about, drink in hand, cigarette hanging from his lip, somehow managing to appear imposing and sophisticated in spite of his condition. Our paths crossed in the hallway, and he captured me unexpectedly, throwing a languid arm around my shoulders and leaning on me. It was surprisingly easy to support his weight—he was tall but had a rangy build and most of his height was in his legs.

  “Hey,” he said, breathing smoke in my face. “Idaho, right?”

  “Iowa,” I corrected him. The whiskey on his breath was powerful enough to make me feel drunk.

  “Iowa,” he repeated, drawing out the word. I couldn’t tell if he was mocking my pronunciation or just slurring his words. “You’re not a freshman, are you? How
come I’ve never seen you until this semester?”

  “I’m a transfer student,” I told him.

  “Yeah? Where’d you transfer from?”

  “Community college,” I said with my usual candor, but I felt a prickle of self-consciousness. Somehow I suspected Cynic wouldn’t be nearly as enchanted by my humble background as the rest of the Weston student body.

  “Community college,” he said slowly, again leaving me unsure if he was mocking me. “And what did you learn in community college?”

  “Not much,” I admitted. “A bit of Spanish.”

  “Yeah?” He crooked a smile. “Tus labios se ven solitos. ¿Querrían conocerse con los míos?”

  I stared at him blankly. “Okay, I guess I didn’t learn anything.”

  He laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m full of shit. I only know pick-up lines.”

  I laughed too, disarmed. His face, coldly handsome from a distance, was more human up close where I could see the slight dimples in his cheeks and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. He released me with some difficulty, patted me on the shoulder and said, “Welcome to Weston. You should come by the Blackbird sometime—that’s where we hang out, Charlie, LA and me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to be sick. See you around, Indiana.”

  The party started winding down after that, and I decided it was time for me to make my exit. I stopped to say goodbye to LA, whose audience had dwindled, and he hugged me again—his head barely came up to my chin—and introduced me to the group as his friend, which warmed my heart. As I left, I spotted Cynic, apparently quite recovered, making out with a woman on the staircase.

  Chapter Three

  I didn’t take Cynic up on his invitation for a while because he’d been so drunk, I doubted he’d meant it or even remembered it. The Blackbird Café was the more upscale alternative to the cafeteria, and I had always avoided it due to the price. But one rainy afternoon as I was passing by, I glanced through the expansive front window and saw the three of them camped out in a booth, laptops, books and mugs scattered across the tabletop. The image was so picturesque and comforting, I couldn’t help but stop and stare for a minute. Then LA caught sight of me and waved, and I had no choice but to go inside. The atmosphere was vastly different from the hectic cafeteria, cozy and tranquil with the hum of murmured conversation, the tapping of fingers on keyboards, and the gentle clink of dishware.

  LA looked up as I approached and exclaimed, too loudly for the hushed environment, “Iowa, thank God you’re here. I have an audition tomorrow morning, and these two think they’re too cool to run lines with me.” He scooted over to make room for me, almost knocking over his mug in the process, and I slid into the booth beside him.

  Cynic, who was wearing sunglasses even though the day was gloomy and slumped in his seat, head resting on the back of the bench, said lazily, “Charlie thinks he’s too cool to run lines with you. I’m just too fucking hungover.”

  Charlie, who sat across from me, nose buried in a book I’d never heard of, responded, “I just don’t see why you need us to do it when you have dozens of overeager theater friends.”

  “Come on, you know how theater kids are,” LA complained. “They always try to make everything about themselves!”

  Cynic winced at his volume and brought a hand to his forehead. Charlie lowered his book to give LA a deadpan look. “I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

  “You’ll read with me, won’t you, Iowa?” LA coaxed, sliding a script in front of me. “It’ll be just like Shakespeare class.”

  “LA, I’m really not good at this,” I sighed. Somehow the prospect of reading in front of Cynic and Charlie seemed ten times more daunting than doing it in front of the entire Shakespeare class.

  “You don’t have to be good,” LA reassured me. “I’m the one who has to be good.”

  “At least let him get a drink first,” Cynic chimed in, coming to my rescue. “Put it on my tab. Last name’s Devereux. And while you’re at it, I could go for a Bloody Mary.”

  “Cyn, you know they don’t have spirits here,” Charlie reminded him. “Just wine and beer.”

  “I know. I came prepared this time.” He patted his breast pocket and I heard a faint slosh. “Just get me a Clamato, will you?”

  I complied, grateful for the distraction. It was too early for alcohol by my standards, so I ordered a coffee on Cynic’s tab. By the time I returned to the table with the burning mug in one hand and ice-cold glass of Clamato in the other, Cynic had sucked LA into a rousing debate about the racial dynamics in Hamilton, causing him to forget about running lines with me. That was the moment I made up my mind that I liked Cynic very much.

  “I’m just saying, it’s ridiculous to have a white man onstage yelling at a Black man for owning slaves.”

  “But Lin-Manuel Miranda isn’t white—he’s Puerto Rican.”

  “Whatever, he’s white-passing—like Charlie. It’s an important distinction. For example, Charlie can’t say the N-word, but I can.”

  “You’ve never said the N-word in your life.”

  “But I could if I wanted to.”

  “I don’t think you could pull it off.”

  “That’s racist, LA.”

  I sat back and enjoyed their antics while Charlie stuck earbuds in his ears in an attempt to drown them out. Outside, rain pattered on the window and students hurried past, unrecognizable under their umbrellas and hoods. I tried to imagine what we looked like to them, recalling the idyllic image I’d seen through the glass and inserting myself the way one might picture themself in a scene from their favorite movie. Eventually, the debate died out and LA remembered his upcoming audition. Cynic, having polished off his Bloody Mary, announced that he was going for a smoke and clambered across Charlie’s lap instead of asking him to move, which Charlie tolerated without comment.

  With Cynic gone and Charlie listening to music, I was much more comfortable running lines with LA. The play was a tempestuous romance written by one of the drama professors and was, I thought, rather terrible, but LA was determined to land the lead male role, Sam, which left me to play the part of Jessica. He read with such fervor that I was sure the people nearby thought we were having a real conversation and that we were involved in the most toxic relationship in campus history. Charlie had the grace to pretend he couldn’t hear us, but at one point when Sam accused Jessica of cheating and she threw a drink in his face—which I mimed with my empty mug—I caught him smiling.

  LA got the part, of course—he was unquestionably the best actor at Weston—and within the first couple weeks of rehearsal, he started dating the short, freckled redhead who played his love interest. At first I wondered how healthy this could be after watching the two of them scream at each other onstage for hours on end, but I found they were refreshingly affectionate offstage without being gratuitous.

  The Blackbird became my regular haunt, thanks to Cynic’s apparently limitless tab which kept me fueled with overpriced coffee, baked goods, sandwiches and, in the evenings, wine. I’d never had a rich friend before, and half the time I didn’t know whether I should believe the things that came out of his mouth. He was aware of this and used it to mess with me sometimes. Once, when I reproached him for smoking in the theater, he replied, “My father paid for this building. I can do whatever I like in it.” When I gaped at him in amazement, he cracked a grin and said, “I’m kidding, Iowa. Jesus.”

  Cynic, I learned, was an only child, like me, but his parents were divorced and his father had remarried, giving him two “God-awful white step-siblings.” He was a dreadful student, was only passing his classes because of Charlie, had dropped or flunked out of three other schools previously and was actually my age. Evidently, he’d only ended up at Weston because his father had refused to keep funneling endless money into a hopeless cause. But now he was dead-set on graduating, to spite his father if nothing else. He and Charlie had been roommates their first year, while LA had lived down the hall, and the three o
f them had been inseparable ever since. Cynic and Charlie, I thought, had the dynamic of an old married couple, while LA was perhaps their energetic son. I might even have thought the two of them were in a relationship if I hadn’t seen Cynic slipping away with women at parties so frequently.

  Cynic was entirely unashamed if not proud of his utter dependence on Charlie. He was fond of announcing, “I’d be dead if it wasn’t for Charlie. I owe this guy my life,” while ruffling Charlie’s unkempt curls. He meant it literally, I found out later, when I got the story out of LA. At a holiday party their freshman year, Cynic had given himself alcohol poisoning, passed out in a snowbank and most certainly would have died had his roommate not gone out searching for him. I must have looked concerned because LA assured me, “He was a lightweight back then.”

  I asked, “Have you ever tried to talk to him about it? The drinking?”

  He shrugged theatrically, turning his palms to the sky. “Have you ever tried to have a serious discussion with Cynic? It’s impossible. Besides, we all drink.”

  While this was true, I thought it was obvious that Cynic’s drinking was on another level. In fact, now that I thought about it, I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him completely sober. He held it well so he got away with it. I only saw him truly wasted at parties, and even then he managed to appear unfailingly cool and collected.

  LA, in contrast to Cynic and me, came from a large, close-knit family with five siblings, three older and two younger, all of whom were pursuing much more practical career choices than him. He’d ended up at Weston because his parents were convinced he only wanted to be an actor because he’d grown up in Los Angeles and were unwilling to spend any real money on his education until he deigned to study something serious. He, like Cynic, was committed to proving his parents wrong. “I’d rather die than work a single day at a desk job,” he told me more than once. In the grand tradition of theater students, he planned to move to New York after college and try to make it on Broadway.