Main Bonus #69: Homesick at Yale - Part Two (Patreon)

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THE SILENT BOOK CLUB is not a “silent” club. These nerd-types aren’t even really nerd-types. Yale students look mostly like any other college student I’ve seen walking around Penn. And instead of thumbing through books, they seem more ready for social interaction and “get to know each other” icebreakers.

About twenty students are spread in a circle on couches and chairs. But I beeline for the pizza, cooler of beer, and two cases of boxed wine stacked near the door.

If I can save money on food, I’m gonna do it. The days Farrow has unused meal swipes, he’ll lend me his card. I love the dining hall. The made-to-order food is sick, but the buffet is a king’s feast. Sometimes I pretend all the hot trays are just my long royal table, and the dining hall is my banquet. Students are the guests I’ve invited.

Everyone is satiated before they leave.

Good meals.

Anyway, pizza is from Pepe’s, and while I snag a couple slices on a plate, Oscar Oliveira approaches. “Into the food already?”

I lick sauce off my thumb. “Nothing wrong with a frugal bitch.”

Oscar grins. “There is when he has your face.”

I smirk. “Knew you were blind.”

“Only around you, bro. You’re hard to look at.”

I laugh and flip him off.

Oscar is grinning wider, then turns to face the bookshelves. He’s leaning on the food table, arms slightly crossed. I’ve known him for almost a year now, and I can safely say, he’s one of my closest friends. Like Farrow.

Think if I called both of them for anything, they’d come running. But I prefer calling on myself first, and normally I can fix shit on my own.

Sometimes, I think they’re the same way.

Maybe that’s why I love this friendship. It never feels like I’m taking more than I can give. It never feels like I’m suffocating them or being suffocated. It just exists as easy as breathing, but I know breathing can be hard.

The fact that it feels easy—that’s the best part.

Oscar’s gaze lands on our friend Farrow. He’s standing beside the Romance section and chatting with an older-looking student. Maybe mid-twenties. Buzz cut. Glasses. His type? Nah, I don’t see it.

“It’s just too easy,” I smile and motion my pizza at the Romance sign. “There’s no way he’s seen it. He would’ve moved.”

“He knows,” Oscar says. “He’s pretending to ignore it because we’ll give him shit.”

Oh yeah. I bite into my pizza, trying not to laugh. He’s picking up a guy among rom-coms and smut, and it’s just cliché enough to rib Farrow.

Oscar pops the tab of a beer. “I’ve rarely seen you without him. I’d say you’re conjoined but I’ve seen him without you a ton.”

“I like the buddy system.” I fold the rest of my pizza slice and take a much bigger bite. Then shove it all in my mouth. Don’t know if I’m allowed to have it without being a member and I’m not really a student (even if no one asks questions), so best case scenario is hiding the evidence.

Oscar makes a face as he watches me chew like a horse.

I down the rest with a swig of beer. “Wanna baby bird it?” I stick out my tongue, but there’s no food to give. Already in the belly.

“How you get laid is a mythical motherfucking tale,” Oscar says into a swig of beer.

I blink away the exchange of cash and suck sauce off my thumb. I just nod my head, a quip fading too fast to fling back.

Then he fills the quiet. “Weren’t you seeing that one girl?”

“Who?’

“From Mad Tracey’s. Last weekend.”

“The sorority girl?”

“Yeah. What happened with that?”

“She snuck me into her sorority house, and I spent the night.” We fucked. She kissed me in the morning, and we exchanged numbers. Then she ghosted me. I don’t say that though. I just tell him, “It didn’t mean anything. It was just sex.”

It probably meant more to me than to her, but that’s alright. I’m not looking for a relationship like Farrow. Whatever happens, happens, and in the meantime, I’m having fun.

Oscar is staring at Farrow’s attempt to pick up this buzz cut guy, but I think he’s more so mulling over what I said. “I have so many fucking questions.”

“We’re at the worst place for that, man,” I tell him. “We’re supposed to be silent and all.”

Oscar grins into another swig, but his eyes are on a brunette girl with chopped bangs. She sips wine out of a paper cup and flips through a book. His ex-boyfriend dumped him so bad last year, he failed multiple mid-terms. He had to retake one science course this semester. Genetics, I know since he's complained about it a bunch of times. 

Though, if I bring up the break-up, he'd say that he also broke up with him. Mutual dumping, but I dunno, he seemed too heartbroken for it to be a clean cut. I'm glad he's got his eyes elsewhere now. Moving on and whatnot. 

I go for my second slice when some guy about five-inches shorter approaches us. Curly auburn hair, skin paler than mine, and a pointed nose—never seen him before. But I make room so he can attack the pizza.

He’s not interested in the food. Or beer.

He stops and eyes me, then Oscar. “Oliveira, you brought a friend to SBC?”

“Redford brought him.” Oscar motions his beer like he’s about to introduce us, but this guy is faster.

“Patrick Jones.” He extends a hand. Gonna forget that name. I know about fifteen million Patricks. I wipe my greasy hands on a napkin, then shake his, as if it’s some business meeting. It’s pretty funny. Then he tells me, “We don’t have any formal dues, but we do have one tradition if you’d like to keep coming to the club.”

Monthly pizza without dues.

I’m listening.

“What’s that?”

“Just complete one truth or one dare,” Patrick says. “You choose.”

“Pick truth,” Oscar tells me. “Everyone always picks truth.”

Farrow did not do this. No way in hell. “What’d Farrow pick?” I ask Patrick.

He clears his throat. “He, uh, isn’t going to stay long. He’s not joining SBC.”

I laugh, and Oscar mutters a “figures” into his beer bottle. Might be cool to hang out with Oscar and grab free pizza now and then, so I end up saying. “Alright. Dare.”

Oscar groans. “No, Donnelly. Truth." And to Patrick, "He wants truth.”

“Dare,” I confirm with confidence. “Or double-dare. Whatever you’ve got.”

Patrick has a shit-eating grin, so this must be something sadistic in his head. Can’t be that bad. “We only have one dare for the gents of the club. SBC dares you to come inside a cream-filled donut. And then eat it.”   The entire bookstore falls hushed and listens like I’m choosing some sort of moral dilemma. Farrow is watching with slight confusion. Guess I’m not picking up on the danger here.

“That’s it?” I wonder.

I expect him to tell me I need to jerk off in front of everyone, but apparently, this is the Big Bad Dare everyone is so scared of.

Think I’d do it for shits and giggles.

Think I’d rather do it for the hell of it than for some imaginary membership into this pizza club.

Patrick puffs out a breath of shocked air. “I…yeah, that is the dare. But, uh, you can always switch if you want?”

Why is he phrasing it like a question?

“Nah, I’ll stick to the dare. Who has the donut?”

Patrick rubs the back of his neck. “Usually people switch.”

“I’m not people,” I say. “I’m Donnelly.”

Oscar starts clapping for me, and a few others join in. I applaud myself.

Then I ask, “So where’s the donut, Pat?”

Farrow is making a face like this is the strangest fucking club he’s never wanted to be a part of. He even visibly steps away from Buzz Cut. Didn’t think that’d go anywhere anyway.

A girl asks Patrick about the donut. Then another person. And another. Clearly giving this guy shit over it.

He’s red in the face and shakes his head. “I don’t have the donut here, everyone! Jesus.” He turns to me. “Next meeting, I’ll bring one.”

“That’s not how truth or dare works,” Farrow says, coming over. “You can’t bank the dare.”

“It’s a cop out,” Oscar agrees.

“No donut, no dare, Pat,” I say.

Patrick caves. “Whatever. If you’re game enough to fuck a donut then you pass. You’re in.” He storms away like he’s ready to be done with me.

“Outplayed,” Oscar says into a grin. He nudges my shoulder. “Nice one, bro.”

We clink beers and throw the rest back.

Farrow is now trying to get away from Buzz Cut who’s approaching him. “I’m not going to stick around long.” He’s talking to me.

I’m about to say I’ll head out when my phone rings.

I tell him, “I’ll meet up with you. Shoot me a text where you’re going next.”

“I can wait.” He grinds his teeth though, not loving Buzz Cut encroaching, and I’d love to shoo him away on behalf of my friend, but I’ve gotta take this call.

Farrow is very direct, and as I go outside, the last thing I hear is, “I’m not interested, man.”

I’ve snagged an extra slice and folded the paper plate around the pizza. More portable, and I race across the street while putting the phone to my ear. “Hey—” I cut myself off.

It’s the automated voice.

Do I want to accept this call from prison?

No.

My feet hit the sidewalk, and I stand near an overflowing trashcan outside a closed ice cream shop. A river of melted chocolate slides down the concrete and over the curb.

The automated voice asks the question again.

“Yeah,” I answer.

I’m connected. “Paul.”

A knot wedges between my ribs. “Scottie.” Really, he’s my Uncle Scottie, but he’s Oscar’s age. Barely older than me. “Why are you calling?”

“That’s a fucked-up way to talk to your family, kid.”

I hate that he calls me kid. It’s always to put me down. Then again, I don’t want to hate anything when it comes to Scottie. He’s not worth this ugly feeling that tries to slither through me. I try not to squeeze the paper plate that protects my slice.

“So this is just a friendly chitchat then?” I ask him. “How’s it going?” I keep my tone light, but I know he has to want something. I could hang up.

Hang up.

“I’m in prison, kid. How do you think it’s going? For fuck’s sake, my brother really birthed a moron.”

I’m feeling like one for staying on the line with him. “I gotta go.”

“Wait. You talk to Sean yet?”

My dad? “No.”

“He’ll call.”

My stomach drops. “Why’s that?”

“Funeral arrangements. To make sure everything’s taken care of.”

The paper plate falls out of my hand, pizza lying in a soupy strawberry lake on the concrete. “Did Mom—?”

“My mom, you dumbass.”

I go cold. My grandmom. She died? I touch the top of my head, resting my hand there. The wind suddenly picks up like the earth itself knows a soul has passed. Then again, maybe it’s just the wind.

I don’t say anything.

“Paul, you hear me?” he snaps. “Your grandmom died. You know, the woman who’s been taking care of you. And where the fuck have you been, huh?”

Taking care of me?

I choke on a strangled noise. Honestly…I always thought she’d outlive my parents. Always thought she’d be immortal and shit because she’s so baked in apathy it stuck to everything she touched. Like death itself wouldn’t even care to collect her.

I don’t care about her at least.

She never seemed to care one shit about me.

So why should I?

“Paul.”

“I’ve been around,” I say, finding a voice, even if it’s quiet.

“Funeral will probably be in a few days. Wake right after. Call…” He names several cousins and uncles, but my brain mentally sweeps so far past his words. “You’ll be there. Your dad will want you to make a speech. Say something nice, everything she did for you.”

He doesn’t give me a choice. It’s just assumed I’ll be there. Assumed I’ll be giving a speech since I lived with her.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be there." I say it so fast and immediately hang up.

I stare unblinking at my phone for a couple seconds, expecting it to ring. Then I let one impulsive thought take over—I slam my phone into the cement with as much force as I can. It bounces off the curb and the screen shatters instantly.

“Donnelly?” Farrow’s voice booms in the silence.

I look up.

He’s running across the street, holding out a hand at a pair of headlights—car stops. He sprints over, eyeing the chunks of phone near a gutter.

I collect the demolished device. “Phone’s broken.”

“I see that.” He holds my gaze for a beat. It’s not uncomfortable, but it tries to unzip me and so I look away.

I tap at the splintered screen. Making sure it can’t power on. Can’t receive calls. Farrow is watching, and he says, “The bus is still running.”

And so we find ourselves on empty public transit, sitting side by side, and the bright fluorescent light inside the bus is a familiar comfort. Reminds me of home.

“You know,” I say in the easy calm of the silence and his company, “my mom called me from prison on the 13th.”

“For your birthday?”

I realize, only right now, that she never even mentioned my birthday over the phone. “Nah, she was just…I dunno. It’s prison. She has a lot to deal with, and I don’t think she’s doing so well.” I stare at the broken phone. “This was the stupidest thing I think I’ve ever done.”

“Debatable.” He smiles over at me.

My lips rise. “Name it.”

“You pissed on a frat fucker’s bed. While he was standing five-feet from you.”

“Classic.” He was slapping a bunch of girls on the ass all night, even after they screamed at him to stop. It was a foam party. Maybe he thought no one could see in the bubbles. I could hear the girls perfectly clear and it was aluminum foil in my eardrums. If I didn’t piss on his bed, someone in our friend group was gonna start a brawl with him.

That did happen on our way out though.

Farrow eyes the cell in my hands. “You didn’t break a bone, man. You can get another phone.”

I’m alive. It’s just a thing.

I nod a few times, the bus bumping along. I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t really care.

I think about avoiding the topic of my grandmom. Maybe I would in Philly. Because being alone in that city never brought loneliness. But being alone here sounds like the loneliest thing on fucking Earth. In Connecticut, all I really have are my friends.

And Farrow’s never tried to leave me behind. Not for a moment, not even for a second.

“My grandmom died,” I say. I realize Scottie never told me how. But I’m not picturing anything brutal. I wouldn’t want that. It probably was a heart attack. Croaked in her recliner, I bet.

“I’m sorry, man,” Farrow breathes. “Were you two close?”

I shake my head. “Not really. But she housed me, and everyone in my family thinks she's the kindest person in the whole world. Like she was a saint or something for taking me in. But you can do one good thing and still be a dick.”

I don’t explain how she never yelled at me. Never hit me. But she didn’t care if my cousins slapped me around. Didn’t care if my uncles screamed in my face. Was I her responsibility? ‘Cause she never acted like it.

You’re sixteen. You’re old enough to make yourself food. With what food?

All the little things just piled up, and yeah, she was dealt a shitty hand. She didn’t ask for her son and daughter-in-law to be sent to prison. Didn’t ask to raise her grandkid. But I dunno—I didn’t ask for her to die.

“Are you going to the funeral?”

“Nah,” I say. “That’s actually why my phone broke.”

Farrow nods a few times, understanding more. His mom died when he was little, so he likely understands death better than I do. “You don’t owe them anything.”

“I know.”

“Then why do you pick up the phone when they call?”

I blink a couple times, staring ahead. The driver behind the wheel is oblivious to us, but he’s a good driver. Never stops too suddenly. Never reverses.

“‘Cause I’m more afraid of not answering them when they call.” I glance down at the phone again. “I don’t like talking to my dad, honestly. He’s always trying to get me to do stuff I don’t wanna do, but one time, it could be different. They could get clean in prison, Farrow, and the one time I don’t answer, if I cut them off…” I grimace, my eyes burning. “I don’t know if that’s better or worse, and I guess I’m holding on to the hope it’ll change.”

They’ll change.

“Sounds dumb?”

He shakes his head. “Not really.”

I nod a couple times, exhaling through my nose. My muscles relax and shoulders loosen. “My dad’s supposed to call me about the funeral at some point. I didn’t wanna talk to him.”

“Instead of smashing another phone, just hand it to me if you need to.”

“You wanna talk to my dad?”

“Why not?” He shrugs like it’s a simple offer. It’s not. “I’ve never pissed off my old man. Might as well see what I can get away with with yours.”

I grin. “Now we’re talking.” I look over at him, about to say thanks, but he shakes his head like it’s unnecessary.

I love Farrow. It hits me so hard that I actually turn my head away from him. My eyes well, and I force down the flood, swallow hard, and I ask him, “You hungry?”

“Yeah.” He’s already standing to yank the stop cord.

“Watcha feeling?” I stand with him.

“Breakfast.”

I begin to smile. “You know, I could go for some donuts.”

We share a look and we both start laughing. Out of the bus, on the sidewalk, I swing an arm over his shoulder. He takes out another pack of cigarettes, and I wonder how I could have been homesick earlier.

I don’t miss PA anymore tonight.

Thanks so much for reading this month's main bonus scene! These two-parters of Donnelly at Yale were some of our absolute favs to write -- which is probably why we ended up writing so much. We love sharing the inside scoop on Donnelly's past and fleshing out what happened during his time at Yale. We hope you've all enjoyed it!

There's still lots more to come this month in December! So stay on the lookout!!

xoxo Krista & Becca

"Homesick at Yale - Part Two," Copyright © 2023 by K.B. Ritchie