Chapter 3: Chapter 3

"Are you excited?"

My best friend and roommate hovers over me, standing behind the couch on which I sit. It's been almost a month since my close encounter on the beach, the only remaining reminder thereof being a fresh scar above my left brow and a lingering sense of shame. I haven't been back to the cliffs, but with my nearly double load of classes and finals approaching, I've hardly had time to do more than eat, sleep, and study.

"Well, come on, Charlie—say something!" Lana whacks my arm. "This is what you've been waiting for, isn't it? The thing you haven't shut up about all semester?"

Still in shock, I merely nod.

Lana snatches the letter from my hands and reads aloud.

"Dear Mr. Hill,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected to attend our exclusive undergraduate paleontology summer internship program. From June 15 through July 12, you and five other students will have the opportunity to experience hands-on fieldwork at a remote dig site in eastern Utah.

Please return the enclosed form confirming your participation no later than June 1.

Blah blah blah,

Yours truly,

Professor Robert MacDowell, Ph.D."

The 'blah blah blah' wasn't in the letter, of course; that was just Lana skipping the boring parts.

"I don't know what you were so worried about," she says, tossing the letter on the pile of forms and checklists that had accompanied it in its thick manila envelope. "You were a shoo-in; MacDowell loves you."

"He doesn't play favorites," I say, sorting through the papers until I find the confirmation form. "Besides, you have to disclose any medical conditions on the application. Something like asthma could have disqualified me."

"Is that legal?" Lana asks, resting her elbows on the back of the threadbare couch so her silky brown hair falls over my shoulder.

"In this case, yeah. It's a safety issue. When they say 'remote,' they mean it. If something serious happens, you have to get airlifted out. The site's location isn't public knowledge, either. They keep it secret, so looters and amateurs don't go out there and try to dig stuff up."

"Looters?" Lana laughs. "People loot fossils?"

"Sure," I say distractedly, scanning over the list of things I'm supposed to bring with me. "A few years ago, a T-Rex specimen sold at auction for 31.8 million. That's the high end, but yeah, fossils are valuable.

Lana whistles. "Wow. Bring one back for me, will ya?"

I laugh. "No way. That's the whole point. They belong in museums, where they can be studied, not in some rich dude's private collection."

"Easy for you to say. You don't have to think about boring old things like money." Lana's tone is just sharp enough to sting. She pushes herself away from the couch and crosses our shared living space to the galley-style kitchen. "You want tea?"

I take a careful breath before answering. "Sure. Thanks."

I listen to the comforting, familiar sounds of my roommate filling the electric kettle, getting down two mismatched mugs from our eclectic little collection (we bought them at a thrift shop and picked out the ugliest ones we could find) and opening two packets of tea. Lana likes her tea strong and black, and the current box is a variety of Irish Breakfast that promises to make hair grow on your chest. With enough sugar and cream, it's drinkable.

A few minutes later she returns and hands me my mug—a hideous thing shaped like Goofy's head—and settles at my side, tucking her legs under her. If I were straight, I figure I'd be into a girl like Lana. Then again, the fact that I'm not into her is the main reason we're roommates.

Her mom is Korean and her dad is white, and she looks like every dude's dream anime girl without even trying. She also hates to be called cute, but she's five-two and has a face like a doll, so she gets called cute a lot. Even during her goth phase, she was a damn cute goth.

I value my life, so I'd never tell her that, but it's the truth. She gets a lot of unwanted attention, in other words, and figured living with me would give her an extra layer of protection. When all else fails, she can always pretend I'm her boyfriend.

She blows on her tea, holding it in two hands half hidden by the long sleeves of her oversized sweater. "Sorry. It's not your fault your family's rich."

"My dad is rich," I correct, and carefully sip my tea.

My mom is my dad's second wife. He made her sign a prenup and they keep their money separate. She's never told me the exact terms, but knowing my dad, my guess is that if she leaves him, she gets nothing.

"Same thing, right?" Lana shrugs. "He pays your tuition and gives you an allowance. You don't even work."

My jaw clenches and I look away.

"What? I said it's not your fault. You're just lucky. That's all. Like this expedition thing, for example. What's it cost?"

"Nothing. It's paid for with a grant. Professor MacDowell wanted to be sure money isn't a barrier for anyone."

Lana picks at a sparkly purple nail. "Good for anyone, I guess."

Irritated, I set my tea aside, get up, and go into my room.

"Charlie, wait." Lana jumps up and follows me. "I didn't mean it like that. I guess I'm just jealous, is all. You know how many fucking financial aid forms I had to fill out? It was fucking stressful, and I still need a job if I want to do fun things like eat food."

"Yeah, well." I dig through the top drawer of my dresser and extract 'the form,' my devil's contract, and hand it to her. "Go ahead and read that."

Frowning, she unfolds the official-looking document and scans through it, her eyes going wider with every line. I can tell the moment she gets to the bottom and sees my signature, because she utters a soft 'fuck,' and looks up at me.

"Yeah," I say, taking it back from her. "Having a 'rich dad' isn't all it's cracked up to be."

I look over the form myself, though I could probably recite it from memory. I've never shown it to anyone before, and my face heats with shame as Lana's expression mirrors my feelings on the matter.

Without getting into the boring details, the gist of it is this: my dad made me sign a legally binding agreement in exchange for him funding my tuition. I can study whatever I want, but I have to double major in business administration or accounting, too. I went with accounting, because more of the math requirements overlapped with earth sciences. In addition, I can't work more than ten hours a week while attending school (good luck finding that job), and I have to maintain a GPA of at least 3.8. He gives me an allowance of $100 a week for food and necessities, and I have to live within my means. If I fail to uphold my side of the agreement, he'll withdraw his support.

"That's kinda messed up," Lana says. "No wonder you're so cheap."

"Yeah, no shit."

"Can't you open a credit card or something?"

"Nope. Article 2.B: no credit cards."

"But how would he know? You're an adult, Charlie. You can do what you want."

I give her a look. "He works at a bank, Lana. He checks my credit score once a month. He'd know."

I shove the document back in my drawer and shut it. Double majors and a good GPA didn't worry me. Even the stingy budget wasn't that hard to stick to. It was the small, vaguely worded article at the bottom, almost an afterthought, that kept me up at night sometimes.

Must maintain good moral standing.

What 'moral standing' meant to my dad was his to decide, naturally, which meant he could withdraw financial support at any time if I displeased him. This had me paranoid enough that I had no social media accounts connected to my name, fearful that he'd find out if I liked a post from the wrong political perspective, or (god forbid) that something 'gay' would show up on my page.

"Come here." Lana stands on tip-toe and pulls me into a hug. "I'm sorry I gave you a hard time about being rich. Your dad's a creep."

I laugh. "He's not that bad. He's just..." I sigh. "Maybe if I wasn't his only kid, he wouldn't be so controlling. And it's not like I'm ungrateful. I know I'm lucky. He said I could go to any school that accepted me. Crestwood University was my first choice and his last. Actually, I don't think it was even on his list. But he didn't complain."

"Did he draw up this agreement before, or after you picked CU?"

"After," I say.

She lifts her brows at me. "Yeah, I think he complained." Reaching up, she straightens the collar of my ugly striped polo shirt, which was a freebie from the student union. "Come on, Charlie. Grab that list of things you'll need to survive in the outback, or whatever, and let's go shopping."

🐚

"I'm paying you back for this stuff. I promise."

Reusable shopping bags in hand, we walk down the main street of Crestwood toward the bus-stop as the sun sets, tinting the scattered bands of clouds above the bay a brilliant tangerine. Fortunately, the program would provide major items like tents and sleeping bags. Still, the various smaller items I was missing added up fast, and I'd burned through my monthly allowance and my measly savings with the first three purchases: a pair of sturdy hiking boots, a sun hat, and a set of rain gear. Most of the other things on the list were items I already owned, like reusable water bottles and sunscreen, but there were a dozen others I had to buy. Well, that Lana had to buy for me.

"Consider it an early birthday present—early for your next three birthdays," she says, holding my hand and swinging our arms back and forth as we walk. "But you can give me your allowance next month, too. You won't need it out there on Mars."

"Utah isn't Mars," I say, laughing and rolling my eyes.

"Might as well be, for how hard it is to find a drink sometimes. My dad has relatives there."

"Well, I don't drink, anyway."

Although maybe I should; maybe then I'd have the courage to set foot in Chase, the LGBTQ nightclub sandwiched between a used book shop and a bank.

I walk past it every time I'm in town—usually far too early in the day to go in, anyway—and imagine myself entering, walking up to the bar, and casually ordering a drink. We're coming up on it now, and there's already a small crowd gathered outside, waiting for the doors to open, which they will as soon as the sun goes down.

Lana, fully aware of my hangups and hesitations, tugs on my hand. "You wanna go in? I'll be your emotional support girl."

Reflexively, I reach for an escape. "Don't you have DnD tonight?"

"Yeah, but not until later. We've got plenty of time."

"Will Liam be there?"

"Ugh." She rolls her eyes. "Probably. We can't figure out how to un-invite him now. He threw a fit last time Sadia tried to play as her gnome sorcerer, Sir Wankly Cumsalot. He said it was 'immature and ruined the immersion,' or some shit. God, I hate that guy."

Lana delves into the many and varied offenses of Liam, who happens to be another player's boyfriend, and thus difficult to get rid of without causing a rift. She can talk about the drama of her game group for a good hour without pausing for breath, once she gets started, and as I'd hoped, she's thoroughly distracted and quickly forgets all about forcing me to visit the gay bar. As we pass the nightclub, I figure I've safely escaped my peril. Then I hear my own name.

"Hey, Charlie!"

I look back, and my heart does a clumsy somersault, knocking against my ribs. It's none other than my angel-boy, Hazel MacDowell. He stands with the group waiting to enter Chase, and he's got his arm around another guy's shoulders.

Disengaging himself, he strolls towards me, a bright smile lighting his face. It dims a little as his eyes flick to Lana and then to our joined hands. I let go and barely stop myself from taking a step away from her.

"You come here to show support, too, huh?"

"What?"

He nods at the club. "Chase."

"Oh, no. I'm not... We're not... We were just..."

Lana rolls her eyes. "Charlie's too scared to go in."

"Lana!"

"Why? We don't bite." Hazel winks. "Not even if you ask us to. If that's your scene, you want Chains on the other side of town."

You could probably fry an egg on my face at this point.

"I'm not twenty-one yet," I say, which is a lie. Lana knows it's a lie, too—my birthday was in February—but she takes pity on me (thank God) and plays along. Sort of.

"Oh yeah, I forgot," she says, rolling her eyes at me.

"Too bad," Hazel grins. "I'd have bought you a drink."

"You... would?"

"Sure. I owe you big time. Check this out." He extracts his phone from his back pocket and beckons us over. "I'm tryna gain a following, and between TikTok and Insta, you gave me over fifty thousand views."

He pulls up a video, and all the heat leaves my body at once. I watch my own dramatic rescue play out—two high-intensity minutes of it filmed on Dave's phone—without remembering to breathe.

"Charlie?" Lana touches my arm, her expression concerned. Hazel looks uncertain as well, and re-pockets his phone.

"You recorded that?" I rasp. "You... posted it?"

"Hey, nobody can tell it's you. Dave made sure not to show your face. It's just a video."

"It's not just a..." Reeling, I tilt to the side a little and stumble. Hazel reaches to steady me, but I practically leap away from his hand. "Don't."

Hazel frowns. "Dude, I swear no one knows it's you. But if it bothers you, I'll take it down."

I laugh and shake my head, still trying to catch my breath. "Fifty thousand views later? A little late for that. Thanks for saving my life. Now please never talk to me again."

Turning, eyes stinging with unshed tears of mingled anger and embarrassment, I walk away. A few paces later, Lana catches up to me but, thankfully, Hazel doesn't follow.

🐚

That, I imagine, will be the last time I ever see Hazel. I don't see him again in the three weeks leading up to my departure for the field internship, anyway; although this may be largely due to the fact I barely leave the apartment except to attend classes and take exams.

With finals over at last and my grades in (all As except for a B+ in Business Statistics), I have a blissful three days of rest, during which I do nothing but play video games and sleep. Then the day of departure dawns, and I take the bus up to campus to meet everyone at the rendezvous point.

We'll carpool to the airport in San Jose in a University-owned van, then take a direct flight to Moab, which is the closest city to the dig site. From there, a bus will take us out to the camp. All in all, it's a full day of travel, and I have my phone charged and an unread book at the ready.

Professor MacDowell teaches several classes of roughly thirty students each, and a lot of people outside his classes also applied for the internship, so I only know one other person who's going—a girl named River who has blue hair and seems friendly but never says much. Not unlike myself, I suppose.

The bus drops me off at the nearest stop, and I trek across the forested campus to the small, tree-shadowed parking lot outside the earth-sciences building, enjoying birdsong, fresh air, and a cool breeze stirring the eucalyptus trees along the way.

When I arrive, warm and slightly winded from the brisk walk, I see a group of people standing around a large, twelve-seater van. Besides the five other lucky interns, there's also the driver, Professor MacDowell, two grad-students, and an assistant professor along for the trip, for a total of eleven, which is the expected number.

A twelfth person, however, laughs and jokes with the other students as he helps them load their luggage into the back of the van.

Wondering if a lack of basic perception is what cost me a grade letter in statistics, I count again, but there are definitely twelve.

Then the twelfth guy laughs loudly. I recognize the sound and stop in my tracks, halfway across the parking lot, as Hazel MacDowell looks up and waves at me.