Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
“Shit,” I mumble. I give the vending machine one swift thunk with my fist. And nothing happens. Figures. “Fucking shitty luck!”
“It is unlucky…” a faint voice agrees with me. “…but not statistically unlikely.”
I turn around to see a skinny girl in giant glasses waiting for her turn with the goddamn machine. “Any chance you were going to buy peanut butter pretzels, too?”
She shakes her head. “Peanuts put me into anaphylactic shock.”
“Bummer. That’s also bad luck, but not statistically unlikely.”
She grins. “Want to borrow a couple dollars?“
“No thanks,” I say quickly. I make it a point to never borrow anything from the rich kids I go to school with. That way, when I graduate summa cum laude and then snag the best possible job, nobody will be able to say that I won it because of their help.
I wish her luck and leave the library. My only choice is to go home to Alpha Delt and make myself yet another cheese sandwich. So I hike my backpack strap a little higher on my shoulder and head for the door.
Crossing the leafy campus always makes me feel like a guy on a movie set. The red bricks. The vintage gas lamps casting yellow circles of light on the pathways. The young Rockefellers and Carnegies, and whoever-the-fuck-else-is-worth-a-mint, crossing past me in their preppy dock shoes.
I love it and hate it at the same time. I’ve spent my whole life on the outskirts of this town. Nobody from the college ever leaves the campus unless they’re headed for the airport. For them, it’s like the town doesn’t exist off the flagstone pathways.
It exists. And it ain’t pretty. Darby is an old mill town that fell on hard times about a century after the college was founded. It used to be quaint and wholesome. Now it’s a total shithole.
When I turned eighteen, though, I found a golden ticket in my chocolate bar. Seriously, it was almost that magical. The high school counselor told me to fill out a Darby College application. “The fee is waived by the school for locals. Just roll the dice, kid. You never know. With your test scores, we already know you’ll get into State. This application is just for fun.”
I’d submitted it and then forgotten about it. But that April, I got a fat envelope in the mail.
“Welcome to Darby College, founded 1804. Here is your scholarship award.”
A free ride for the townie. I didn’t even believe it when I read the letter. Apparently the state of Connecticut had put pressure on the college to improve their town/gown relationship. And scholarships for townies were the upshot.
Tuition is free. If I can just keep my life from crumbling for three more semesters, I’ll have a degree from one of the most celebrated colleges in America.
Unfortunately, the scholarship doesn’t cover room and board. It’s assumed that locals wouldn’t need a spot in the dorms. And up until last year, I was fine staying at my mom’s place.
But living at home isn’t an option for me anymore. So my sophomore and junior years at Darby have been all about fending off homelessness and starvation until I can graduate. Dorms and meal plans are expensive, so I rushed Alpha Delt and took the cheapest room. Problem solved.
Sort of.
Last year I worked two shitty jobs until I found a better gig at a club. The new job pays me more for twelve hours of work than I used to make in twice that much time. But the late hours are killing me.
Come senior year, my school workload will be even more brutal. So I’ve been brainstorming ways I could cut back on my work hours. Two weeks ago, during a drunken movie marathon with a couple frat brothers, one of them revealed something I hadn’t known.
Fun fact: the president of the fraternity doesn’t have to pay rent. He gets a free room.
A. Free. Room.
So guess who’s running for president?
The Alpha Delta house is a big old Tudor mansion on the outskirts of campus. I strut into the front door like I own the place. Because I do—at least as much as anyone else. It doesn’t matter that I’m not third generation Alpha Delt like some of the pretty boys who live here. My dues checks don’t bounce, and that’s really all that matters.
“Hey, boys,” I greet four of my brothers. It’s eight p.m. and since none of these guys have jobs, they’re playing poker.
“Bailey,” grunts Jako, my closest friend in the house. “How’m I doing?”
I move to stand behind him and consider his hand. He has a pair of queens, and there’re two tens and an eight on the table thanks to the flop. Two-pair isn’t a bad hand, but it wouldn’t do to go crazy. Judd just needs one ten in his hand to have three-of-a-kind. As I watch, Judd raises and Jako calls.