18⎜The Meeting

           “Eric, he’s really not that bad.”

           “Eric, he’s really not. He’s worse!”

           “Scott, shut up, man!”

           “You shut up!”

           “Eric, no matter what these two say, I promise you that he’s just wonderful! He’s the perfect gentleman—unlike these two—and a total sweetheart! You’ll love him!”

           I glanced between the four individuals, only one having not voiced her opinion about the person I was about to meet. She was tracing the edges of her fingers and seemed to be especially distant today, not really focusing on reality. “Ari,” I prompted, “what do you think of him?”

           “Who, Grant?” she questioned, her eyes lifting in order to meet mine. I nodded my head. “Uh…” As she searched for the correct adjective, Kay shot her a stern look, but Ari paid no mind, going right ahead and saying, “Sometimes he’s okay. Other times I can’t be in the same room as him without wanting to stab his eye with a fork.”

           “Just go, Eric!” Kay sighed, pushing me closer to the direction of the large wooden door that separated me from the meeting I was about to have.

           “Walker, this is a bad idea,” Scott told his best friend, “he’s not going to join once he’s met Grant.”

           “Scott, please shut your trap,” Kay said with more than a smidge of sugar encased around her harsh words. Scott stopped talking after that. Houston then patted me on the shoulder reassuringly, and I sighed, knowing what I had to do.

           With a great deal of reluctance, I forced myself to turn the brass knob of the door, pushing it open. I closed my eyes for the briefest of moments, and then reopened them, walking in with as much confidence as could be conjured in my state. When I stepped foot into the large office/conference room, what immediately struck me wasn’t the guy I was supposed to be meeting with, but the smell of aged tobacco mixed with some sort of distinct liquor (scotch, maybe).

           My eyes travelled around the room, taking in the pictures of old guys and how ordered everything was. There were bookshelves lining the walls with dusty books on them that probably hadn’t been touched since the day they were put there, and plaques with the fraternity’s insignia on them everywhere. The floor was covered by a red carpet, and there were no windows in the space. Then, I finally allowed myself to glance up and over to the other person in the room who was the reason that I was actually here in the first place.

           Sitting at the end of a long mahogany table was a guy. Obviously. He had on a navy blazer with a white button-down underneath, and his dirty blonde hair was gelled back. His face retained a rather confident-esc look to it, as if he was superior (to whom, I didn’t know). So, this was the notorious Grant Sterling. He didn’t look as evil or sinister as Scott had made him out to be, and appeared rather calm, taking a leisurely sip out of a glass cup. When he realized that I was done surveying my surroundings, he shot me a smile, and gestured to a seat near him.

           Hesitantly, I deepened myself within the room, walking over to the chair he had pointed out and sat down, only to wait. I wasn’t really sure what I was waiting for, but I knew it was something.

           “Eric Wilson,” Grant finally said, his tone light and casual yet possessing a hint of authority to it, “it’s so great to finally meet you!”

           “Likewise,” I replied politely, aware of how freaking pretentious I sounded.

           “Since you’re friends with both Scott and Houston, I’m sure you’ve heard a lot of conflicting viewpoints about me.” I nodded, not denying the assumption, for it was true. “Well, if I were you, then I’d make up my own mind and not listen to anyone else.” Yet again, I nodded, allowing him to continue. “So, Eric, as I’m sure you’ve heard a lot about me, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

           “Um, I haven’t actually heard that much about you,” I admitted sheepishly. All I knew was that Scott couldn’t stand the guy and Houston could. Oh, and he was Nelson from the gym’s freshman roommate, and Nelson agreed with Scott.

           “Oh?” He sounded surprised, as if his reputation was basic knowledge for all of the Stanford campus to know. “Well, that doesn’t really matter now. We’re here to talk about you, Eric.”

           “Is this conversation going to veer into football territory?” I questioned warily, having no desire to talk about things that were—like football.

           “Football. Now that you mention it, I did hear a rumor that you used to play. A state championship, or something?” he said casually, though I had a hunch that he had done his research and knew more about my football career than he was letting on.

           “Two state championships, actually,” I corrected stiffly, already not liking the way that the conversation was going. The guy seemed like a pretty self-centered one, so I then attempted to shift the focus on him, hoping that we could avoid talking about me and football for as long as possible. “Do you play any sports?”

           “Tennis, track, and I ski on occasion,” he listed, not surprising me a great deal. Like, yeah, those sports were real and all, but they weren’t contact sports like football or basketball or hockey. “Now, back to you.” Shit. Evidently, my diversion wasn’t so successful, after all. “You played varsity all four years?”

           “Yep,” I nodded dully at my past achievement. It was a big deal, sure, but it wasn’t something for which I wanted to be known. That was high school. I was done with all that, so bringing up past accomplishments just didn’t make a whole lot of sense.

           “Huh,” Grant said, slowly standing from his chair in order to walk over to a counter behind him. He fiddled with an open bottle of something, and then poured a glass, walking back over to his chair, and sitting down once again. “So, you were on varsity for all four years, and won two state championships. I heard that you were supposed to play here, but then decided not to last minute. May I ask why?”

           I knew this question was coming. I just knew it. “Uh, I quit football this past summer,” I told him with a gulp. His eyes connected with mine, and he silently urged me to continue, elaborating on what I had said. “I was done, and, um, just not really in the best place at the time.”

           “Uh huh,” he said dismissively. “Well, I’m sure you had a good reason for it.” I did. Well, at least I thought that I did. “You’re also pretty smart, Eric, am I correct?”

           “Yeah, I guess,” I shrugged. “I got into Stanford, didn’t I?”

           “True, true,” he laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh—it was the type of laugh that was forced and superficial. He then slid the glass filled with some sort of liquid in it over to me. “Do you like beer or scotch?”

           “Neither,” I replied. “I don’t drink.”

           “See, Houston had mentioned that, but I didn’t believe him,” Grant said thoughtfully. “Any particular reason?”

           “No,” I shook my head, pushing the glass back over in his direction.

           “So, you’re smart, quit football, and don’t drink. It’s an interesting mix, Eric Wilson,” he mused aloud, drumming a single finger against the wooden tabletop. It was beginning to feel like I was in the middle of an interrogation session on one of those bad cop shows, and Grant was trying to nail me for murder or something. “Been dating anyone recently?”

           “Nope.”

           “I heard that you and Ari Remon were getting pretty close.”

           “We’re friends,” I said simply, for there was nothing more to say on the matter. “How do you know Ari?”

           “Scott’s her best friend, and last year she spent a lot of time here with him,” he answered effortlessly as my eyes began to wander around the room once again. “She’s pretty hot, right?”

           “Yeah, I guess,” I shrugged, not denying it, for it was a thing that couldn’t be denied. Ari was hot. It wasn’t exactly my choice word that I would’ve used to describe her, but it was definitely a fitting adjective. She was also mysterious, vague, and minimalistic, but if Grant wanted to only discuss her outer appearance, then so be it. Though, really, I wasn’t entirely sure why we were talking about her to begin with.

           “Anyways, Ari Remon aside, I’m also aware of your familial connection to our fraternity. Your grandfather and father were members, making you the plausible third generation to join,” Grant expressed, deciding to bring my family history into things. “That’s a big deal, Eric.” I nodded slowly, not saying anything. Grant let out a sigh, and then switched tactics. “So, do you have any particular questions or concerns about joining?”

           I had a few things that had been hesitantly swirling around in my mind, serving as the main bases for my reluctance of giving a definite answer as to whether or not I intended to join the organization of college guys. One item, however, seemed to be more important than all the rest, so I went with it first. “When I was here for the barbeque a few weeks ago, I accidentally walked into a room with a few guys in it. They were high,” I began with the backstory to my question. “What’s the frat’s policy on drug use?”

           Grant studied my face for a few moments, probably trying to decipher which way I swung—in favor for illegal substances, or against. “Drug use is strictly prohibited by our fraternity,” he said slowly, still trying to read my impassive face. I wanted him to be honest, so not knowing my personal opinion on the matter was crucial.

           “Are you sure?” I prompted.

           “Yes,” he trailed off, glancing at me once more before standing, “that is of course if you’re a parent, cop, or dean. That’s what we tell them.” He walked over to the counter behind him—the same one he had poured me a glass of whatever—and then picked up a wooden box of sorts, returning to the table with it in his hands. Setting it down, he then passed it over to me in the same way that he had with the drink. “Now, Eric, I don’t personally know you, but judging from what I know about you, I have a hunch that you’re no saint when it comes to smoking pot.” I nodded yet again, trying to not give anything away. “If you want to smoke, I’m fine with that, and so are the guys. Open it,” he commanded, gesturing over to the box that was now in my immediate vicinity.

           Cautiously, I lifted the lid off of the prism, surprised that it was attached by hinges, and then quickly closed it once I realized what it held within: pot. In the box was some weed, and all the memories that I had tried so hard to suppress came flooding back. That box was all I needed in order to make up my mind.

           As swiftly as I could without it appearing rude, I jolted up from my seat, and gulped. “I’m, uh, sorry, Grant, but I have to go.”

           “Oh, c’mon, Eric! Stay a little while longer!” he begged. “Wanna light a joint together?”

           “No,” I said all too soon. “I have to go. It was nice meeting you.”

           “You too, Eric,” he returned, observing my abrupt behavior. He rose to my height, and then took my hand in his, shaking it firmly. “I really do hope that you’ll seriously consider joining.”

           “Yeah, uh huh,” I mumbled, taking a step back. “I, um, am gonna leave now. Bye.” With that, I marched over to the door of the room, and burst through, only to greet the four who had sent me in without enough warning. Scott had his ear pressed up against a wall, leading me to the conclusion that he was attempting to listen in on the meeting, Houston was calmly sitting down in a chair, Kay was sitting on Houston’s lap, and Ari was laying on the ground. Of course Ari was lying on the ground...

           “Eric!” Scott said happily, upon noticing me. “I couldn’t really hear anything. How did things go with Grant The Asshole?”

           “Um, not well,” I muttered. “Look, I’d love to discuss what happened in there, but right now, I really need to make a call.” Not even bothering to wait for a response, I practically sprinted down the hallway, not knowing where my feet were leading me. I ran up a set of stairs, and came to another corridor, and then turned to the left—not right—and went into a shadowy room that always seemed to be abandoned. Though I wasn’t entirely sure why I was here, I knew what I needed to do.

           I jogged over to the two doors that separated the outside world from the one of the frat life, and nudged one open, coming to a familiar balcony. After rushing over the railing, I took a few deep breaths as I had been taught, processing what had just happened. Then, I extracted my phone from my back pocket and with shaky fingers pressed the required buttons until I was sure I had dialed the correct number. I put the device up to my ear, only to receive the aggravating noise of ringing.

           Seconds that felt like hours passed by, and then I was finally greeted with a cheery, “Eric! Sweetheart, how are you! You should really call more, you know!”

           “I—I know, Mom, I know,” my voice managed to croak out.

           “Eric?” her tone was suddenly alarmed, unlike it had been moments before. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Were you hurt? Where are you? Who are you with?”

           “I’m alone, I’m in the frat house, I’m not hurt, I’m not okay, and I, um, just got offered some pot,” I answered in reverse order.

           “You what?” she demanded, still retaining that aura of motherly concern.

           “I was meeting with the frat’s president, because he wanted to talk to me about, um, joining, and then I asked what their policy on drugs was,” I retold the event that had happened just minutes ago. “Then he pushed a box of weed over to me, and asked if I wanted to light one with him.”

           “You said no?”

           “Of course.”

           “Good,” she sighed out of relief. “Eric, you’re so strong, and I’m so proud of you. Maybe the fraternity life isn’t for you, if it involves the temptation and possibility of being in contact with that world.” She always referred to drugs and pot as “that world.” My mom didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that in her perfect little world of supermarket shopping and cooking casseroles, there could be such evil as pot. She thought that it was an entirely different segment of reality, even though her own son had been apart of it for so long.

           “Yeah, maybe…” I mumbled.

           “You should set up a counseling session,” she said. “I heard Stanford has a wonderful clinic where you can just go in an talk to someone if you need.”

           “I just wanted to talk to you, Mom,” I replied earnestly. “I don’t really think that having an undergrad psych major evaluate me and then judge me based on my past is really worth all the trouble.”

           She was quiet then, either thinking over what I had said, being distracted by something else, or crying. After I finally told my parents about the drugs, they both reacted differently. My dad was ashamed and disappointed, while my mom was supportive, though cried a lot. When they visited me in rehab those few times, they weren’t pleasant visits. My mom would just cry and cry over seeing me, and my dad would make the occasional snide comment like, “Well, Eric, if you had just stuck to football, then you wouldn’t have to be here.” But the thing that he didn’t know was that football was half the reason that I had gotten into drugs in the first place.

           When I was younger, I had two best friends: Alex (who now didn’t talk to me) and Dylan (who was now dating Liz, my ex-girlfriend, and whose sister, Mackenzie, was my first girlfriend). The three of us were pretty tight, but then in about sixth or seventh grade, I began to get really serious about football. Like, I had always played around in town leagues and stuff, but around the age of twelve or thirteen, I took it to another level. I started to play as much as I could, and joined probably the most elite team for kids my age that my county offered.

           The summer between middle school and high school—when I was making the giant leap of maturity to one segment of my life to another—I went to football camp. It was a three-week program that took place at a college, and we would stay in dorms and play football—a lot of football. During that time, I was bunking with these two guys, one of whom went on to become another close friend of mine in high school. The other dude was a year older than us, and was the gateway into my second real encounter with the realms of pot.

           Dylan and I had first tried pot together. We were in about eighth grade or so, and thought that we might as well try it. Dylan didn’t like it, but I didn’t mind it. Then that summer at football camp started, and I developed an addiction of sorts to the substance. In high school, almost every afternoon right after football practice two friends and I would go behind this sketchy convenience store (because we knew no one would look for us there) and get high. It was a terrible way to live, and the more I thought about it, the more I wondered how I had managed to salvage enough brain cells in order to get me into Stanford. It was practically a miracle.

           “Just consider it, Eric?” my mom finally said, referencing the Stanford clinic that I wasn’t exactly too keen on visiting.

           “Okay, Mom.”

           “Are you okay now?”

           “No.”

           “I really think that you should meet with someone, Eric.”

           “I know, Mom.”

           “Just go back to your dorm to sleep or go to the gym,” she suggested with the use of all her maternal instinct that could’ve been bottled up and sold to lost souls.

           “Yeah, I think I’m going to go workout,” I decided. Since it was midafternoon, the trusty UWBDC wouldn’t be there as a stable support group, but at least I would have the workout equipment to keep me company as I tried to shake off the terrible sense of rotten nostalgia that I was now feeling. Remembering about how you used to be practically reliant on drugs wasn’t exactly the best memory in the world to hold dear to your heart.

           “That’s a good idea,” she expressed. “Do you think you’re going to be okay?”

           “Eventually,” I absently articulated. “I should probably go.”

           “Okay, honey, whatever you need to do.”

           “Bye, Mom.”

           “Bye, Eric.”

           I hung up my phone, stuffing it back into my pocket, and let out a long stream of air, emitted from within my mouth. Then, I felt someone else’s presence, so swirled around, only to face probably one of the only people that I could actually tolerate right now: Ari. She was just standing there, a few feet away from me, a single headphone in, and her gaze not fixed on me, but rather something or nothing beyond. Well, Grant was definitely right about something: Ari was hot.

           It wasn’t even that the girl had a nice (okay, more than nice) body or a gorgeous face and good hair, but more about how modest she was about her looks. She possessed this underlying sense of false confidence that was shielded by sorrow and clandestine, making her all that more alluring and attractive. Her exterior was great, between her never-ending legs and soft face with eyes that would always sparkle if it weren’t for the evident dejection they held, but what I liked more was her simplicity.

           Ari wasn’t the type of girl who went around flaunting herself to the world. She covered up in unassuming clothes of a muted palate, and retained a thickly built wall around herself most of the time that no one could scale. Though at times she seemed quiet, she wasn’t. She was just waiting for the right moment to speak, never wasting unnecessary words. Her ease was by far one of the best qualities about her—well, aside from her legs.

           “I take it things didn’t go well with Grant?” she said, still not looking at me. Her sentence had ended with a verbal question mark, but it, itself, wasn’t a question, but more a statement of sorts.

           “No,” was all I said with a shaky exhale of air.

           “We should hang out some time,” Ari then said, instead of giving me some sage advise about how to deal with Grant Sterling like I thought she would. But then again, this was Ari Remon. Nothing was to be expected when it came to this girl.

           “Sounds like a plan,” I said, staring down at my boat-shoe-clad feet. Ari didn’t speak after that, and I didn’t bother to say anything more, either. We just stood there, doing nothing, and it was nice.