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2. Luke Daniels (Something Bad)

Sometimes I like books. I have to be in the mood. Back in high school, I only read the books that seemed interesting or relevant to my life. I wasn't going to waste my time on something that I didn't want to read. English teachers hated me because we'd be reading something like The Scarlet Letter and everyone else in the class would pretend to be so enrapt and interested in the book, and I'd just sit at the back of the class like, "This is dumb. I don't want to be here. The Puritans were assholes." (I always kind of hoped in the back of my mind that the teachers secretly respected my steadfast ideals, but they didn't care—they just thought I was a disrespectful punk).

But since moving on from secondary education and eventually abandoning higher education, I no longer have to refuse to read books that I don't want to read. Now, I only read books that I want to read. Interesting books. About interesting people and interesting places and interesting things. Jack Kerouac was my man before Liv told me I should stop reading him because he's kind of a total misogynist. So I started Burroughs, which was evidently even worse than Kerouac in Liv's opinion. But eventually I was introduced to Vonnegut. Reading him was trippier than being on acid, and Liv approved.

Anyway, because I read what I want to read when I want to read it, I wasn't too thrilled when Liv proposed the idea of us joining a book club. It meant that I was going to have to read a certain amount of a certain book in a certain period of time just so that I could have something insightful to say when we met back up with a room of near strangers who had read the same amount of the book in the same span of time as I had. It was like high school all over again.

I didn't want to do it. (I didn't want to do much of anything these days). But Liv pushed and then her mom, Elle, pushed, and then they even got her dad, Nick, involved. Her family can be really pushy when they want to be. Though, they'll claim that they're just trying to "help." They're always just trying to help. It's been especially bad ever since they began majorly disproving of my life trajectory. But from their standpoint, I guess I can understand how they perceive that I "threw away" all my potential.

I like to say that I just "reevaluated" my life.

It sounds less judgy.

But, from an outside perspective, I guess you could say that I kind of plummeted. Four years at an elite private school, and then I just went down, down, down. I crashed and burned. Before that, though, I somehow got into MIT—I think the acceptance was a mistake, to tell the truth—but I couldn't do it. I dropped out second semester. I didn't tell Liv. I let her think that everything was okay and that I was just really busy. In reality, everything was a mess. I got a job in a garage, and then I tried to go back again the next year for the fall semester. But it just didn't work out. I wasn't meant to be in the classroom. I needed to be working with my hands.

Through some random turn of events, I got a job apprenticing an electrician. It was more interesting than fixing cars, because with cars there were a finite amount of problems to be solved. But electrical work felt limitless. There was always a new house or building that needed wiring, and I liked figuring that out. Also, I liked that I wasn't always in the same place. The monotony and expectancy in school and in the garage just about killed me. Electrics were the challenge I needed.

Unfortunately, Liv and her family didn't share my initial sentiments towards embarking on a new, unmarked path in the utility field. That life was simply unacceptable to a bunch of WASPs like them. I practically caused Elle Ross to have a stroke when I mentioned my new blue-collar position. For that reason, we pretended for a while that I was still on my way to becoming an engineer. Someone who designed bridges—not wired them.

But then pretending didn't work and they told me that I should go back to school, just so that I'm working towards "something." Nick didn't want me looking back at my life in fifty years and regretting that I never got a degree. So we comprised. And now I go to a community college. Well, barely. I only take one course a semester because I work and because that's all I can handle mentally. I only take classes that I want to. There are requirements, but that means having to take a semester of math, so I've been tactfully avoiding them. As long as the Ross family still thinks I go to school, everything's "fine."

Honestly, it kind of pisses me off that Liv's parents are so invested in me having a successful future. I know should be grateful that someone cares, but I'm not. I'm my own person, and I'm doing a fine job supporting myself. Besides, Nick and Elle already have enough to worry about, what with their prized daughter at Harvard who's on her way to getting a fake sociology degree. Of anyone, they should be devoting all of their anxieties to her—not me.

But Olivia Ross can afford to dick around at Harvard in something pointless like sociology because she's Olivia Ross. She has two supportive parents and money to fall back on. She'll probably get a PhD. I, on the other hand, am not on my way to a doctorate. I just want to wire houses. Maybe a few apartments. Even a business would do.

For now, though, I'm stuck going to book club because Liv guilted me into it. She's going to Europe in the fall for her junior abroad, and right now she's really big on us doing "together" things. Which is kind of annoying, because we're not really a "couple."

Like, we are, technically, a "couple," but our association has transcended the conventional social diameters of "dating." We're just kind of together. We don't see other people, but it's more of an intense friendship than a romantic relationship, even though we bang on occasion. I don't know. We've been together too long for either of us to cut the cord, even though we're going in completely different directions. I can't really imagine marrying Liv or having kids with her, but at the same time I can't image not being together. It's like a really fucked up codependence that we've got going.

This summer, it's even worse because she's living with me. I have my own apartment—that I pay for with the money that I make from my reliable job—and Liv has her parents' house. She didn't want to live with mom and dad this summer, so now she's with me. Which is weird. And especially rough because she wasn't in the mood to get an internship, which means that she has the entire summer to singlehandedly gentrify my entire apartment. (Even though she's only temporarily living there and is about to go hop the Atlantic). Whatever.

Last week's book club was a shit show. Most of the people already knew each other, so there was this tense drama going on, and I could tell that all of the other dudes—except for Oliver, the possibly gay one—were just as excited about being there as I was. Instead of a book club, we should call it the my-girlfriend-dragged-me-here-and-I-really-don't-want-to-be-here-or-read-books club. We started reading this awful English translation of an esoteric Danish book about twentysomethings who smoked a lot of cigarettes ("fags," as was the British English translation) and drank a lot of beer. The girls who were running it—Liv knows one of them, which is probably how she heard about this thing—were totally obsessed with the book. They thought it was so cool, in fact, that we were all set to read a hundred pages by the next week. Obviously, I didn't do the reading.

Liv did the reading, though. On the way to the bookstore, she caught me up on what she knew I missed: There was a gun. Drama. A love hexagon. Someone wanted to open up a flower shop. Had I read the pages detailing all of this prevalent information, there's a good chance that I would've ended up gouging out my eyes. I can't deal with shit like that.

We arrive at the bookstore—Paige's Turners, a name that is not nearly as clever as the owner thinks it is—and we walk in. Through the crypt of discarded tomes, past the unattended checkout desk, and through the back door. Two other couples are already here: the hippie couple and the model couple, though their labels are basically interchangeable. The girl who I'm pretty sure works here isn't wearing shoes. Her boyfriend has on Birkenstocks. They're in the midst of an intense conversation with the model girl. She is wearing shoes. Her top is also exposing a pleasing amount of cleavage. Her boyfriend is on his phone, texting away furiously. He might want to be here less than I do, if possible. Which I kind of get, because I looked him up after last week's thing and he's beyond legit.

What I learned:

MASON GREY (noun): a pop star born and bred in California, custom made for the music industry. Mason began singing seriously at age fourteen when his parents realized how much potential he had for superstardom. At age seventeen, Mason filed for emancipation—so that he could tour more—which he was then granted six months later. He has a track record of crashing cars and being a Class A douchebag. He and girlfriend Natalie Perry began dating after starring in a few of his music videos together. Natalie was a model, rumored to be ten years older than Mason, though her Wikipedia page claimed that she was only a year older. A couple of years ago, Mason made his acting debut, which in combination with his sixth platinum record skyrocketed his career to megasuperduperstardom. Mason is typically compared to the likes of Justin Bieber and One Direction. And for some crazy reason, he's stuck attending the same shitty book club as me.

The girls greet Liv with friendly waves and then begin gushing about her jean jacket. Birkenstocks Boy nods his head at me in acknowledgement and Mason continues to tap away on his phone. I sit down a seat over from the guy with whom I've just exchanged recognition. Liv sits down between us so that she can lean over to sort of listen to/partake in the girls' conversation.

A moment later, the door reopens to Liz the basketball player and her ward. That girl is fierce, which is a word that I absolutely hate using because it sounds kind of wrong coming from me, but there's no other way to describe her. She doesn't quite fit with the other girls in the room. Like, I can sort of get how the hippie girl and Liv and the other one who's with Possibly Gay Oliver get along, because they're all the types of girls you would assume would be into a book club. Natalie would be a wildcard if it weren't for how similar she is to hippie girl, minus the quiet enigmaticness. (It's probably the California connection). But Liz is different. She isn't obsessed with books or Birkenstocks and she plays basketball for a "real" team. I don't really know why she's here. Then again, I don't know why I'm here, either. It's not for the book. It's barely for Liv.

Last to arrive are Oliver and Emily. They're undoubtedly the youngest (you can just kind of tell—they're innocent and the reality of the "real world" hasn't quite hit them yet), but their hyper intellectualness makes up for the age disparity. Those kids are sharp. They seem too educated to not have gone through the suburban private school system. I think I caught Emily make a Barnes reference last time when Liv asked her something about school. I've known Barnes kids. They're on the same level as the kids I went to school with, though they have slightly more money, and they have the unfortunate luck of having to board at their school. As Oliver and Emily have inadvertently displayed, Barnes kids are the ones who become leaders of the world. In ten years, Oliver could be in the Fortune 500 and Emily could be a congresswoman. These are the types of kids Elle and Nick Ross would've killed to have as their own.

Everyone eventually gets settled. We refresh names (the hippies are Eric and Ari). Natalie takes Mason's phone away from him and slips it into the glorious abyss of her bra. Then the book thing starts happening.

"So," says Emily, "thoughts?"

Before anyone can cut in, Liz declares, "I like this book so far. Soren seems like a standup guy."

"Yeah," agrees Dylan, using up all his talking points for today, "same."

"He got Ida pregnant but then slept with Freja," counters Oliver. "How is he a 'standup guy'?"

Natalie then taps into her reading comprehension skills: "I think that he loves Freja, but Ida was willing to sleep with him and he was too drunk to consider the consequences at the time, so later when he sleeps with Freja its about love and he's sober."

"I don't like Soren," shares Eric. Liz noticeably winces. Dylan cracks his neck. "I think that he's kind of self-centered. Like, he thinks everyone is there to serve him and he's just a user. He used Ida and then even though he may claim to love Freja, he used her too."

"But he was a really good friend when Iver accidentally shot Mikkel in the knee," adds Emily.

"Iver shot Mikkel in the knee because Mikkel likes Ida and Iver also likes Ida—there was nothing accidental about it," reasons Eric. "Soren was only acting like a 'good' friend because it benefitted him—if the other two were busy fighting each other, then they would be too distracted to find out about Ida's pregnancy."

"True, but—" Oliver begins.

"I'm sorry but can we just go back to how Iver 'accidentally' shot Mikkel. Like, how do you 'accidentally' shoot your best friend? That's so dumb!" expresses Natalie. She turns to Mason and wonders, "Babe, do you have anything to add?"

Mason, looking as though he has just been woken up from a confusingly traumatic dream says, "Uhhh...shooting someone. Not cool."

"Really not cool," nods Oliver enthusiastically, "especially when the guy that you shoot is the same one that wants to help finance your lifelong dream of opening up a flower shop."

"I can't believe Iver shot Mikkel after Mikkel basically said that he'd give Iver some of his inheritance money—from his dead dad—to open up the flower shop, something that Iver had been dreaming of ever since he was ten, when his mom's garden was torched by his pyro-maniac step-dad!" Emily cries out emotionally, as if these people are actually real.

"It was about love," Ari finally speaks. "Soren had to have Freja because he loved her and Iver had to shoot Mikkel because he loved Ida. Love is what's fueling everyone."

"I agree," expresses my link to this conversation, "it's all about love. Ida slept with Soren because she loves him. It's a different type of love, but Mikkel promised Iver the money because he loves him. And while Soren may have had some selfish motivations, he ultimately helped Iver and Mikkel because he loves them." Quality contribution, Liv. Really. All that sociology that you do at Harvard must be worth every penny.

"I think the opposite," says Eric, careful to not undermine his girlfriend's opinion. "I think that Soren doesn't actually care about Iver or Mikkel. He's blinded by his own egotism. And honestly, I don't think that he even cares that much about Freja."

"He cares about Freja," Liz states resolutely. "He has always cared about Freja. And I think that he also cares about Ida. He's not going to let her go through this alone. He knows the consequences of his actions."

With a momentary lull in the discussion, Emily uses it to address me: "Luke, do you have anything you want to share?"

As the attention shifts to me, I know that I suddenly have two choices: 1) I can either pass on saying anything or 2) I can tell the truth, which will inevitably lead to conflict between Liv and me. I idiotically go with the latter. "I didn't do the reading," I say. "I was working."

Liv kicks me in the shin.

Dylan smiles widely, mutely telling me that he, too, skipped out on all of this Danish drama.

Mason regards me for a cool second and finally utters, "Me neither—cuz, like, work and stuff."

"Same," mumbles Dylan.

"Well," Emily calmly fumes, "how about you three go wait outside so that we don't spoil the rest of the plot for you!"

"Yeah, maybe you can start catching up," suggests Liz, but she really means, "Dylan, how dare you intellectually embarrass our joint unit!" Liv is thinking the same exact thing.

So the three of us sheepishly get up and leave the Studious Seven to their bullshit book.

We wander out into the depths of the desolate bookstore and wander around until we find a cavern containing a couch. Mason is the first to sit down. Then I. Then Dylan. It is so nice to not have to pretend. The other guys also stop pretending.

Dylan says, "That book sounded so dumb!"

"The names sounded weird," comments Mason. "What type of name is Sore-ren?"

"It's a Danish name," I say. "The book is a Danish book."

"Then why is it written in English?" wonders Dylan.

"It's the translation."

"Ohhhhhh," Dylan nods his head like I've just given him a long lost puzzle piece, "got'cha."

Mason pats his legs and then his chest and then he exclaims, "DAMNIT!"

"What?" indulges Dylan.

"Nat took my phone," he groans. "First she blackmails me into coming here and then she takes away my freaking phone! Jesus! Were you also blackmailed into coming here?"

"I wasn't blackmailed—just kind of forced," says Dylan.

"Yeah," I agree, "forced."

Mason then asks if our significant other has ever blackmailed us. Dylan and I tell him that, no, we've never been blackmailed. Mason expresses surprise at how he just figured blackmail was common. (I muse that it's probably just a West Coast thing). Dylan opens up the topic of abhorring the act of examining literature. Mason seconds the motion. I third it with the addendum that I only enjoy reading if it's on my terms.

Dylan tells me that last week he thought I was going to mug him. He says that my tattoos make me look tough—like I could beat someone up. Masons says that he likes my tattoos. He lifts up his T-shirt to show me his tattoo on the left side of his ribcage. It's two (practically microscopic) lowercased letters: "np." He says that Natalie won't let him get anymore, because she thinks they're trashy, which is "stupid," because she also has a tattoo. (Granted, her tattoo matches Mason's with the letters "mg" in the same place as his, "but still"). Dylan says that he considered getting a tattoo of Liz's jersey number but that her jersey sometimes changes, so it would be kind of dumb.

Mason asks Dylan how he knows Ari and Eric, both of whom he hates because they're the ones who convinced Natalie to join. I learn that Natalie is "obsessed" with Ari. I also learn that Eric used to date Liz way back when and that way before way back when Eric and Dylan were best friends. They haven't seen each other in a few years, and now all of a sudden they're thrown into the same book club. Mason wants to know if Dylan is concerned about leaving Eric and Liz in the same room together. Dylan laughs. He says that Eric's too into Ari to even look at another girl and that Liz is too smart to fall for Eric again.

Dylan then wants to know why I'm here. I tell him that I think Liv knows Emily in passing either from Harvard or from one of the billion elite summer programs she's done over the years. Harvard. Dylan wants to know more about it. I say that Liv goes there—that she's a year younger than me. And what about me? I'm an electrician (almost done with training). So no college? I tried it—it wasn't for me. Mason assures me that not going to school is a perfectly respectable decision. Mason doesn't go to school. Mason also barely got his GED. Because of these past educational difficulties, Mason finds it especially unfair that Natalie "blackmailed" him into going to this thing.

Then Mason says that getting kicked out of book club would have been so much more fun if we were either inebriated or stoned out of our minds. Dylan and I concur.

Half an hour later, everyone else comes out from the back room. Before we get reprimanded, we exchange parting words with one another. Mason says that next time he'll bring the bud. Then the girlfriends find us and drag us out. They wait like ticking time bombs. Well, Liv and Liz do. Natalie explodes the second she sees Mason. Mason begs for his phone back like a novice. I don't hear the rest of the argument, because Liv has my hand in a death grip as she pulls me out of the store.

We walk a block and then she starts. Yell. Yell. Yell. Yell. Yell. "How could you?" "Is this a joke to you?" "You could've just told me instead of embarrassing me like that!" "Why don't you try acting your age some time?" "How do you get kicked out of a voluntary book club?" "You could've at least faked it!" (I did. I am). "Why did you have to do that?" She keeps going. But I have the last the word:

"You sound like your mother."

And with that, I put the final nail in the coffin of my impending sex life. I did not read the book. I will not read the book. Liv is pissed. But at least I still have my ideals.