CHAPTER
I
Just over a year later…
“Marc?”
“Hn.”
“Are you awake?”
“I am now.”
“Eh…sorry.” Ian Combeferre smiled in the darkness, rolling over in his
bunk.
“’S all right.” Marc Enjolras rolled his eyes, muttering down over the
edge of the top bunk, “What do you want? It’s gotta be two in the
morning.”
“Said I was sorry,” Combeferre grumbled. “I just wanted to know what time
your class is at tomorrow.” He glanced at the digital clock beside his
bottom bunk. “And it’s actually one-thirty in the morning, not two.”
“Combeferre, my class is early,” was the exasperated answer. “At, like,
ten o’clock. So I ought to get some sleep.”
“Oh, come off it. I know you’re an insomniac anyway.”
“You just derive some sick pleasure from waking me up at odd hours of the
night.”
“If I derived sick pleasure from anything, it would be watching you roll
out of the top bunk in your sleep, in which case it would be pointless
for me to want to wake you up.”
“And they say I’m the argumentative law student.” Enjolras buried
his face in his pillow.
Combeferre laughed softly. “And my parents wanted me to be a doctor.
How were they to know that I excelled at arguing?”
“Were those the only choices they gave you?” Enjolras’s voice was muffled
by his pillow.
“Well, that, or become a rabbi, like my uncle.” Combeferre snorted. “So
you can see how I ended up in medical school.”
“If your family’s so devout, why do you have a French family name, anyway?”
“It goes way back on my dad’s side,” Ian answered. “The famous Combeferre
gene pool from the French Riviera. I get the Judaism from Mom’s side.
My father converted when they got married, so, here I am, Ian Mordechai
Combeferre, stubborn Jew.”
“Ian, you’re gay.” Enjolras glanced over the edge of the bunk. “How can
you be both gay and a Jew?”
“Quite easily, actually,” was the laughing reply. “I’m a gay Jew.”
“Ha, ha. No, really, what do your parents think about it?”
“Who said my parents know? Furthermore, who said my parents have
to know?”
“Well, don’t you think they’ll be a little surprised when they try to marry
you off to some nice Jewish girl?”
Combeferre grinned. “No problem. I’ll tell ‘em I’m becoming a eunuch.”
Enjolras bent over the side of his bunk far enough to chuck a pillow at
Combeferre’s head. “That’s disgusting.”
Combeferre batted the pillow away, cackling madly. “That’s okay.
I think they’d probably take the news of me being gay better than they
would if I told them that.”
“Ugh.” Enjolras flopped back onto his own bunk. “Argh, bad mental images!”
Combeferre muffled his own laughter in the pillow that Enjolras had thrown
at him. “Pleasant dreams, Marc,” he giggled.
Enjolras groaned, covering his ears and going back to the business of trying
to get to sleep.
********************************
Combeferre was awoken the next morning by a series of loud noises, to which
he had become accustomed. First came the beeping of the alarm clock,
loud enough to wake the dead. Then, the heavy thump of a large object
hitting the floor. Then, violent cursing in both English and Spanish,
with an occasional Latin word thrown in for good measure.
“Damn, and I wasn’t even awake to see you roll out of your bunk today,
Enjolras.” Combeferre yawned, forcing his eyes open.
“Oh, I bet you think it’s pretty f***ing funny, don’t you?” Enjolras glared
at him from where he lay on the floor, tangled in his sheets. “Murrda°!
I mean, why in the f***ing name of f***ing Mary Magdalene do you turn that
alarm clock volume up so motherf***ing loud?!”
“If I didn’t turn it up so loud, you’d never wake up.”
“Perite°!”
“Don’t cuss me out in a dead language at nine a.m.” Combeferre stretched,
heaving himself out of bed. “I can deal with that spucatum tauri°
once I’ve had my caffeine, but not before.” He shuffled into the bathroom,
grabbing some clothes off the floor on the way in. Ten minutes later,
he reemerged, fully dressed and shaved, running a brush through his obstinate,
dark waves of hair. “Your turn.”
Enjolras had managed to extricate himself from his sheets, and had flung
them haphazardly back onto the top bunk. He took his turn in the
bathroom, while Combeferre battled with his hair. Finally, as Enjolras
came out, Ian growled in frustration, slamming the brush onto his desk.
“Forget that!” He shoved on his blue-tinted glasses, complaining under
his breath about his hair.
“What’s the matter? Had problems brushing your sideburns?” Enjolras
teased him, pulling on his jacket and stuffing a couple of dollars into
the pocket of his jeans.
“Vete al carajo°!”
Marc smirked, running his fingers through his own golden blond hair. “I
thought your language of study was French.”
“I make it my obligation to know curse words in Spanish, if only to know
what the hell you’re jabbering on about.” Combeferre flung a book
or two into a canvas bag and slung it over his shoulder.
“You make it seem as though the only Spanish words I say are expletives,”
Enjolras shot back, picking up his own books, and the keys to the room.
He tossed the keys in the air, and caught the key ring on his index finger
as they came back down, twirling them expertly.
“C’mon, you’ve got a little less than an hour to eat and get to class.”
Combeferre led the way, then took the keys from Enjolras, locking the door
once they’d left the room.
“Here, where are we gonna catch something to eat this early?” Enjolras
asked, managing to avoid the broken beer bottles littering the hallway
floor of the dormitory. Not that that was anything new…
“Believe it or not, pal, the rest of the world has nine-to-five jobs,”
Combeferre said, taking the stairs two at a time. “Most cafés open
at seven or eight around here; you know that.”
“Are we going to that cybercafé down the street? You know,
the one where Courfeyrac gets all his hookers?”
“Hookers? Enjolras, they work for free.” Combeferre waved to the
middle-aged lady behind the receptionist’s desk, who gave him a strange
look. He pushed open the dorm’s front door, flashing the guard his
ID card and hugging his trenchcoat closer against the bitterly cold November
wind. And, here in Manhattan, it was only destined to get colder
as winter approached.
“If they’re not hookers, then what does that make them? Sluts?” Enjolras
considered for a moment, correcting himself in his language of choice.
“Putas gordas°.”
“Por supuesto°.” Combeferre led his younger friend down the
crowded sidewalks of Morningside Heights. “Ah, here we are. The Café
Maisha°, Courfeyrac’s preferred hangout.” He pushed open the door,
pausing in the doorway to appreciate the noise that announced their arrival.
In most establishments, it was a cheerful little bell or something; here,
it was the positively heartwarming sound of an Internet connection.
Whhhirrrr-beep!
Beep! Ding! Ah, how he’d grown to love that sound.
The bartender, a gorgeous Cuban girl, waved to them.
“Hey, chicos! Look who’s here!” she called, chomping on her
gum. “Whaddya want, ‘Ferre? Did Marky drag you all the way down here
so he could get his morning dose of booze?”
Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Yep. That’s it exactly, Bahorel, how did
you know?”
A jocular call from the corner of the room forestalled the girl’s reply.
“Enjolras, where’re your manners? We don’t call ladies by their last
names!”
“Of course, forgive me. Guadalupe Eulalia Bahorel.” Enjolras bowed
deeply to the bargirl, who snorted.
“Go on, kid. Courfeyrac’s over there.” She nodded to the guy at the
corner table who’d reprimanded Enjolras. To Combeferre, she added,
“Your usual, handsome?”
The young man blushed slightly, and nodded, following Enjolras over to
their friend’s table, where he found Radley Courfeyrac typing furiously
on the keyboard of his favorite computer. As he approached, he noticed
the less ostentatious presence seated on the other side of his outspoken
friend.
“Hey, Courfeyrac. Hi, Prouvaire. What’s up? You’re not
usually awake this early.” Ian plopped himself into the seat between Enjolras
and Courfeyrac.
“I’m replying to an e-mail sent to me by this chick from New Zealand.”
Courfeyrac typed some more. “She sounds really hot.” Tickety-tickety
tap. More typing.
“And I’m advising him on what to say,” added Jonny Prouvaire, known to
his friends mostly by his middle name, Keats.
Combeferre sighed, shaking his head. “Courfeyrac, can you even locate New
Zealand on a map?”
“What does that matter?” The other boy shrugged.
“And you, Keats, don’t waste your poetic gift on such triviality,” Combeferre
continued. “I don’t suppose I need to remind you that the person you’re
e-mailing could be anyone, from a homely teenager, to a horny grandmother,
to some male ex-convict.”
Lupe Bahorel appeared, balancing a tray. “I don’t even wanna know
what that conversation’s about.” She set down a tall glass in front of
Combeferre. “A triple mocha cappuccino for you…” Another few glasses joined
the one already on the table. “…A latte for Keats, a beer for Romeo”—Courfeyrac
looked up long enough to wink at her—“and a black coffee for Marky…” She
plunked a plate in the center of the table, beside the computer. “…And
one large order of jalapeno onion rings.”
“Thanks, baby.” Without looking up, Courfeyrac pulled a stick of gum out
of his pocket, holding it out to her. “Your tip, mademoiselle.”
Feigning irritation, Lupe snatched the stick from him, tucking it into
the bosom of her low-cut tank top. “When are you losers going to start
tipping me in cash?”
“When we actually get our hands on some,” came the cheeky reply.
“Students, huh.” The bartender gave a snort of exasperation, retreating
behind her bar. The café was quiet; their table was the only
one occupied that morning.
Courfeyrac stuffed a handful of the onion rings into his mouth, then spoke
to Marc around his mouthful. “Hey, dig in, guys. Plenty of food to
go ‘round.”
“No thanks. I think I just lost my appetite.” The blond young man
grimaced.
“How do you eat that stuff so early in the morning, anyway?” Combeferre
squinted at the steaming, foul-smelling plateful of food. “It’s a little-known
form of hazardous waste.”
“It won’t hurtcha. I’ve been eating it for years now, and look at
me.”
“I rest my case.” Combeferre folded his hands judiciously on the tabletop,
glancing at Courfeyrac over the rims of his glasses.
Prouvaire smiled, brushing his sandy hair out of his eyes. “I would help
you finish it off, Radley, but neither jalapenos nor onion rings really
go with lattes.”
“You know the rule about the Forbidden Name, J.P.” Courfeyrac interrupted.
“Anyone who utters the accursed ‘R’ name must die.”
“What? ‘Radley’?” Enjolras asked with contrived innocence, taking
a sip of his coffee.
“Don’t push me, cutie pie. That’s my parents’ name for me.” Courfeyrac
shot Enjolras a look. “I’m Courfeyrac, to you.”
“Whatever you say, Courfeyrac.” Combeferre shook his head and changed the
subject. “Are you all ready for the rally this afternoon?”
Lupe’s ears almost visibly perked up. “Eh, what’s that? Rally?
And you guys didn’t tell me?”
“We didn’t want to have to bail you out of jail like we did last time,”
Courfeyrac called to her. “That’s a quick ‘n’ easy way to get arrested—kick
a cop in the balls.”
“It wasn’t my fault, honest! He touched my ass!”
“Right.” Courfeyrac clicked the ‘send’ icon on his e-mail program. “That’s
your story, and you’re stickin’ to it.”
“Combeferre…?” Lupe turned to Ian with a hopeful smile. “What time is the
rally today?”
“Do you promise not to end up in legal trouble, Lupe?”
“Me? Legal trouble?” She batted her long eyelashes innocently. “Why
should that be a problem when we have two aspiring lawyers right here in
this room?”
“Don’t include me in that,” Courfeyrac piped up. “I’m thinking of changing
my major again.”
Combeferre ignored him. “Fine. It’s at three this afternoon, in front
of the Low Library.”
“Thanks, muchacho. I’ll be there.” She graced him with a loud
kiss on the cheek.
“Great,” Ian muttered, trying to wipe the wine-red lipstick off his cheek
with the back of his hand.
“Are the NYU boys gonna be there?” Courfeyrac asked, leaning back on the
two back legs of his chair.
“Joly and Laigle? Who can ever tell with those two?” Combeferre shrugged.
“I want to speak today,” Enjolras said suddenly.
“What?” Courfeyrac just looked at him.
“At the rally.” Enjolras turned to face his friends. “I want to speak at
the rally!”
“Enjolras, really.” Combeferre seemed a bit nervous at this prospect. “It’s
not the safest thing you could choose to do, and you’re only a sophomore,
and you have little or no experience with this sort of—“
“No, no, ‘Ferre, don’t patronize me. I’m going to make a speech there.”
“And what if you get caught? What of your college career?”
“Don’t worry. Nothing’s going to happen,” Enjolras replied.
“What would you say to the student body?” Courfeyrac munched on an onion
ring.
“I’d tell them to…um…to overthrow authority! Yes, that is what I
would tell them.”
“Marky, I know you’re shaping up to be a pretty slick-talking lawyer, but
do you really think even you could pull that off?” Bahorel added her two
cents from behind the bar.
“I think you should let him speak if he wants to,” Keats said timidly.
“We’ll see.” Combeferre still looked doubtful. “But now, if you guys don’t
mind, ‘Marky’ has a class to attend.”
Enjolras sighed. The battle for respect among all these older boys
was an ongoing one, with no end in sight. “Okay, okay, I’m going.
It’s only Psych anyway; Kellerman will let me get away with a tardy or
two.”
“Is he the teacher who comes to class ripped every day?” Courfeyrac wondered,
pulling up Internet Explorer.
“Our class pool is betting it’s weed,” Enjolras responded, finishing his
coffee in one gulp and digging a bill of two out of pocket. He dropped
them onto the tabletop and pushed back his chair, standing. “I’ve got ten
bucks on it.”
“Who’s going to break into his desk and poke around to find out?” Combeferre
laughed. “I have fifteen bucks in the same pool, that says he’s just plain
drunk.”
“Well, whatever. The point is, I don’t have to be in any hurry to
get to that class. It’s just a B.S. course anyway.”
“You say that all the time about my beloved course, Philosophy,” Combeferre
said, a bit miffed.
“And my course, Poetry,” Prouvaire added.
“And so they are, dear friends, so they are.” Courfeyrac took a swig of
his beer. “Be off with you, Marky Marc. Have fun in your class, and
just recall that you chose it as one of your electives.”
“Right, right,” Enjolras mumbled, pushing open the front door. Over
his shoulder, he called back to Combeferre, “Meet you at one-thirty for
lunch? In front of the library?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Combeferre said distractedly, watching Courfeyrac
start a search on Google.com for “fantasia exotic porn”.
Enjolras nodded, and waved goodbye to Lupe, letting the door fall shut
again behind him.
********************************
Footnotes:
1.) Murrda: Spanish for "Shit!"
2.) Perite: Latin word loosely
translated as "Fuck off!"
3.) spucatum tauri: Latin that
can be literally translated as "bullshit".
4.) Vete al carajo: Spanish phrase
meaning "Go to Hell!"
5.) Putas gordas: Spanish for "fat
whores".
6.) Por supuesto: A common Spanish
phrase meaning "Of course".
7.) Maisha: Swahili word for "life".
For all you RENT fans.
*********************************
Journey
on...
Go
back to the Frat House...