Shades of Gray

"Thank you, so much," comes a sarcastic remark from Josh once we're in the car, "for notifying me you were in the goddamn hospital because you passed out from lack of sleep."

"Sorry, mom," I respond in the same tone. "I thought I'd come back before curfew."

He glares at me slightly, moving the stick shift to gear three. It feels weird not driving my own car, but I'm too dizzy to care. I put my hand awkwardly over his, guide the stick to gear two.

"So I have to call someone to drop me off at fucking Scooter's, the most hipster coffee shop alive, only to find you high off your ass on legal drugs, with some kid who's only goal in life is to probably become an emotional serial killer, and a goddamn piece of paper for more drugs."

I roll my eyes and stare out the window.

Josh lightly touches the bandage on my head. "How the fuck did you get this, anyway?"

I blink, take a deep breath, wracking my brain for an explanation on the various injuries on my body.

"Uh, uh, with lack of sleep your body does this thing where it kind of slows down I guess??? And something weird happened with my heart, I dunno it affects the healing process and I guess you get injuries faster, or sometimes they just appear and Jack was poking me and when I woke up I totally hit my head hard and-"

"Slow down, kid," laughs Josh. "I'm pre-med. I know what happens when you don't sleep."

"Well, yeah."

"I can't drive this stupid car," Josh says when the breaks fuck up a sixth time and he nearly runs into a parked car.

I shrug. "I have class in like an hour and twenty three minutes."

"You'll get there on time. You got a date with Barakat, right?"

"It's not a date," I try, but he's already doing that weird, fatherly-like thing where he pats my head and ruffles my hair. I wonder if he has an infantile kink.

"Dress nice," Josh tells me, missing the car-garage street turn onto campus, dodging around a couple of sorority sisters protesting milk. "Wear those jeans from that hipster store that make your ass look nice, but are loose enough to take off easily. Oh, and wear a loose tee, as well. No button ups. Pair that with those gay-ass slip ons you have."

"I'm the gay one?"

"Fuck off."

***

"Man, Gaskarth," a classmate says to me, Jake, or James, or John, think it's John, yeah, clutching his latest infatuation in writing, some science author named Robert Heinlein. It seems to be one of his longer phases, like first trimester's Sigmund Freud. "You look like shit," he dotes on.

"Thanks," I say, giving a wry grin. "Reading anything good?"

"Yeah," John says, "It's about this guy who invents a machine that can give you any date about your life that you ask for. Or, your death date, at least."

"Sick," I comment absently.

"I read another one, kinda confusing." He digs around in his backpack for a second, producing a thin, small book. "Called 'All You Zombies.' You'll like it." He hands the book to me. It's flimsy, and the pages seem thin enough that they'd tear at a single touch.

"Thanks," I reply. He gives me a tight smile.

***

"So," Jack says enthusiastically, nearly bouncing in his seat. For a second I forget that he had the highest SAT scores in Maryland.

Maryland, Maryland. Who would have guessed I'd pick Johns Hopkins over Brown, or Columbia?

"So," I reply to the younger boy, taking a sip of my water. It tastes sort of salty, and I make a mental note not to order lemon cucumber water anymore.

"Did you like it?" he asks, boyish grin plastered on his face.

I hum, eyes scanning the menu.

Jack huffs, then takes a breath, and you can almost feel the air smooth itself out as he goes from giddy teenager to one of those arrogant assholes of a nerd. He wipes crumbs from complimentary bread off his face, staring at me intently.

"I've been thinking about this for a while," he begins, and for a second I think he's going to tell me he's got a gay crush on me or something. But instead, he takes out a notebook.

"When we first met, like two months ago," he flips the page, and I resist the urge to tell him we went to the same high school and probably interacted one time or another. "You said something like 'wouldn't it be ironic, dying while not sleeping?'"

"'because most people like to die in their sleep, but what about dying in your no-sleep?' Yeah," I interrupt, unsure of where he's going.

"I told you that was pretty much impossible, because after a certain amount of time you'd pass out, or have microsleeps that'd motivate your body to fully sleep eventually."

"But I wouldn't know," he continues, and I note that his voice is sort of deeper. "I'm just a college student. So I did some digging around."

"Are you saying I'm going to drop dead someday? Just because I refuse to indulge in practical activities such as covering myself with cloth and closing my eyes?"

Something flickers in his eyes for a second.

"Precisely."

***

"So tell me," I begin, once we're seated on his couch, something more of a black futon. "What's with the obsession with brains?"

I don't say this jokingly. His apartment is covered from floor to ceilings with abstract paintings, posters, some ceramic models, even, of the creepiest organ in the body- the cerebrum.

"It's not just me," Jack answers. "My roommate and his girlfriend are both obsessed, too."

"Is your roommate a neuroscience major as well?"

Jack nods, sifting through Netflix for a dumb horror movie, as mentioned earlier.

"But I'm sure they've got different reasons for liking. Dan's smart as hell, and his girlfriend, whatever her name this week is, she, or they, to group them all, usually major in some sort of neuroscience. He doesn't date girls in any other category. Make sense?"

"You could have worded that differently," I construct, "but it makes sense. What's your reason?"

I let out a much-needed yawn and Jack begins talking.

"When I was younger, but not that much younger, I walked home from school every day."

"Everyone did," I snort, except not really, it's more of a choke on an intake of air.

"Well, once I walked past this dead cat, and it's skull was cracked open, like someone ran exactly the head over, and that's it, so I went poking around, and ever since I've had a weird interest in brains."

It's quiet for a second.

"That's more of a serial killer origin," I say. "Not a doctor."

Jack shrugs. "It develops. If not, I'd make a good serial killer."

"How does one make a good serial killer?" I inquire, leaning back on the black sofa-bed.

"I'm attractive. Easy to lure my victims to me."

I give him a glance, take in the awkward wave to his hair, random streak of what's almost a dull urine yellow.

"Give or take a few years, kid," I tell him. "I'm sure you'll be hot as fuck."

"I thought you weren't attracted to me," he says with a sort of smirk, the room dark besides the dim light of the television, the darkness sort of closing the space between us.

"I'm not blind," I say, and let myself snuggle into the couch.