She breathes the smoke in and out. She takes a long enough drag on her cigarette, but the smoke instantly escapes through her dark pink lips. She doesn't hold in, not like someone used to the tar. She might be trying to impress her friends, but they aren't there.
She's sitting on a bench in the small quad nestled between the Letts and Anderson residence halls. Clusters of students mill around her, sit nearby, walk past. With her non-smoking hand she begins dialing on her cell phone so she won't be alone. No one picks up. She doesn't leave a message. That person might be out already. After all, it's Tuesday - a party night since many AU students don't have Wednesday classes. But it's early, around 10 p.m., and as expected her cell phone connects her with someone who hasn't left campus yet. She finally smiles.
Two boys pass her without a glance, strutting across the gray stone slabs of the Letts-Anderson Quad, their chests puffed up in purple jerseys emblazoned with yellow Greek letters. They bark at three more guys and slap hands as they settle into a small circle in front of Anderson Hall.
Two girls pass the group, attracting more than one glance. One is wearing a red top, the other has on something brown, but shimmery. Both shirts are sleeveless. Both girls are wearing black pants with heels.
"Hey, are you partying tonight?" a fraternity boy calls at them.
"Yeah," the girl in the red top says, rolling her eyes. She tosses her hair and exchanges a small smile with the brown shimmery girl. They don't break their stride and the boys don't catch their smile.
"OK, walk away, walk away!" the guy shouts after her as his fraternity brothers laugh from their position on the steps of Anderson. From there, if a smoker sitting on one of the Quad's benches wanted to call them pigs she'd have a hard time making out their faces to give a direct address.
Only two lampposts, which stand next to the quad's two trees, light the area. Unless the orange embers of Marlboros and Salems count as lighting. However, because the floors of Anderson and Letts box in the Quad, the florescent lights above the halls' front desks and the Christmas bulbs and television lights of the dorm rooms make it possible to cross the smaller-than-a-football-field space without much tripping.
But there are those who trip, especially now, after 1 a.m. The night has been just long enough for stuboy in a black T-shirt and khaki pants trips. Not even his Nike sneakers make him walk straight. He zigzags his way to the curb where he plants himself firmly, ducking his head between his knees. A girl shrieks and he lifts his hands to his temples.
"Dave! Dave, get over here!" A girl in a low v-neck requests of a guy with glasses and an orange polo shirt. Earlier, this boy had quietly floated between the conversations of fraternity men, often the only one not wearing a jersey. His orange shirt stuck out.
"My ladies," Dave coos. The frat boys were gone. "I'll holla at you, man," Dave says, pointing to a guy in a striped polo. "Yo, take care of Joe," he adds, already walking off with his long arms draped over the shoulders of "his ladies." The girls giggle.
"I will," says the striped polo boy. Dave doesn't hear. A blond girl in jeans and an off-red shirt joins the boy in a striped polo in helping Joe, apparently the kid with his head between his knees. The blond stands behind Joe and rubs his back, all the while watching the boy in the striped polo shirt. He crouches in front of Joe like a baseball catcher. Joe doesn't move. The guy in the polo ducks and cranes his neck, attempting to make eye contact.
"Go awayyy," Joe moans loudly, though probably not loud enough to reach the ears of Dave and his ladies, wherever they went. Joe's two companions glance at each other from over his shoulder. They stay.
Meanwhile, a girl writes in a notebook at one of two small tables on each side of the quad. She's wearing a T-shirt and blue jeans, not proper club attire. She is the only person without a cell phone or cigarette. She keeps her eyes on her work.
Another girl also sits alone, however she talks incessantly into her cell phone. She has bleached hair and a lot of lipstick.
"Yo, yo. Hold up," she says into her tiny silver phone, before turning to yell at someone walking near her bench.
"Brenden!"
No one responds.
"Brendeeen!" she squeals. One of the guys turns his head and peers out from beneath the brim of a slightly off-center baseball cap.
"Yo, what's up," he bellows in a deep, yet soft voice, dragging himself toward the bench with the limp that's in style for guys in baggy pants. Headphones are draped around his neck, and a juice bottle sits in his fist.
A group of about 11 - mostly girls - exits from Letts, all wearing either black pants or short skirts and some version of a tight, sleeveless top. They pull tiny black purses that hold tiny silver cell phone onto their shoulders. With their spare hands they they carry opened Diet Coke and Minute Maid bottles, affirming Brenden's style. Even those who don't drink are assumed to be rebellious carrying an open bottle of "juice" or "coke" on a party night.
The girl with bleached hair whines, "I love you," into her cell phone before snapping it shut and throwing her arms around Brenden's neck. She doesn't mention how much she loves him.
A girl in pink velour, four-inch heels and a shirt cropped above her bellybutton sits on a bench devoid of cell phone or companion, except a cigarette and lighter. That occupies her hands for a few seconds. She looks around as if someone should be there to rescue her. She looks annoyed. She plays with her hair, her lips. She wears a lot of makeup, especially around her eyes. Even in the dark it's noticeable. She gets up and walks across the quad, sighing heavily. Her heels click loudly on the quad's stone tiles. She turns her head toward the stairs in front of Anderson.
"Melissa! Melissa!"
Melissa turns around.
The girl in pink pants rushes over to Melissa and her friends. They start walking toward the taxi drop-off area. The pink girl yells again - a plea for Melissa to "wait up."
A few minutes later, two guys in frat jerseys swagger around the Anderson Hall steps.
"Whoever mixes with us we'll f--- them up!" one of them boasts loudly, so a group of about six guys standing nearby can hear. One of the men in the group mumbles a reply.
"What?! Say that again," the fraternity boy threatens, opening his arms, gesturing toward the group. He doesn't move to approach them.
The group stands quiet, the ends of their cigarettes beaming orange almost in unison as each takes a long drag and stifles a response to the frat guy by holding in smoke.
"Yeah, that's what I thought." The frat boys begin walking away.
"Hey!" a public safety officer yells after them, having just witnessed the scene. One of the boys glances over his shoulder. Both increase their pace away from the quad. The officer shouts after them again and finally catches up with them a few yards away, underneath the bridge between Letts and Anderson.
Meanwhile, the guy in the striped polo shirt has found another guy in a different colored striped polo shirt to help him get Joe to his wobbly feet.
"Oh my God, is that Joe?" a girl questions loudly. She has been gossiping with her friend on one of the benches. She almost stands up from the bench as she watches the polo shirts support Joe between them.
Joe's pale face is finally revealed, no longer hidden by his knees. He grabs the railing on the ramp up to Letts and slowly makes his way inside. The two boys in striped shirts and the blond girl who had rubbed his back secure him from each side without impeding his forward motion.
The public safety officer, apparently finished with the frat brothers, has come back looking for Joe. The girl who had recognized the pale guy tells the officer that Joe has entered Letts. She and her friend halt their conversation about people on their floor to comment on Joe's situation.
"He looked really bad," one said, sucking on her Winston filtered cigarette. "They had to stop like, twice before they got him inside."
Just missing Joe, Dave and his ladies return, his arms still cloaking their shoulders. They walk off into the bright lights of Anderson together, leaning heavily against each other.
At 3:47 the quad is empty for the first time all night. By 3:49 a guy in a green shirt and leather jacket has propped his feet up on a bench. The cigarette is already in his mouth. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter. The end of the cigarette glows and he sucks in with a grimace. It's too dark to see the smoke curl up from the cigarette, but after he exhales a good-sized fog lingers.
