Page 71 of Icing on the Cake

“An idiot with the cutest pumpkin ever!” I say proudly.

Without warning, Kyle snatches the pumpkin from my hands and bolts for the front yard.

“You bastard!” I yell, sprinting after him.

Alex follows us to the door and watches from the porch, still laughing as he shouts, “Don’t kill each other! Or the pumpkin!”

Kyle is fast, but I’ve got longer strides. We tear across the lawn like kids playing tag, dodging around trees and parked cars.

“Think of the children!” I holler as I close the gap between us.

“Run, Kyle, run!” Alex cheers from the porch. “Don’t let Gerard catch you!”

“Traitor!” I yell.

We run round and round until we can’t go on any longer. Kyle and I collapse on the grass, chests heaving. My pumpkin rolls to a stop beside me, miraculously unscathed from our shenanigans.

“Truce?” I extend a hand toward Kyle.

He eyes me carefully before clasping my hand in his. “Truce. But only because I don’t want to be responsible for the tragic demise of Sir Lumps-a-Lot over there.”

I gasp.Nobodybullies my pumpkin.

“The truce is over,” I say before wrestling Kyle while Alex films it for posterity.

15

ELLIOT

By this point, it should be a no-brainer that I’ve been a bookworm since the day I was born. I love getting lost in the pages of a romance novel, imagining a handsome man sweeping me off my feet and whisking me away to live happily ever after.

But as the years have passed, I’ve had fewer flights of fancy. Life’s a bitch, not a fairytale with a happy ending.

Despite their supposed open-mindedness and progressivism, college students can be cruel in the most insidious ways. It’s not the outright slurs or blatant discrimination that cut the deepest. It’s the subtle digs and the microaggressions that burrow under my skin and fester like an untreated wound.

As a Hispanic gay man, I’m no stranger to prejudice. But experiencing it in an environment that’s supposed to foster higher learning and personal growth is uniquely demoralizing.

I lost count of how many times I’ve heard “diversity hire” whispered when working at the library or the word “gay” used as a replacement for “stupid” or “lame.”

You’d think I’d have gotten used to it by now. But I never will.

Moreover, navigating the minefield that is the college dating scene as a gay man of color is an exercise in masochism. If I had adollar for every “No fats, no femmes, no Asians, no Blacks, no Latinos” dating profile found online, I could pay off my student loansandafford a trip to Europe.

It’s abhorrent to have others boil down my worth to the color of my skin or how I express myself sexually.

Jackson does his best to use his privilege and popularity to call out the bullshit when he sees and hears it. But even he can only do so much. In the world of college sports, there’s an unwritten rule to not rock the boat. And as the face of BSU football, Jackson has to balance standing up for what’s right with not pissing off those who support the program with their overstuffed wallets.

That’s why it’s surprising that Gerard is giving me the time of day. I’d bet money that this is tearing the very fabric of the social hierarchy that governs life at BSU.

The popular jock isn’t supposed to fraternize with the socially awkward nerd. It’s no different than mixing oil and water or wearing white after Labor Day. It simply isn’t done…until now.

I’ve never beento Fraternity Row, but Jackson has. And his description of it made me picture a scene straight out ofNational Lampoon’s Animal House.A never-ending party filled with debauchery and excess. A place where the smell of stale beer and cheap liquor mingles with the pungent odor of vomit and sex. Where toga-clad frat bros chug from kegs, crush beer cans against their foreheads, and let out primal screams as they streak naked across the yard, their bits and pieces flapping in the breeze.

I imagined sorority girls stumbling out of houses in high heels and short skirts, mascara smudged and hair disheveled from whatever scandalous activities transpired behind closed doors. I expected the air to be thick with a haze of weed smoke and the ground vibrating from the constant thump-thump of bass from speakers cranked to eleven.

Homoerotic hijinks would be the norm, not the exception. Guys slapping each other’s asses. Chugging contests where the loser has to twerk naked on a table. Pranks involving shaving cream, icy hot, and unmentionable places. Measuring contests and towel snapping and all manner of testosterone-fueled idiocy.

But as I walk down the street lined with stately brick houses adorned with Greek letters, I realize how far off base my imagination was.Note to self: Never listen to Jackson when he has his beer goggles on.

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