By the time my shift ended, I wanted to curl up on the quad grass and hibernate for three days straight. My arms ached, my hoodie was sticky with fryer oil, and my brain still echoed with shouts of "Two churros! Extra sugar! Make it fast!"
But college didn't stop just because I smelled like a peanut butter explosion.
I shuffled into my afternoon art class, hoping for silence. Instead, the room buzzed like a beehive. Students lugged in canvases and portfolios, setting up at easels.
"Ty!" A voice called from the back. It was Alana Martinez, the girl who always wore oversized headphones around her neck. She waved me over to sit by her.
Alana was one of the few people who actually seemed chill. She had a sketchbook thicker than a Bible and a habit of doodling on the edges of her clothes.
"You look like you fought a fryer and lost," she said with a smirk.
"Accurate," I muttered, slumping into the chair next to her.
Professor Miller, an older man with paint permanently stuck under his fingernails, clapped his hands. "Alright, people. Today, we sketch movement. Capture life. I don't want static poses—I want chaos on paper."
Chaos. Great. Exactly what I'd just escaped from.
I sharpened my pencil, trying to focus. But halfway through my first sketch, my stomach growled loud enough to turn heads.
"Damn, Ty," Alana said, giggling, "you cooking or starving?"
"Both."
After class, I walked out to the courtyard and noticed something different. Small groups had formed—cliques, like little kingdoms.
On the left, the Poets' Corner, snapping fingers at some dude reading verses about heartbreak. On the right, the Skaters, boards clacking against pavement. And dead center, the Athletes, tossing a football and shouting too loud.
But what caught my eye wasn't them. It was the thin line of smoke curling up behind the library steps.
I wandered closer and found Tiny and Rash leaning against the wall, smoking.
"Yo, Ty!" Tiny called, waving the cigarette like it was a magic wand. "Come chill, man. You look beat."
Rash grinned. "Yeah, rookie food-truck boy needs a break."
I hesitated. I wasn't really about the smoke life, but something about the way they lounged there—untouchable, like the world couldn't touch them—was magnetic.
Just as I was about to answer, a group rolled up. It was Dante "D-Money" Rivers and his crew: Flip, Dez, and a new guy I hadn't met yet—Mason "Mace" Carter, tall with braids and a permanent scowl.
"Look at this," Dante said, smirking. "The rookie found friends."
Rash stepped forward, smoke trailing from his mouth. "Ain't nobody talking to you, D-Money."
The tension was thick. Students nearby slowed down, sensing drama.
Dante shrugged. "Relax, Rash. Just saying—rookie don't know who he's running with. Pick the wrong crew, you'll regret it."
Mace cracked his knuckles for emphasis.
I stood there, caught between two currents. Tiny nudged me. "Don't sweat him, Ty. He just mad you didn't burn his churro."
A few people laughed. The smoke, the tension, the unspoken lines being drawn—it all felt bigger than a campus beef. It felt like territory.
I left before things boiled over, slipping away under the weight of stares. My notebook burned in my bag. That night, back in the dorm, I sketched what I saw: circles of people, each their own little world, smoke curling between them, and me stuck in the middle.
For the first time, I realized something. This wasn't just college. It wasn't just classes and food trucks.
It was survival.And sooner or later, I was gonna have to choose where I stood.