20. Freddie

FREDDIE

NOW – JUNIOR YEAR – JANUARY

I ’m just about to dive into this shitshow of a project Professor Bam dumped on us when Ethan bursts into my room, looking like he’s seen a fucking ghost.

“Freddie, I’m screwed. Totally, completely fucked.”

I push back from my desk, frowning. It’s late—why the hell is he bothering me? “What’s going on? Did you drunk-text your ex again?”

“Professor Martinez just accused me of plagiarism,” he chokes out, collapsing onto my bed like a puppet with cut strings. “Says my essay is too similar to some obscure journal article. I swear I didn’t copy shit, but I can’t remember where all my sources came from.”

I take a deep breath. Fuck me, we’re gonna need the whole cavalry for this one.

I’ve never seen Ethan like this. He’s pacing our living room, running his hands through his hair so many times I’m worried he’ll go bald by morning. The usual spark in his eyes is gone, replaced by pure panic.

“I’m screwed, man. Totally fucked,” he mutters for what must be the millionth time.

“Ethan, breathe,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “We’ll figure this shit out.”

He stops pacing, turning to me with wild eyes. “How? They’re saying I plagiarized , Freddie. Do you know what that means? I could get expelled. My parents will disown me. My life is over. I’ll end up living in a cardboard box, selling my body for ramen noodles.”

The desperation in his voice makes my chest tighten. This is Ethan—the guy who once streaked across campus on a dare, who always has a joke ready, who never takes anything seriously. Seeing him fall apart like this…it’s like watching a clown cry. It’s just wrong.

Troy appears from the kitchen, holding a plate piled high with burritos. “All right, fuel for the brain,” he announces, setting them on the coffee table. “Can’t solve problems on an empty stomach. These babies could bring a man back from the dead.”

Ethan looks at the food like it might jump up and bite his dick off. “I can’t eat. I feel sick.”

“Try,” Troy insists, shoving a burrito into Ethan’s hands. “Trust me, my grandma’s recipe can cure anything. Even academic disaster. It’s like edible magic.”

A ghost of a smile flickers across Ethan’s face as he takes a small bite.

Alfie shuffles in, looking like he just crawled out of a grave. Which, given that it’s 1:00 a.m., he probably did. “What’s with the midnight SOS text? Are you guys having a fucking fiesta?” he grumbles, then catches sight of Ethan’s face. His expression immediately softens. “What happened? Who do I need to punch?”

As Troy fills Alfie in, I watch Ethan. He’s staring at the burrito in his hands like it’s the fucking Rosetta Stone. I’ve known him long enough to see the wheels turning in his head, probably imagining worst-case scenarios. Expelled, disowned, living under a bridge—the whole nine yards.

“Okay,” Alfie says once Troy’s finished explaining. “What can I do to help? I’m shit at essays, but I’m great at threatening people.”

Ethan looks up, surprise written across his face. “You…you want to help?”

Alfie shrugs, but there’s a determined set to his jaw. “Of course, dumbass. We’re family, aren’t we? And family doesn’t let family get fucked over by some bullshit plagiarism charge.”

Something in Ethan’s expression crumples at those words. For a second, I think he might break down and start bawling like a baby. But then he takes a shaky breath, squaring his shoulders like he’s about to go into battle. “Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

A surge of pride washes over me. These idiots—they’re not just friends. They’re my brothers, bound by something stronger than blood. We might be a strange bunch of kids, but we’ll stick together.

“All right, girls,” I say, clapping my hands together. “Let’s save Ethan’s ass. We’ve got an essay to redo and a professor to prove wrong. Who’s ready for an all-nighter?”

The guys cheer, and I actually believe we can pull this off.

“Let’s dissect this beast. Ethan, take us through your research rabbit hole. When did you start?” As Ethan starts talking, his words tumbling out, we begin going through his laptop on the day he completed the essay to try to find his sources.

“Okay, let’s check your browser history,” I say, grabbing Ethan’s laptop. “Maybe we can trace your research path and— holy shit! ”

I slam the laptop shut so fast I’m surprised it doesn’t break. Ethan’s face goes from confused to horrified in record time.

“What? What is it?” Troy asks, reaching for the laptop.

“Trust me, you don’t want to know,” I mutter, but Troy’s already prying it open.

His eyes go wide. “Dude, ‘Busty Coeds in Triple Trouble’? Really ?”

Ethan’s face turns the color of a ripe tomato. “That’s…that’s not mine. It must be a virus or something.”

Alfie, suddenly wide awake, peers at the screen. “A virus that specifically searches for threesome porn? That’s one hell of a virus, man. Can I get it on my laptop?”

We all burst out laughing as Ethan buries his face in his hands. “I got bored doing research, man.”

“I mean, those two could fix anyone’s boredom,” Troy whistles.

“Guys, focus,” Ethan pleads. “We need to get rid of this. What if Professor Martinez sees it?”

“Relax,” I say, already typing. “I know a way to selectively delete browser history. We’ll just erase your extracurricular studies and keep the actual research trail.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Ethan sighs in relief.

“Yeah, yeah,” I smirk. “But next time, maybe use incognito mode like a normal person?”

The room erupts in laughter again, and even Ethan manages a sheepish grin. Troy starts scribbling notes like he’s decoding the fucking Da Vinci Code, while Alfie’s fingers fly over his laptop, pulling up the university’s academic integrity policy.

Hours blur together in a haze of caffeine and concentration. We’re like a bunch of crackheads, but instead of drugs, we’re hooked on saving Ethan’s ass. Troy reluctantly calls it quits around 2:00 a.m., muttering something about his 9:00 a.m. lecture. Pussy. Alfie holds out longer, but by 3:00 a.m., he’s snoring on the couch, his laptop balanced on his knees like a high-tech security blanket.

But I stay with Ethan, piecing together his scattered research trail like we’re solving a murder mystery. Except the victim is Ethan’s academic career, and the murderer is his own dumbass brain.

For what feels like fucking eternity, Ethan unravels his research process—a tangled web of late-night Wikipedia rabbit holes, obscure journal articles, and half-remembered lecture notes. It’s a beautiful mess, like modern art painted with academic bullshit.

I’m staring at Einstein’s poster, his tongue mocking me like the smug bastard he is. I’m tempted to flip him off when Ethan notices our little staring contest.

“Einstein, oh wise man of frizzy hair, please help us out here,” he pleads, sounding like he’s one Red Bull away from a nervous breakdown.

“Hold the fuck up,” I interrupt, a lightbulb moment hitting me like a freight train full of genius. “I think I see what happened. You probably stumbled across that article early on, right? Let it marinate in your brain like a forgotten burrito under your bed, and then it came out in your writing without you realizing. It’s not intentional plagiarism, it’s just your brain being a sneaky little shit.”

Ethan runs over and plants a wet one on the Einstein poster. Jesus Christ.

“Thank you,” he whispers, stroking the paper like it’s his long-lost lover. My best friend has officially lost his fucking marbles. “How do we prove that?”

I glance at my watch. It’s four in the morning, and I’ve got that meeting with Alex looming over me. But one look at Ethan’s face—a mix of desperation and fragile hope—and I know sleep is a luxury I can’t afford right now.

“Okay, game plan,” I say, reaching for my laptop like it’s a lifeline. “We’re building a timeline of your brain, my friend. It’s gonna be beautiful and terrifying, like a Picasso painting made of academic bullshit.”

We dive in, fueled by Troy’s emergency burritos and enough energy drinks to give a horse a heart attack. The night blurs into a montage of clicking keys, rustling papers, and jokes that get progressively more unhinged as our sanity slips away faster than Ethan’s chances of graduating.

By the time the sun starts peeking through our grimy windows like an unwelcome stalker, we’ve got a document that would make any conspiracy theorist proud. Ethan’s entire research journey laid bare, complete with timestamps and screenshots.

“This,” I say, tapping the screen with more vigor than my sleep-deprived body should be capable of, “This is your smoking gun. It shows you didn’t just copy and paste like some brain-dead freshman. You engaged with this stuff over time. Any similarities? They’re because you internalized the material, not because you’re a plagiarizing asshole.”

Ethan nods, a mix of exhaustion and relief etched on his face. He looks like he’s been through a war—if wars were fought with textbooks and caffeine. “Freds. I don’t know how to thank you, man. Seriously. This means a lot.”

I wave him off, but I can’t help the warm feeling spreading through my chest. It’s like heartburn, but nicer.

“Okay, man, go get ready to present this shit and let me know what they say, okay?”

As Ethan shuffles off to shower, probably to wash off the stench of desperation and energy drinks, I survey our living room. It looks like a frat party and a library had a baby, then abandoned it. Empty cans everywhere, crumpled papers like academic confetti, and Alfie still passed out on the couch, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. Troy’s alarm is blaring from his room; I swear it’s been going off for a few minutes. How is the man sleeping through it?

It’s been a long night, but looking at the evidence we’ve compiled, I know it was worth it. Because that’s what family does—we show up, we fight, we don’t give up. Even when it means sacrificing sleep and sanity to prove your best friend didn’t commit academic fraud.

Now if I can just figure out how to face Alex without looking like I’ve been on a three-day bender with a bunch of caffeinated raccoons, I’ll be golden.

Fuck me, I need coffee.

And maybe a new brain.