The unmistakable sound of a guitar echoes around us. We all look up and down the snowy street, but Sabin is nowhere to be found. It is only when he starts yodeling that we collectively realize he is on the roof of the dorm. I look up and cringe. This is not a square, concrete, sterile dorm building from the 1950s, but rather an old architectural wonder, with dramatically steep eaves that project far past the edge of the building, an archaic slate roof, and several balconies. It usually strikes me as beautiful, with the snow-covered peaks and dips. Tonight, with Sabin on top, it just looks dangerous. For the moment, he is safely stationed on a flat area near the third story, but he is eyeing the steep eaves just below him.
“Oh shit,” I murmur. “Oh shit.”
“What’s that in his hand?” Eric asks.
I squint. “I think it’s a tray from the cafeteria.”
Chris rushes from the sidewalk up the few steps that lead to the dorm’s wide walkway. “Sabe? What the fuck are you doing?” he calls up to the roof. “This… Dude, this is not a good idea. Whatever you’re about to do? No. No way, man.”
Sabin yanks the guitar strap from around his neck. “Catch!”
It is not a particularly small miracle that Chris manages to catch the poorly thrown instrument. “Estelle, take this.” Chris holds the guitar out without looking away from his brother. “Seriously, Sabin, get the hell back inside.”
“I’m going traying! It’s going to rock.”
“What the fuck is traying?” I ask no one in particular. Nobody says anything. “WHAT THE FUCK IS TRAYING?”
“I assume he’s going to sit on that goddamn lunch tray and sled off the roof,” Zach says in disbelief.
“No, he is not!” Chris yells.
“Yes, I am, too!” Sabin hollers drunkenly. “Come on up! Come with me! It’ll be awesome!”
“No, it’s not going to be awesome. You’re going to hurt yourself.” Chris is overenunciating. “Very, very badly. Irreparably.”
This is true. Below Sabin are areas of ground that are either frozen solid or unforgiving concrete. Flying off the roof would certainly send him to the emergency room, if not the morgue.
“Shut your face and get up here, Chris. Don’t be such a pussy!”
“I’m a pussy because I don’t want to die? Get the hell off there, Sabin!”
“I’m not going to die.” He looks pointedly at us and holds his hands out by his side. “Ican’tdie. Estelle’s precious Jesus won’t let me die!” Sabin walks to the edge and peers over as if thoughtfully assessing his chances. As if he is actually calculating the angles and speed ratios and has decided that there is some possibility that he might not shatter every bone in his body upon landing. “Totally doable.”
“No, Sabin, no! Not doable! Back up! Back up!” Chris and I are screaming now. Zach and Eric seem too shocked to say anything, and Estelle has launched into incomprehensible praying.
Sabin slaps the tray against the snowy shingles. “Pray, Stellie! Pray to the power of that sweet baby Jesus, and I’ll be just fine!”
Estelle stops praying for a moment to yell, “Stop it, Sabin!”
“C’mon, ’Stelle! Our father who art in heaven.” Sabin squats down and adjusts the direction of the tray. “Hallowed be thy fucking name!”
He is about to crawl onto the slippery roof when I scream. “Wait! Wait! I’m coming! Don’t go yet!”
“Okay! Cool! Hurry up, girl!”
Chris whips around and storms toward me. “What the hell, Blythe? You’re sure as fuck not going up there.”
“If we don’t stop him now, he’s going to break his neck. I just bought us a few minutes. Come with me.”
“Okay. And then what?”
“Well, fuck, Chris, I haven’t thought that far ahead. Let’s go!”
We run up flights of stairs until we reach the third floor.
“This way,” I tell Chris. “He must have climbed from the balcony that’s off the upper lounge.”
The lounge is dark, and we’re lucky that neither of us trips over the furniture in our hurry to reach Sabin. The old French doors to the balcony are open and we run out. The area is enclosed by only a thin, not particularly sturdy-looking iron railing, and Chris tosses the bistro table that’s there behind us into the lounge so that we can both stand. To my left is the small flat area where Sabin is standing. The sloped roof in front of him—his goddamn runway—looks perilously steep. I take a second to catch my breath so that I can try and deal with Sabin in a relaxed-sounding manner.
