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Chapter One
Caroline
“SebMurdochclimbedSchoolHouse roof on a dare!” A lanky freshman screams the news mid-sprint down the hallway, past our open classroom door.
Chairs scrape against linoleum as everyone scrambles to be the first to peer out the window along the far wall overlooking the quad and Sandy Haven Prep’s main School House building. Even Mr. Dougherty makes his way over.
Not me, though. I stay seated, silent and invisible, even as other students jostle and bolt for the door. And despite Mr. Dougherty calling out for everyone to get back to their desks, no one pays him any attention. Not that anyone ever really does.
When another guy pops his head into the open doorway seconds later and yells, “Main quad, guys!” our twirly mustached English teacher caves like all the other lemmings—I mean, students—as they bustle down the hallway toward the main doors.
And just like that, I’m the only person left in the classroom.
I stay seated at my desk, watching the steady stream of bodies rushing past the door—blaringly loud at first, as students call out to each other and shove to get outside as fast as possible. Then just groups of three or four people. Then stragglers… a few lone staff members… and then, eventually…
S i l e n c e.
I breathe in the quiet, trying to ignore the lingering smell of spearmint gum and sweat and floor polish that comes with it. And whatever new perfume Rihanna just came out with.
The silence is nice. The lack of other students is even nicer.
I glance down at my phone for what must be the tenth time since the beginning of class, willing a new email alert to appear. But the screen is blank; just like it was five minutes ago. And five minutes before that.
I’ve never had a reason to check my phone in class before. I don’t have anyone I’m close enough with who would ever message me during school hours. Or after hours, for that matter. But today is different. Today, I’m expecting an email that would allow me to leave this hellhole and all the jerks who have made my life a nightmare these past three years. For my last semester before college, at least, I could have a normal high school experience.
It’s not even ten-thirty yet; I need to stop obsessing and at least try to take my mind off the looming message. It could come in any time before the end of the day, which is a long, loooong way off.
I drag my binder across the desk and shove it into my backpack, along with my faded yellow pencil case. Most of the other kids didn’t bother bringing their stuff with them when they stampeded out of the classroom. Laptops and notebooks lie open on desks, and a few pencils have rolled onto the floor in all the commotion.
It must be nice to trust that leaving your belongings unattended won’t end up with them being destroyed or scribbled all over in permanent marker, declaring you are a “dork girl fucking loser”.
I push my chair out and get to my feet, clutching my backpack by one shoulder strap. It’s ridiculously heavy because I keep everything in this bag. Avoiding my locker is one of the many ways I’ve found to keep myself invisible. ScarlettThiels has her locker right next to mine, which means the surrounding fifteen-square-feet of hallway is a prime gathering place for the cool kids. And another fifteen feet on either side of that lie fertile grazing pastures for the wannabes and pseudo cool kids looking to impress and be noticed. They’re the worst out of anyone, honestly, because they have everything to prove and hardly anything to lose.
I make my way over to the window and stare out at the swarm of students crowded in the usually empty front quad. The tops of their heads are barely visible from this vantage point. A few arms are raised, fists pumping as a cheer wafts through one of the partially open windows:
“Seb, you’re the freakin’ man!”
I roll my eyes. Only because there’s no one else around to witness my silent rejection of Sebastian Murdoch’s solid gold reputation. And by that, I mean my suspicion that he is actually more boy than man—if we’re talking intelligence or maturity or even basic human decency.
If we’re talking sexual prowess, then yes, he probably is “the freakin’ man”.
This is all just a hunch, of course. I’ve never had a conversation with the guy, even though he’s in three of my classes. I doubt he even knows who I am. And I may be the closest thing that SH Prep has to a school pariah, but evenIknow who he is. It would be impossible not to: Sebastian Murdoch is the local football star who was recruited by some prestigious boarding school in Massachusetts three years ago, just before his freshman year. Then got kicked out sometime towards the end of last school year and transferred to SH Prep this fall.
Even though being here is his fallback plan, and he flunked his Junior year and had to make it up in summer school so he wouldn’t be held back a grade, he’s all anyone seems to be able to talk about these days. Sebastian Murdoch is bold and confident and charming. He’s daring and eager and loud and athletic. And he’s (I’m quoting here):“ohmygawd sooo good looking. Like, the totally hottest thing to walk this Earth. Ev-er.”
Fifty dollars says Sebastian Murdoch is an arrogant jerk.
From what I’ve pieced together from rumor fodder passed down (and I meanwaaaaydown) to my small circle of lunch-table acquaintances, he sounds like a rowdy egomaniac destined to become a permanent fixture in Thursday afternoon detention. I’ve heard that since the first day of school three weeks ago, he’s been sent to detention no less than three times already: once for starting a race down the main school hallway with wheelbarrows stolen from the drama building construction site. Again, for using large PVC pipes (also stolen from the theater worksite) as make-shift barrels, which he and a couple of other guys wedged themselves into to roll down the hill separating the upper and lower fields. And the last time, he was caught mid-way through creating some kind of domino chain with books from the library, winding around the aisles and through the study areas. The rumor is that he managed to un-shelve all the books up to “P” before a staff member busted him and sent him to the office.
And now, lucky us, here he is in week four, in all his mischievous glory, gallivanting along School House roof for no obvious reason besides wanting to shake up a string of bland morning classes. Sandy Haven’s very own Superman.
Or something like that.
Still, Sebastian Murdoch did just gift me a few minutes of stress-free solitude, courtesy of his morning rooftop caper. So that’s something to be grateful for, I guess. And it is a luxury: to be standing here, taking up space and not feeling like I’m expected to apologize for it or be embarrassed for my mere existence and my audacity to breathe the same air as the SH Prep cool clique. It’s what I wish for the most; what I would want if I could have any superpower—to be invisible. I would give anything to float through my days with the assurance that nothing I did would spark a glance, or a snicker, or trigger a full-blown succession of school-wide harassment. To not be ridiculed because of something I said or wore or read. For making eye contact, or not making eye contact. Doing well on a test. Not sharing my grade on a test. Any. Little. Thing.
Being invisible, even for a week—for a day, even—would be blissful. And if I could be really greedy, I would become invisible for the rest of my senior year. Unlike Sebastian Murdoch, clearly, who demands attention with every little thing he does. Who seems like the kind of person I would detest on any other day, but will tolerate this morning since his grandiose stunt just provided me enough time to go read a few chapters of my urban fantasy book in the library uninterrupted. I mean, I’m assuming classes won’t resume until someone manages to lure (bribe? push?) Jock-Boy down from his rooftop perch. He sounds like a “go-big-or-go-home” kind of dude-bro. I’m pretty sure the show’s nowhere near over.
I haul my backpack over both shoulders and make my way over to the open classroom door, brushing my fingers lightly along the surface of each desk as I pass. And how sad is it I consider it an act of rebellion when I nudge Victoria Ledworth’s polka-dotted pencil case and cause the contents to spill out onto the floor?
