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I head left as I leave the classroom, toward the library—my go-to hideaway. Cheers and loud hollers seep in from the quad.
“Mur-doch! Mur-doch! Mur-doch!”
And then more excited chatter.
And another cheer.
And I think the noise may have muffled the sound of my phone pinging!It must be from the email coming in!
I scramble to remove my phone from my pocket, almost dropping it, but clutching it in my shaking hand as I slide the screen on.
… And the surface is completely blank. Total false alarm.
I stuff it back in my pocket, letting my shoulders slump. Just for a few seconds, though; because I made a vow to myself that I’d be tougher this year and not give any of these jerks the pleasure of ever seeing me looking anything less than indifferent. I inhale a slow, steadying breath, then turn and make my way back down the hall toward the main doors instead of the library. Because maybe a knuckle-head jock parading around on a roof is just the diversion I need to keep me from obsessing over my phone and the email that might not come for hours.
The arched corridor is empty as I make my way to the end and push through the ornate wooden doors out to the quad, where the entire SH Prep student body is gathered at the foot of School House. All the teachers and staff, too, it looks like.
I shuffle along the outer edge of the crowd, stopping a few rows from the back. And when I turn and look up, there he is on the flat School House roof, a full five stories up—the infamous Sebastian Murdoch. He’s wearing his signature backwards baseball cap pulled over wisps of dirty-blond hair. And the rest of him is just as Abercrombie and Fitch model perfect: pillowy lips, square jaw, and a lean, muscular body that was probably born knowing how to throw and tackle and fuck and swagger. Oh, and how could I forget the flash of white teeth that are perfectly straight and no doubt dazzling to anyone he deems worthy enough to gift one of his Golden Boy smiles?
I glance around and spot Mrs. Tromely, our principal, standing at the very front of the crowd. Her neck is craned back, eyes averted skyward, and a large orange megaphone dangles from her hand like some sort of strange robo-extension of her arm. Even more ridiculous is the way her mouth hangs slightly open, as if she’s still processing the fact that her prized student (can a football jock with the IQ of a starfish be labeled a prized student?) is up rollicking on a five-story roof. She’s also probably processing the notion that it’s her job to get him down. And then presumably to discipline him in a way that is deemed severe enough to dissuade him from a repeat performance, but also ensures he won’t have to miss any of those precious football practices. Or strip him of his prized student status.
Except, on second thought, I’m pretty sure even a starfish would beat Sebastian Murdoch in an IQ test. Starfish have figured out a way to eat outside their bodies. And they can regenerate their own arms. Already, that’s more than Sebastian Murdoch is capable of—which is looking good while throwing a ball.
He’s bent at the waist now, hands on his knees and head lowered, catching his breath. To be fair: drawing attention to yourself twenty-four-seven must be exhausting.
Mrs. Tromely raises the megaphone, so it’s poised less than an inch from her lips and aimed directly up at Sebastian, as if she might somehow topple him over with just the power of her voice. “Come down from that roof, right now!” she bellows in her deep lounge singer voice. She pauses for a second and when he doesn’t react, she shouts again. “Did you hear me, Sebastian? I said GET DOWN!”
Unfortunately, the megaphone also amplifies the shakiness in her voice and blows any chance she has at maintaining some semblance of control. The beads of sweat sliding from her hairline down the fleshy rolls of her neck are a dead give-away, too. And it’s strange seeing her this way, because Mrs. Tromely is known for being so composed. Always.
This guy must really be giving her a run for her money.
Sebastian straightens. But he doesn’t look down at our puffy principal. Instead, he shoves his hands in his pockets and looks past her, down at his crowd of disciples. Most of them have their arms outstretched now, clutching cell phones in order to record evidence of our school hero’s latest epic attention-grab.
“Dude is so bad-ass!” A guy behind me calls out, followed by a slew of approving jeers from his friends.
I refrain from rolling my eyes this time. Dude is one level above a circus monkey.
But of course, I don’t say that out loud. God, I would never have the guts to do anything that bold. I don’t even have the guts to raise my hand in class these days.
Up on the roof, Sebastian brings his own hand to his brow, shielding his eyes as he scans the crowd. Then he pauses, leaning forward as his lips stretch into a rakish grin. His hand lowers to cup his mouth. “Hey, Xave! You owe me a hundred bucks, bro!” he yells. And a few chuckles ripple back from somewhere in the front row.
My decision to come out and watch the latest Sebastian Murdoch spectacle unfold is achieving its purpose of distracting me from my email inbox. But it’s also making me depressed—that this is the kind of guy we’re expected to revere: a dumb jock randomly gifted with perfect cheekbones and pretty pink lips. A shameless ego-maniac. And I can feel the heat rising to the tips of my ears, because even after all this time, the way the social hierarchy works still gets to me. It’s so unfair and so wrong that someone like Sebastian Murdoch gets to disrupt everyone’s morning and still be seen as someone to look up to (literally, in this case), while I get continually slapped with triple-decker insults for the mere act of existing. For just stepping outside the lines of the standard-issue high school expectations. I have never bothered any of them. I’ve never interrupted class while the teacher reamed me out or wrote me up for detention, or damaged school property, or caused a huge scene. I have never so much as made a ripple in their world. YetI’mthe one who gets shunned? And Sebastian freaking Murdoch gets hero-worshipped? How does that even make any sense? How does—
A sudden flash of movement from above snaps my attention back to the roof. The entire crowd gasps in unison.
Sebastian has broken into a full-on run along the edge of the roof—straight toward the six-foot gap between the main building and the gym complex beside it.
A squeal escapes the megaphone, still clutched within inches of Mrs. Tromely’s lips.
And then there’s silence as Sebastian’s blurry form approaches the roof’s edge.
Faster… Faster…
And then over.
Another squeal. A curse from someone in the crowd.
Then a communal intake of air as he lands the jaw-dropping leap across to the gymnasium roof.
