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He rolls once, then bounces to his feet and lets out a loudwhoop!as his ball cap flies off and free-falls toward the crowd.
Mrs. Tromely’s knuckles blanch, contrasting against her dark skin as she squeezes the megaphone. “Oh, Lord… Oh dear God,” she croaks.
A tall wavy-haired guy in the front row steps forward, reaching up with a tanned, football-playing arm to catch Sebastian’s ball cap. I recognize him, too. Xavier Rockwell: one of Sebastian Murdoch’s posse—and presumably the genius who issued the dare in the first place. One of the popular kids. And the son of one of the ten richest men in North America. Meaning that, although the bet may have been for a hundred dollars (a lot of money for most people), he could have bet a thousand if he’d wanted, without even batting an eye. But then, he probably knew Sebastian Murdoch would have done the stupid dare for ten.
I turn my attention back to the roof, where Sebastian is poised on the gym building; high enough that he’ll still meet a messy end if he accidentally stumbles over, but close enough that even from the ground, we can see the column of mist float from his lips as he exhales into the fall New England air. A mess of wheat-blond hair blows back from his face now, exposing olive skin and cheeks flushed from the breeze and the sudden rush of exertion.
He pulls his sweater off, then clenches it tightly as he pumps his fist high in the air to another roar from the crowd. Standing in just a T-shirt now, pre-requisite muscles practically on full display with the way they strain against the thin fabric, he cups his free hand to his mouth again. “Think I might’ve broken a sweat there!”
More applause from below. Another eye roll from me. Becauseseriously?This guy is just unbearable. Good looking, maybe. But such a totally self-absorbed cliché.
He takes a step closer to the edge and peers down at the mob, grinning. Then another step.
Half of the crowd wince and holds their breath. The other half cheers.
And I’m almost positive I see his lips twitch into an even wider smirk as he spins the sweater once above his head, then throws it out toward the sea of outstretched hands.
The screech of the megaphone halts the next outburst of applause.
“Sebastian Murdoch! YOU ARE OFFICIALLY SUSPENDED!” Mrs. Tromely jabs a chubby finger skyward as she yells up at him. When he still doesn’t acknowledge her, she adds, “And if you don’t come down right now, I will have you expelled!”
More staff members gather around her, feeding her slivers of confidence with their whispered exchanges.
She pulls her shoulders back. “Mister Murdoch! DO YOU HEAR ME?”
Sebastian leans even farther over the edge, swiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “Yeah… I can hear you!” he calls. “And I can see down your blouse, too!”
A ripple of laughter rolls through the crowd. Mr. Cameron, the drama teacher, pulls the megaphone away while Mrs. Tromely fumbles with the top buttons of her blouse, lips pursed in a thin straight line. Another staff member leans in to say something to Mr. Cameron, and a second later, he holds the megaphone up to his mouth.
“The police are on their way, Sebastian. They—”
“Aw, c’mon…” Sebastian shifts. “Seriously? You called the cops?”
Suddenly a little less cocky.
Suddenly a little less invincible.
“You have crossed the line, pal! What you’re doing is dangerous!”
But Sebastian isn’t listening anymore. He’s turned his back to us as another figure approaches him up on the roof. It’s Coach Roberts: head of athletics—who must have drawn the short straw and been tasked with luring Joe Cool (although not quite as cool as he was just five minutes ago) down from the roof. Or, maybe sending Coach Roberts was a strategic decision… because in Sebastian’s world, the head of athletics probably garners more respect than, you know, the actual head of school.
Coach Roberts says something to Sebastian, who then replies.
Coach takes another step toward him; talks again for a few seconds… pushes his hands in his pockets, seemingly not stressed by this whole ordeal; like talking jocks off the roof is part of his everyday routine.
Sebastian brings his hand up to rub the back of his neck… Nods.
A few more words are exchanged, but we can’t make out any of it. They’re speaking in low voices, which, if I’m being honest, is kind of anti-climactic after all the buildup. It sucks to be blocked out of the drama’s resolution when we’ve been witness to most of its escalation.
They talk for another few seconds and then Coach Roberts ushers Sebastian away from the front part of the roof and out of our line of sight; presumably toward a ladder or stairway somewhere that will lead him all the way back down to Earth, to rejoin us mere mortals.
Several high-pitched squeals of“We love you, Sebby!” ring out from his legion of female admirers.
“You’re the freakin’ man, Murdoch!” from the guys.
And: “Keep it real, bro!”
“Totally bad-ass, man!”
