48. Even In The Rain （bonus excerpt）
Even In The Rain (bonus excerpt)
CHAPTER ONE (Caroline)
“ S eb Murdoch climbed School House 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—glaringly 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 even I know 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 mean waaaay down) 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?
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. Yet I’m the 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.
He rolls once, then bounces to his feet and lets out a loud whoop! 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. Because seriously? 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! ”
As if he just saved a toddler from a burning house, or sky-dropped food rations to starving third world families or something.
“Show’s over, folks!” Mr. Cameron calls through the megaphone, and there’s a lilt to his voice that makes me wonder if he might be enjoying this unexpected half hour of drama in his day. To be fair, he is the drama teacher, so you know…
No one listens, though, and the frantic chatter just grows louder.
“Everyone, head to your second period classes immediately!”
Blouse now fully buttoned, Mrs. Tromely has taken back the megaphone, and I feel sort of bad for Mr. Cameron; the highlight of his day cut short before it even really started.
“Anyone who is not in their seats in their second period class in fifteen minutes will be given a detention slip!” Mrs. Tromely threatens.
And just like that, the spectacle is done and the focus turns to resuming order. But the buzz of excitement lingers, because although so many of them boast about doing whatever they want and not caring about consequences, Sebastian really doesn’t. No one is as willing to receive punishment the way he is. Even if it’s just for the sake of a fun distraction.
I sigh, like just about every other one of my peers surrounding me. Unlike most of them, I don’t follow it up with a light elbow to my neighbor’s side and a quiet squeal, though. Nor do I laugh and re-hash the last half hour, or scroll through my phone and compare photos with a gaggle of other girls as I make my way back toward the main doors.
I walk alone. I stare straight ahead. I pretend I’m totally content to be a posse of me, myself, and I.
Then my phone vibrates in my pocket, and I halt in my tracks.
“Watch it, Fish Girl!” a curly-haired sophomore hisses, shoving me aside with her shoulder.
“Sorry,” I mutter on instinct, and weave my way through the throng of bodies until I reach the edge of the crowd. I flatten my back against the wall and lift my phone, swiping the screen open.
One new email.