22. BACK THEN – January
Upstate New York
GARRISON ABBEY
C onnor Cobalt is a god here. A single week at Faust, and it’s the first lesson I’ve learned.
The second: I’m in over my head. The guys here aren’t just smart. They seem to enjoy learning. As if it’s a gift given to them, and everyone supports the growth of knowledge. Translating whole passages from Caesar’s Invasion is cool, and debating philosophy is just another pastime.
I know basic Latin.
Enough to chant out loud with the class, but put a sentence in front of my face and I won’t be able to translate anything without a vocabulary list.
And yeah, I asked for a vocab list or a dictionary the other day. The amount of students staring at me for that was beyond embarrassing. And this is coming from someone who didn’t give a shit if people thought I was stupid.
Here, it feels like the worst crime.
“So you have spoken to him?” my new roommate asks as I try to concentrate on translating a passage in The Odyssey from Latin to English. It’s slow moving.
I wish this was Calculus—a language I actually am proficient at.
My roommate leans forward on his crimson bedspread, blond hair brushing his neck and brown eyes round and curious. He’s asking if I’ve spoken to the legend himself: Richard Connor Cobalt. The moment William learned that I’m from the same neighborhood as Connor, I’ve been bombarded with questions.
I promised to answer them later—which was my response for five whole days. Another five days dodging these questions seems unlikely since William has already spread the news to the entire boarding school.
It’s whatever.
I’m just hoping the reasoning behind why I’m at Faust remains a secret. These guys don’t seem like they’d take kindly to delinquents like me.
I curl my hand around the book, my other hand gripping a pencil tight. “I mean…not really. Kind of. I don’t know,” I say to William.
I heard Connor tell Loren that I’m not allowed in his house. That’s about the extent of any conversation I’ve had with the guy.
I can’t tell him that though. I’m trying to make friends here, and the students obviously worship Connor Cobalt. Letting them know I’m barred from entering his home for spraying his wife and baby with punch would be…fucked up.
It’s all fucked up.
William frowns. “Well, have you seen him around? What is he like in real life?” he asks quickly. “Is he as tall as he seems on TV?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “He’s really tall.” This is so dumb.
“Did he or his family mention anything about all the shit that’s going down on social media?” William asks, eyes glittering for more knowledge.
“Which shit?” I ask. When it comes to Connor Cobalt, there’s been a lot of shit recently.
Especially concerning him and his wife. Yesterday, there were hundreds of pics online with Rose’s hair dyed an ugly orange color.
Tumblr created a meme and literally photoshopped foxes on her head. It was weird and stupid.
“The photos of Connor going down on his wife in a parking lot,” William says.
I saw those too. They were dark, taken outside while they were in a car.
But you could make out his head and her legs around his shoulders.
It was obvious what they were doing, and when they didn’t deny it, social media went nuts.
“No one has said anything,” I reply.
“Can you believe he did that and basically owned up to it like it was just another day?” William says in awe.
“I mean, the guy is legendary. His wife is immortally beautiful and brilliant. He can give her head in a public parking lot and not even bat an eye. Are you sure no one has talked about it?”
“I’m sure,” I snap. For the love of…why are we talking about Connor Cobalt?
I run a hand through my hair. I want to physically eject myself from this conversation.
Would it be rude to get up and leave the room?
I’ve never really had a roommate—besides that couple times on family vacations I had to room with Mitchell, but I don’t think that counts. This is all new for me.
Being at a new school.
New place.
I itch to grab my laptop and send Willow a Tumblr message. Anything to take me away from William’s probing questions about a guy that hates me.
Thankfully, a knock sounds on the door.
Guys in black blazers and crimson ties (Faust’s uniform) peek inside the room, grinning from ear-to-ear.
I recognize the freckled one from my Philosophy class.
Tyson. He’s the kind of guy who’ll argue on the side that’s wrong (like literally wrong) just to have a different point of view in the conversation.
Sometimes he’s so convincing, he almost makes me believe he’s right.
It wasn’t a surprise when William told me he’s president of the Debate Club.
Behind Tyson and the other guy, maddened footsteps cascade across the polished floor, hurrying towards something. More doors open, people leaving.
William rises from the bed, while I remain confused and motionless.
Tyson grins wider. “The Sophist’s Speech is about to begin.”
“Holy shit,” William smiles wildly and reaches for his black blazer. Tyson and his friend leave as quickly as they came, while my roommate slows to the door, suddenly remembering me. “You coming, Garrison?”
I frown, still not understanding. “What’s a sophist?”
He laughs. “Funny. You’re funny.” He nods to my blazer on the desk, even though I’m already wearing a hoodie. “Grab your jacket. You’re not going to want to miss this.”
* * *
On our way to the courtyard, I quickly Wikipedia what the hell a sophist is. Ten seconds later I have my answer. A teacher in Ancient Greece .
Another definition I found on the internet: a person who reasons with clever but fallacious and deceptive arguments . Seriously? I was supposed to know this?
My shoes crunch a light layer of snow, but I’m warm with the Faust blazer over my hoodie, crimson tie stuffed in my back pocket.
Wind picks up as soon as we pass through arched oak double doors.
I pull the hood up over my hair and follow William’s quickened footsteps towards a large stone fountain, icicles hanging off the ornate moldings.
I expect to see a teacher heading this speech, but the person balancing on the ledge of the fountain is a student.
Dressed in the same Faust blazer as most of the crowd, black hair slicked back, he commands the space without even saying a word.
He can’t be older than me if he’s here, but for some reason he looks it.
A senior, probably.
“Who is that?” I whisper to William as we fall into the throngs of guys. Some of whom ran outside without grabbing a coat or blazer. They jump on the balls of their feet, looking more excited than cold.
“Gabriel Falls,” William replies softly.
“He was elected as our sophist for the term.” Off my confused-as-fuck expression, William adds, “It’s Faust tradition to have a senior give a sophist’s speech.
” He grins. “Basically, it’s bullshit that smells like roses.
The best speech by far was Connor Cobalt’s.
The guy practically planted a garden with his words. ”
Traditions here are weird as hell. I’m used to the kind back at Dalton Academy. Which consisted of our lacrosse team drinking blue Gatorade before practice. Never the lemon-lime. And god-forbid someone even thinks to bring a Ziff on field.
I’m not even sure where the tradition started—or I guess, superstition—maybe it had something to do with the jocks hating Loren Hale when he went to Dalton.
And you know, Ziff is a Fizzle product. It’s a dumb name, by the way.
Ziff. Fizz kind of spelled backwards. Whatever marketing “genius” came up with the name for the sports drink should be fired.
Thinking about Fizzle and Loren Hale and everything just reminds me of Willow. Can’t see her. Can’t work at Superheroes & Scones. It all blows.
“Gather ’round!” Gabriel calls out from his perch on the fountain. And then the guy starts speaking in Latin.
I can’t with this.
Cold nips at my cheeks, and just as I’m about to bail, I see someone a few yards away. Shaved head and pale skin, he smokes a cigarette between fingerless gloves and leans against a tree. With his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, I distinguish black geometric tattoos on his forearms.
He’s the first person I’ve seen that doesn’t look like he was manufactured from a J.Crew catalogue. I leave William’s side and slowly make my way to the tree.
Relief accompanies each step. No nerves. I’ve never been bad at making friends, and this guy kind of reminds me of ones back home.
He barely acknowledges me as I stop a few feet away, his gaze latched to the fountain. But I can only make out mumbled words from Gabriel’s speech.
“Hey,” I say and nod with my chin. “Could I borrow a smoke?” I eye the cigarette between his fingers.
His eyes finally flash to me. Like I exist. Casually, without even moving off the tree, he sticks the cigarette in his mouth, slides a hand in his blazer, and passes me a spare. Cold whips between us.
“Thanks, man,” I say as he pulls out a lighter. “I’m Garrison.”
“Sasha Anders. And I know who you are.” He clicks the lighter with his thumb, and I lean in. After embers eat the paper, he adds, “No need to thank me.”
I step back, blowing smoke off to the side. Wind chill bites at me more, and I hug my arm to my chest. This guy is wearing less than me, and he doesn’t even have a single fucking goosebump.
He stares off towards the fountain and says, “That’ll probably be your last cigarette at Faust. Enjoy it while you can.”
Goddamn.
I laugh under my breath, bitterness swimming in my gut. “Yeah? What makes you think that?” Maybe he’s just messing with me. He can’t seriously be like everyone else here? An asshole. An elitist prick who feels like he has the inability to lose.
He doesn’t even look at me. Like I haven’t even earned his full attention yet.