Tradition: Chapters 6–11

Not only was it mean and stupid, it was so patronizing.

There was something steely and indomitable deep down inside her.

“Look, Bucky,” I said, taking his hand and squeezing it—none of that dainty my hand's nearly weightless kind of crap. “You guys just busted in here like a pack of frothy-faced hyenas. It's annoying.”

Patterson paused briefly, before launching into his standard convocation address, the one where he used the word “august” with all three of its meanings, just because he could.

Patterson paused briefly, before launching into his standard convocation address, the one where he used the word “august” with all three of its meanings, just because he could.

Most of us had heard a version of the address too many times before, and he droned on, killing time with his well-rehearsed nod toward earnestness.

He leaned one arm on the lectern again and grinned.

I glanced at the Buckeye, who looked ashen.

He nodded along conspiratorially as a low mumble rumbled through the room.

Headmaster Patterson stood by the door, laughing along with Freddie, who was telling him a story, gesturing with his hockey stick as if it was a scepter, and I decided I’d take the long way home: head out the basement door, loop around the other side of campus, and come up to the dorms from behind.

I waited until I was sure no one was looking, made a beeline across the foyer, popped open the basement door, slipped in, closed it softly behind me, and took the stairs down one flight as quickly as I could, until I wound around to the second flight—and nearly jumped right into Ethan and Gillian’s laps.

I spat a litany of things I’ll never repeat for the rest of my life, and he cowered and stared down into the dirt.

I spat a litany of things I’ll never repeat for the rest of my life, and he cowered and stared down into the dirt.

For a moment, in a hushed lull, as he lay alone, with everyone else scattered across the field, he looked dead.

She caught me gawking at the bag of bottles.

I was incensed. Filled with rage, yes, but the word “incensed” has a deeper meaning. It was first used to describe fire-breathing animals on medieval coats of arms—and that’s exactly how I felt right then, like I wanted to breathe fire and burn their aggressive laughter right up in smoke.

Whatever it was, it was definitely dour and of a previous century, and only made worse with doily lace.

Whatever it was, it was definitely dour and of a previous century, and only made worse with doily lace.

I smoldered deep inside.

He bounced backward, but the behemoth Buckeye stood too close, Freddie had nowhere to go, and the ice cream soup dropped right into his lap.

“What I mean is, why can’t I study science and humanities? Like, I know I'm really good in English and history, but I love bio. I love environmental science. Why isn't there a major called science in literature?”

She'd done it, even if only a little, quelled my rage by giving me a little hope.

I can just hear the way they’ll justify that. Simpleminded clichés—all of them.

He wasn't part of the maintenance staff, but he obviously was enamored with their work.

He’d built a funeral pyre.

Someone had designed an effigy of our rival, Hodges’s mountain lion, and Cray-Cray had burned the whole thing down, ringing the bonfire with narrow trenches of fire in the ground around it, like some Celtic solstice festival from two thousand years ago.

Gillian noticed some of the girls looking my way, and she turned with a nonchalant grace.

I said, as if I could jump right back in and assume my place in the hierarchy.

She was strikingly pretty, American, but raised somewhere in Europe, and she'd already been caught in the older boys' hungry gazes—I'd seen them huddled around her, vying for her attention.

I stopped writhing and stared at her.

Searching for images for Jules, I typed “inclusive women's rights” into the Google bar, using her words, hoping I'd find images of the Marlon Brandos of the world, holding signs or whatever.

“It’s a problem. Javi and I tried to get a Black Lives Matter vigil going last year.”

I smiled at her sheepishly.

I'd shaken him, and it took him a second to find that smarmy smile, but he found it.

I let it slide and said nothing and kept us speed-walking toward the gym. It was the kind of place where I’d once been so at home. The quiet peace of fire in my muscles, the breaths that rushed out like gale winds when I pushed through a final set.

But being with Freddie and the Fullbrook football guys obliterated the dream.

He gyrated ridiculously next to the bench I was using.

I finished my third set of bicep curls and dropped the dumbbells on the mat between us, hoping he'd give me some space. It didn’t faze him.

“Moody, brooding, all arty...” he continued. “Fine. That works too. Girls think you have your finger on some hidden pulse of the universe. Like you’re misunderstood.”

He smirked and bobbed his head like he was on a TV show and was about to get someone fired, or voted off the island, or shunned by the rest of the house—he was all smug like top dog.