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 asophistis. 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.”
