HOW THEY FELL

SECOND

SOME PEOPLE MIGHT SAY waking up at five-thirty everyday is some long lost form of medieval torture, and they're not wrong, but for me, doing this has been routine for so long that something would feel amiss if I didn't hear my alarm softly croon in my ear like a jilted lover's whisper every morning.

So when it goes off on the first Wednesday of the first week of school, I blindly feel around my nightstand for my glasses and slide them on. (I always have to blink a few times to get used to seeing precise lines instead of fuzzy shapes, even though I've been wearing prescriptions since I was seven.)

But because the sun's not up yet and flicking the lights on takes more effort than it's worth, I undress and pull my swimsuit on in the dark and throw an old hoodie and a pair of sweatpants over it. Then I get the urge to piss so I stumble to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, I'm in the kitchen, bumbling about to the loud music streaming from my earbuds as I dump some green leaves and powders into a blender in an endeavor to make two smoothies that are probably going to taste like shit, if we're being perfectly honest. (Look, I don't care if those powders are suppose to be vanilla-flavored—they taste like chalk.)

So as the blender makes noises that sound like an angry demon getting crucified, I dutifully hunt down my goggles and a long towel.

I used to feel guilty for making this much noise in the morning. I mean, Claude barely gets enough shut-eye, anyway. I've found him asleep over his calculus homework so many times that I've honestly lost count. (That kid works too hard.)

But when he didn't come charging after me with a machete, threatening to chop my head off the first few times, and after I went and peered into his room like a fucking creep to see if he really was still asleep or just silently plotting to cut my head off with a machete, and found him sound asleep, hugging a pillow to his chest, I've come to the conclusion that Claude Santos sleeps like the fucking dead.

(And yes, Claude hugging a pillow while sleeping is totally as cute as you just imagined it to be.)

So at five-thirty am, I blow through our dorm like a goddamn hurricane while Claude simply sleeps peacefully through it, and before five forty-five, I'm out the door and on my way to practice.

• • •

I stop by Lowell House—one of the many dormitories on campus—and sip my smoothie in small intervals (to dilute the flavor) while I wait for James to come stumbling out the doors.

The sky's gradually gotten a bit lighter in the last fifteen minutes I've been walking through the courtyard, signaling the approaching sunrise. All the streetlamps are still lit, though, with a warm glow that illuminates miniscule models of swirling dust tornados.

I inhale deeply, leaning against a lamppost. The air's cool and crisp—thanks to the nearby Atlantic regulating temperatures, and it's fresh and smells like flowers—thanks to the planted gardens on campus. A breeze waltzes pass, blowing hair into my eyes. I use my fingers to comb it back—there's no point in trying to style it before practice, anyway.

Then I hear the scuffle of sneakers on pavement and sure enough, there's James Friar, fresh-faced and twinkly-eyed, jogging down the steps towards me.

"Good morning, Montrose!" He calls out, raising a hand.

I grunt in reply, like a caveman. (Hey—just because I said I was used to waking up this early during the school year, doesn't mean I enjoy it.)

But James Friar what you call a morning person. In fact, the entire time we were in the south of France, he was up at seven on-the-dot every day. I, on the other hand, can't recall a single time where I woke up before eleven.