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ON WEDNESDAY, SHARICE, Evan and I make the most of what little remains of summer by eating lunch outside. We head to the back of the courtyard, where a line of trees separates the end of the campus from the road on the other side.
From here, the only suggestion that there might be more to the world than Clayton Prep—more out there than the layers of red bricks towering above us and the aggressively maintained grass that fills every possible square inch of space in between—is the sound of rushing cars on the road.
The courtyard itself is never crowded. Only upperclassmen are allowed to use it for lunch, and most of the two hundred and twenty people in the two classes decide to go off-campus to eat lunch, anyway.
Despite the room, Sharice, Evan and I sit as far away from the entrance as possible because the only other upperclassmen who stay on-campus without fail are the halfwit athletes, who congregate in the center of the courtyard with their protein shakes and loud inside jokes and endless talk of balls and points and players and whatever the hell else. The end of the hour always devolves into yelling as they all abandon their lunches in a mad scramble to figure who's turn it was this week to do the math homework for everyone else.
"Is it bad that I kind of hate them?" Evan asks. He peers over the top of his laptop at the mass of jocks starting to file in. Nate Parker is there, of course, and his cheerleader girlfriend/homecoming queen, Jennie Eastwood.
"Like, I've spent my entire life staying up all night writing stupid papers and studying for stupid tests and doing stupid lab reports and double-checking stupid math problem sets, and then dragging my ass out of bed at 4:00 a.m. to make it to swim meets, and then forcing myself to stay awake through biology so Mr. Weller will write me a recommendation letter, and then staying after school for band practice to develop my artistic side so I can be, oh, I don't know, well-rounded," Evan continues. "And all the jocks have done is lucked into being six-three with well-developed biceps and they're going to have God knows how many colleges just begging them to go there. Where's the justice in that?"
"I'm not even a senior, Evan, and even I know that there's no justice in college admissions," I say.
"No justice," he agrees glumly. "Only sleep deprivation."
"That really sucks," Sharice chimes in plainly. She gives us three more seconds of silent mourning for all of Evan's lost sleep before her pep returns. "But anyway ..." She places her spoon down next to her half-eaten chili and looks up at us with the most innocent of innocent expressions.
