“Wh—that guy threw something at me,” he yelped, scrambling up on his knees.
Nihal’s hand stilled against the paper. He set down his pen, stood, and strode to the window. Grim recognition flashed across his face. He tugged at one side of his turban, distaste settling across his expression.
I approached the circle of dusky sky. Marcus twitched away on the sofa so I could see.
A boy was at the bottom of the library building, standing on the long strip of pavement that stretched toward Arlington. He wore a brown leather backpack and was unreasonably tall. His dark hair gleamed in the sunset. It was the kid from the amphitheater.
I sank down, hiding most of my face from view. He wound up like a pitcher, lashed out a hand, and another pebble clattered off the side of the building.
“Hey,” Nihal called sharply. “Cut it out.”
“Make me,” the boy called back, flashing an infuriating grin. “Those your rooks?”
“None of your business.”
“What’s a rook?” Marcus asked.
“It stands for rookies,” Nihal said. “Also a crow pun.”
Marcus gave his usual halting guffaw. I peered down at the boy. “He’s a Minuet, right?”
“Yeah, their music director. Connor Caskey,” Nihal muttered, a deep scowl settling on his face. “He’s the only other Visual Arts person in an a cappella group, so he’s the closest thing I have to an arch-nemesis, basically. He lives a floor up from me and spends all his time being the absolute worst.”
“Caskey?” Marcus repeated. “Like Dr. Caskey?”
“Yep,” Nihal said, and glanced at me. “His dad’s the Dean of Music.”
“He teaches my Baroque and Bach class!” Marcus exclaimed. “He’s kind of a tool.”
“Yes,” Nihal said. “It runs in the family.”
Connor Caskey’s voice rang up. “I saw your desperate e-mail the other day, Singh. What happened? Someone finally crack under the weight of Trav being a total nutcase?”
For a long moment, I watched Nihal trying to decide whether to take the high road, his mouth thinning in frustration. Finally, he muttered something indistinguishable and stuck his head back out the window. “For your information,” he called, “someone transferred to Andover.”
Caskey let out a slow whistle. “Wow! The lengths people will go to escape you guys.”
“. . . rrrghshnff ” was the noise that ground out of Nihal’s mouth.
Caskey grinned toothily up at us, running a hand through his hair. Behind him, someone opened the Arlington side door, calling something that the breeze snatched away. Connor said something in reply, backed up from the Prince building, and gave us a salute that turned into a middle finger. “Later, Muppets,” he called, and jogged toward Arlington.
We leaned back from the window. “Muppets?” Marcus said blankly. “Why?”
Nihal shuffled his comic into a black portfolio case and tucked his ink pen into a pouch. “We do not deign to absorb insults from lesser groups. Got it?”
“Yeah,” I said. “What’s his problem?”
Nihal shrugged. “He acts like it’s all a joke, but I think he might still be bitter about the Sharps not letting him in. Which is actually sort of sad, since it’s been three years.” He rolled his eyes. “Or he may just enjoy the whole rivalry thing, because, again, he is the worst.”
The worst? Maybe. Still, it was a little exhilarating, having an actual sworn enemy. Rivals—the word was exciting, a dare. A hurdle to jump. More than that, the term made everything so cut and dry. It wasn’t often the world offered you on a silver platter an enemy whom you could dislike instantly and irrationally, no guilt involved. Connor’s cocky grin fixed itself into my mind’s eye, and it made me want to grin right back.
On Saturday, I arrived at the Dollar Sale the moment they opened the roped-off enclosure, trying to avoid the inevitable crowd. I’d added a ratty baseball cap to my glasses, casting a deep shadow over my face.
I darted through collections of swiveling chairs and clumsily constructed side tables. In one row, beside a forest of wobbly lamps, a fleet of fans turned in the breeze, abandoned. Those were probably donated by kids who’d been lucky enough to get air-conditioned housing this year. The AC life was a life the theater students would never know. Not even Pepper House, the dorm for theater seniors, had AC. It had been a constant sore point for Michael, who heated up like a radiator in his sleep, always ending up with his sheets banished to the foot of his bed, a mess of soft, crimped cotton.
Stop thinking, sang a voice in my head. Stop it, stop it, stop.
I doubled my speed.
A sprawling map of clothes lay farther down the lawn, spread across picnic blankets in the deep shadow of Marden Cathedral. Near the stone path that led to the cathedral doors, I scooped up a six-pack of men’s T-shirts, all varying shades on the grayscale, zipped inside a plastic case. I tucked it into the huge red bag they handed out to shoppers and next added multi-packs of undershirts and boys’ socks. Buying guys’ clothes was like buying bulk cereal.
Instinctively, I checked the tags, keeping the names I recognized. The more I dressed like the Sharps, the more I was one of them. Invisible. And, honestly, it would be nice to blend in for once. I snatched up twenty-three dollars’ worth of Vineyard Vines, Barbour, and Joe’s Jeans so quickly, the crowd was just starting to seep in when I brought my red bag to the counting table.
Approaching the table, I halted in my tracks. The school got the prefects to work this event, and the prefect manning the table . . . just my luck. It was Anabel, beautiful in a summery sundress, the fine point of her nose lifted in the air.
I swallowed, looking around. With people arriving in earnest like this, theater and music kids alike, it was too risky to wait for the workers to change shifts. I could get through one thirty-second interaction with Anabel, right? The hat, the glasses, the hair . . . I looked nothing like myself. Besides that pair of Hall Standards meetings right after move-in, we’d barely seen each other this year. All I had to do was keep my head down and act normal.
I strode up to the table, sliding the bag across to Anabel. “Yo,” I grunted, staring at the table. The white plastic had the stubbly texture of plaster.
“Hi there,” she chirped, spilling the bag out. With crisply manicured nails, she picked through the bag’s contents item by item. I felt spoiled, with all the pricey denim and classy button-ups she was sorting through. A silky tie and—I was officially a sellout—a pair of boat shoes. I’d also stumbled on a pair of khakis perfect for performance and black dress shoes a size and a half too big. It wasn’t like I’d be running a marathon in the things. They just had to fit enough.
Anabel’s hands slowed as she moved to the next clump of items: three dresses and a pair of sparkling heels. I shifted in place.
“My, uh, my girlfriend couldn’t come,” I blurted.