Tradition: Prologue–Chapter 5

I collapse by the edge of the bluff.

I didn't even know I had no clue about any of those things until I stood on the sidewalk outside my new home, boys' dorm number 3, Tapper Hall, and watched the families swirling around the residential quad.

I didn't mean to sound standoffish, but I did.

The blue day—even the watery reflections in the stained-glass windows seemed curated, cultivated, perfected.

History was everywhere, looming over me like the long, leafy branches casting shadows over the walkway.

He rambled on, setting nerves on fire beneath my skin.

Everybody at Fullbrook seemed like a genius to me, already worldly, already honing their special skill, building robots, singing arias, starting their own tech company.

Everybody at Fullbrook seemed like a genius to me, already worldly, already honing their special skill, building robots, singing arias, starting their own tech company.

Everybody at Fullbrook seemed like a genius to me, already worldly, already honing their special skill, building robots, singing arias, starting their own tech company.

“Not football, maybe,” Freddie conceded.

There was a line of cars parked haphazardly along the curb.

I'd gone to the trouble of donning what I called my 1950s Catholic school outfit, because I knew Mrs. Attison would appreciate the “attitude and decorum,” as she’d say, even though it was sunny and warm, the kind of day that made you wonder why wool sweaters had ever been invented.

I'd gone to the trouble of donning what I called my 1950s Catholic school outfit, because I knew Mrs. Attison would appreciate the “attitude and decorum,” as she’d say, even though it was sunny and warm, the kind of day that made you wonder why wool sweaters had ever been invented.

I needed to get some of my classmates to join me so I didn’t look like some fringe radical—which I wasn't.

All I was doing was passing out health center flyers, not trying to induct first years into some hedonistic...cult.

All I was doing was passing out health center flyers, not trying to induct first years into some hedonistic...cult.

I followed, uneasy and wary, but it felt good to run, to get out of the sun and the feeling that people were watching, waiting for me to say something stupid or incorrect...

The further we walked, the steeper and steeper the side of the hill became, until the path opened up to a narrow beach, where the cliff edge hundreds of feet above us was a sheer drop to the water.

The river was a bright sheen of sunlight disappearing into the thick woods beyond.

Still, I liked the banter. Liked being a part of it all. There was something familiar—not the words, just being part of the conversation.

It smelled like fire, woodsmoke in a can, and it seared my throat as it went down.

His voice was steady, but he had some of Freddie’s mania in his eyes too.

Freddie asked, already bounding back down the rocks.

He couldn’t stop himself from laughing, a boom I felt all around my head until he let me go and I stepped back to look at him—his perennial south Florida tan richer than when I’d seen him last, as if he were still at the beach, smiling up at the sun.

One more year, one more year. That was my mantra.

The Gillian addressing the crowd was styled and polished like a TV pundit.

And that was what it was, she was beautiful—but more important to me was that she had an air of authority, the poise of someone ten years older than me.

“Please,” I said, more demoralized than I wanted to sound.

Collateral damage is real. What about collateral accountability?

Collateral damage is real. What about collateral accountability?

Aileen walked off with a curt good-bye, and Javi and I didn’t linger.

Most of the late-night parties happened at the other end, at the wide patch of dirt around Horn Rock, but here, a slim pale elm clung to the edge, its roots fingering into the sandy rock, its trunk leaning out over the precipice.

While Javi smoked and talked, I looked out over the river and the dense, undulating carpet of trees rolling over the hills and the low, blue peaks beyond, as if there was nothing but wilderness out there, a vast and endless unknown, and Fullbrook, behind us, was the school that sat on the edge of the world.

I could recognize him, even from that distance. His silhouette, long hair, the timbre of his voice echoing up to me.

He stifled a giggle, poorly.