“Which shit?” I ask. When it comes to Connor Cobalt, there’s been a lot of shit recently. Especially concerning him and his wife. Yesterday, there were hundreds of pics online with Rose’s hair dyed an ugly orange color. Tumblr created a meme and literally photoshopped foxes on her head. It was weird and stupid.
“The photos of Connor going down on his wife in a parking lot,” William says. I saw those too. They were dark, taken outside while they were in a car. But you could make out his head and her legs around his shoulders. It was obvious what they were doing, and when they didn’t deny it, social media went nuts.
“No one has said anything,” I reply.
“Can you believe he did that and basically owned up to it like it was just another day?” William says in awe. “I mean, the guy is legendary. His wife is immortally beautiful and brilliant. He can give her head in a public parking lot and not even bat an eye. Are you sure no one has talked about it?”
“I’m sure,” I snap. For the love of…why are we talking about Connor Cobalt? I run a hand through my hair. I want to physically eject myself from this conversation. Would it be rude to get up and leave the room? I’ve never really had a roommate—besides that couple times on family vacations I had to room with Mitchell, but I don’t think that counts. This is all new for me.
Being at a new school.
New place.
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 a sophist is. 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.