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.

As we continue our commute to the natatorium, James plugs my earbuds into his phone and shows me this new song he discovered; in return, I give him his smoothie and he takes a swing.

Almost immediately, he makes a disgusted face like I'd just given him some vile sour plum juice. "Christ, what is this?"

"It's a kale-banana-acai-hemp-protein smoothie."

At this, he looks even more disgusted, sticking out his tongue and shuddering dramatically. "Gross."

"Stop being dramatic," I grumble, looking at my own smoothie. "I've been making you this since sophomore year."

"That doesn't mean I've gotten used to the taste," he retorts.

"It's good for you! Lots of vitamins and shit. Look, if you don't want it then give it back." I force myself to sip my own smoothie not breaking eye contact with him the entire time. I suppress a shudder at the flavor. "Yum," I choke out.

James frowns down at his own smoothie, reluctantly drinking more. The rest of the way, he mutters under his breath about how white people have ruined smoothies with their hemp seed fetish.

We continue walking across the damp courtyard. I try to not think about the dew that's sure to leave grass stains on my sneakers as we trek.

I remember the first time I met James. He had transferred in the middle of our freshman year, when everyone already sort of had their own friend groups. At that time, he stuck out as the only black kid on the team. I wish I could say I reached out and talked to him, but the truth is, I was too selfishly caught up in my own problems freshman year to care much about anyone else. It wasn't until coach paired us up for exercises one day that I learned James Friar was actually loud and funny, a bit of daredevil (and a secret anime nerd, but I'm not suppose to tell anyone that). As cheesy as it sounds, we quickly bonded over our shared love for the sport.

All of that being said, it's not like we enjoy it any more than the rest of our teammates as we reach the natatorium at six-oh-five am and head for the chlorine-perfumed locker rooms.

• • •

You know those movies where the boys' locker rooms are super rowdy and everyone's cracking jokes and slapping butts, but like totally not in a gay way, because God forbid boys be anything but straight and mAsCuLiNe?

Well, the atmosphere in our locker room at sunrise is close to one at a funeral for your great Aunt Becky. No one talks, and the only sound heard is the one of squeaky rubber shoes scrubbing against the hard tile floor.

Mostly because we're still half-asleep/dead but also because we only get three minutes to shove all our crap into the lockers and strip off our hoodies and get those silicone swim caps over our heads and make our way to the pool deck.

The natatorium has two giant pools—one for swimming and the other for diving. With high ceilings and higher levels of chemicals, it always smells like chlorine and you can hear every sound as it echoes. James and I are the first ones on deck. I help snap his cap over his head and he does the same for me.

Then he yawns widely, flashing his pearly white teeth, twirling his goggles in his hand as we wait for the rest of the boys. The girls' team is already in the water—Cassidy Henderson is smirking at us like, wow you losers. I try to be the bigger person and ignore her but . . .

Jesus, how are they so fast and . . . organized?

Mentally, I compare our team to the girls' as we emerge from the locker room.

We're waddling like little ducklings, hissing at the cold floor. Ethan Xiong's still trying to tug Mark Fitzroy's cap over his head. There's a group of sophomores trying to make farting noises that echo loudly through the pool. And then they think it's hilarious to pretend like it's coming from the person next to them.

"No honor . . . no dignity," I comment sadly, shaking my head.

"Pathetic," James agrees, nodding, but I can see he's trying not to laugh.

Just then, coach walks out from his office, and we all straighten like we're soldiers in the presence of a commanding officer.

Around my father's age, Coach Rossi doesn't wear a military uniform, but rather, a different single-colored tracksuit everyday, accompanied with a harsh scowl on his face and a protruding belly.

Today is head-to-toe, all-red (it's like he's trying to convey to us what the color of the pool will be, after he's done with us).

He takes one look at the girls, and then another at us, and his scowl weighs down even further with disappointment and disapproval.

I gulp.

He blows shrilly on his whistle and I have to resist the urge to cover my ears, but it gets the sophomore boys to quickly shut the hell up.

"Fitzroy!" Coach barks.

Fitzroy jumps. "Y-yes, coach?"

"What did I say about swim caps?"

Fitzroy gulps, eyes wide. "Th-that we need to have them on before you see us. But, coach! My old one broke and—"

Coach holds up a hand and Fitzroy falls silent.

"No excuses, kid. I warned you all what would happen so come on, chop chop! Everyone down and give me twenty."

A few groans fly up and I have to bite my lip to keep myself from groaning along with them. The girls' team looks at us with smug smirks.

"Oh stop whining like a bunch of babies! The football team has to do at least fifty."

James meaningfully makes eye contact with me and I shoot him a look back. His says: as co-captains, we're suppose to set the example. Mine says: Fuck that, no way.

But he's right, so ultimately, we're the first ones to drop down and do twenty pushups and soon, everyone else follows, and then it's time to get into the pool and we willingly line up like lambs being led to slaughter and then it's just splat. splat. splat.

• • •

We get out of practice at seven-thirty, exhausted and aching, just so we can shower and change to go start the rest of the school day.

I'll spare you from the cliché, internal, teenage monologue that goes like: in chemistry with—insert random teacher name here—I asked Claude for a pencil, not because I needed one, but because he looked really good today and I wanted to talk to him. He shot me a dirty look, handed me a pencil, and then told me to give it back after class. Did I give it back? No. (Yeah, I'm that person—hashtag: no shame.) In Calc BC, I did something you probably don't care about; in AP Lang and Comp, I did more shit you don't care about. Blahblahblah, more stuff, blahblahblah.

So let's skip to lunch—the only part of the school day where anything remotely worth noting happens.

I take my lunch and find my friends sitting in our usual spot in the courtyard: under the shade of a giant oak tree.

"Hello—I have arrived!" I announce.

Much to my dismay, there's no fanfare because no one pays any attention to me.

James is sitting with his feet crossed in front of him, nonchalantly watching as Camille furiously scribbles sentences on a sheet of paper.

I sit down, too, criss-cross-applesauce style. "What's going on?"

Camille doesn't answer, but James looks at me. "She's writing her summer reading essay," he explains, jutting his chin in her general direction. "And I'm proof-reading it."

"What? Camille! That's due next period—you've had all summer!"

Camille stops, looking up to shoot me a dirty look. "I know, Montrose. Thanks for your totally helpful input. Really, because I really needed that." She goes back to writing, slurping apple juice from a small juice box at the same time.

"Where's Sam?" I ask, frowning.

"Over there," Camille mutters absentmindedly, then curses and starts erasing when James tells her she spelled something wrong.

After that really helpful description, I scan the courtyard and finally see Samuel Rivera talking to Claude and the rest of the kids from the decathlon team by the water fountain. Sam's saying something and Claude's nodding, staring at him intently.

After a few more minutes, Sam says his goodbyes and walks towards us, his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

"What was that about?" James, a fellow busybody, saves me the trouble by asking the question I had in mind.

"Oh," Sam says, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully. "I was thinking about joining the decathlon team."

I crinkle my nose. "Ew, why would you do that?"

Sam quickly looks away. "Scholarship money."

And suddenly my face blossoms in red. Camille shoots me a look like, you absolute shithead.

God, why can't I ever think before I speak? Sometimes I just forget that, like Claude, Sam attends Brimble on a scholarship, too. Ew, why would you do that? Ew, why would you do that? In the space of a few seconds, I've played what I said a thousand times in my head and it sounds just as bad every single time. I cringe at the tone I used. Henry—you're a fucking moron.

"Shit Sam . . . Sorry, I didn't mean it like that," I apologize. "I wish I could take it back."

There's a pause and I think he's about to tell me: fuck you—go to hell, Henry, but instead San just nudges me gently on the shoulder. "I know, Henry . . . It's okay—don't beat yourself up over it."

And inside I cringe even more because Sam's so nice. He's the type of nice that makes you acutely aware of how shitty a person you are. 

• • •

Halfway through lunch, James is halfway through telling us the story of how Stacy Greenfield, our resident stoner-kid, got sent to detention earlier today, when Camille, having finished her essay with marks of high praise from both James and Sam, suddenly ducks her head.

"Mayday, mayday!" She whisper-shouts. "Don't look, but I think Wes is coming this way!"

Whenever someone says: don't look, it's kind of a given that you have to look, so all three of us swivel our heads like a group of creepy children dolls and sure enough, there he is, all six feet of him, heading straight for us.

Weston Brimble is what my sister would call a pseudo-intellectual, meaning: he spews out a shit ton of facts—some true, some completely made up.

Like once, I saw him giving a tour of the school to a group of incoming freshmen; he told them the school was founded in 1917. Later that same day, he told another group it was 1964. I don't know if he simply doesn't remember or if he just likes messing with everyone but either way, the only reason why he gets away with it is because, as his last name suggests, his family founded the school and his father's the dean. Come to think of it, that's probably how he won the election and became the student body president, too.

I think that having a possible pathological liar as the president is a little bit concerning. I mean, he could be like, selling our school secrets to a competing school in like, Russia, or something.

(I told Camille this, and she told me I was being really dramatic. Then I told James, and he started laughing his head off. Finally I told Sam, and he just looked at me like he felt sorry for me.)

Anyways, a conversation with Wes, at best, leaves you mildly annoyed, and at worst, makes you question everything you know, and I'm really not in the pseudo-philosophical mood right now.

"Hey guys!" Wes greets us, clutching a stack of papers to his argyale sweater-clad chest. He starts handing each of us a sheet. "How's the first week of school going?"

"Couldn't possibly be better, old buddy!" I chirp.

Sam shoots me a look: be nice.

My sarcasm flies over Wes's head completely, clearing it by at least a mile. "Good to hear!" He says cheerily, grinning.

I scowl.

James hides a laugh behind his hand.

"Uh . . . what are these?" Camille asks, looking at the paper.

"Oh, well, we're asking everyone to fill out surveys about their school experience so we can, you know, improve it," Wes quips.

"Wait, so you're passing out one of these to everyone?" Sam asks, furrowing his brows.

Wes nods, his dumb blonde hair flopping about. I roll my eyes—he's like a puppy. A dumb puppy.

"Wes, dear ol' boy," I drawl, "don't you think that's a waste of paper? Wouldn't it have been better to just make the survey online and, I don't know, send everyone a link? Better for the environment." That's what I would've done, anyway.

"Actually, Henry," Wes replies matter-of-factly, flipping his hair out of his face. "This is paper made from eco-friendly trees in the Amazon rainforest, so it doesn't hurt the environment at all."

At this, I shoot James a meaningful look and mouth: eco-friendly trees???

James has to pretend to shield his eyes from the sun so Wes doesn't see him laughing.

"Anyways, I have to go—got to pass out the rest of these papers. Please turn them into the front office by the end of the week. Thanks so much, guys!" Wes starts to leave, but stops in his tracks. "Oh, also, Henry—I heard from my dad your mom was going to announce her campaign soon. Tell her I admire her so much, okay? And that I hope she's not as easy to beat as you were." He says this so sincerely, my jaw drops open—I have to double-check with myself that those words just came out of his mouth.

As soon as he's out of earshot, Camille and James start howling, rolling on the grass.

"Montrose! You just! Got fucking destroyed!" James cackles, spitting out his water.

"I can't believe," Camille gasps, "He brought up how you lost the student council election last year. He wrecked you—oh God, I can't breathe. Oh God."

Out of the corner of my eye, I even see Sam chuckling.

I scowl—the election last year for the coveted position of student body president is still a sore spot for me. I don't want to sound cocky but everybody thought I was going to win (I even told my parents I was—which turned out to be a big mistake). But I mean, I even got the chess club to vote for me! The chess club, for Christ's sake!

"That election was rigged!" I protest hotly. "You guys know this! I don't know how he did it, but that fucking asshole rigged the election! I mean, his dad is the dean!"

James snorts, rolling his eyes. "Uh huh, sure, Henry."

"I'm serious!"

"Just admit it, Henry." Camille quirks her lip. "You just hate Wes because he beat you."

"No! I hate him because he's a pretentious piece of shit!"

"Sure you do." 

I shoot Camille a death glare. Scowling, I resort to pulling out and snapping pieces of grass to shave off my frustration.

"Wait, what did he mean, your mom's announcing her campaign soon?" Sam frowns, looking at me.

Oh right, I forgot Sam doesn't know yet. I blow out a breath—well, I guess I'll have to tell him sooner or later. He's going to freak out.

"She's running for a spot in D.C.—she's announcing this Saturday," I say, carefully.

"What?" Sam turns towards me. "Like . . . in the Senate?" He furrows his brows.

"No . . . like . . . president."

"MONTROSE!"

"Shhhhh!" I hiss, glancing around to make sure no one heard. "No one's suppose to know!"

Camille and James just giggle, watching this with amusement, being absolutely no help at all.

"Your mother could be the first female, latina president?" Sam whisper-shouts, freaking out.

Okay let's pause here, so, I'm sure that, up to this point, you were thinking I'm some dumb privileged white boy—and I am. Privileged, I mean, but both of my mom's parents