The Sharp Edge of Silence by Cameron Kelly Rosenblum

Author:Cameron Kelly Rosenblum
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2023-02-02T00:00:00+00:00

9

Saturday

Max

My R2-D2 alarm clock whistles and tweets at six a.m. A barrage of alerts scrawl across my frontal lobe before I even whack the snooze button. Race day. Breakfast of Champions at Spangler Dining Hall in thirty minutes. Use the bow pair to set the boat. Remind Khalid to keep his head in the boat. Alexandra Buchanan.

Nils is predictably catatonic as I examine myself in the mirror. My unitard is a bit loose, but hell if I was getting an extra small. I put on joggers and my favorite LPS sweatshirt. Before I leave, I lean over Nils’s head and say loudly, “Dude, wish me luck.”

One hand rises in the air. Nothing else budges. This amuses me.

I thump down the steps of my dorm. The sky has barely emerged from twilight. Last night at dinner, I suggested putting the Lycroft flag on the Matheson flagpole—either at the boathouse or on campus. Seb and Tyler loved it, and Khalid went to work on the logistics. It’s a victory for me, to have their approval, even if I know how pathetic that is at the same time.

If we win today, my social life could be transformed. Of course, if I mess up, I’ll be back to my usual life. So either I have nothing to lose or a lot to lose, depending how we’re measuring. I turn my thoughts to Chauncey’s technique pointers. We FaceTimed him after dinner. I visualize his tips as index cards in my head, flipping through them all the way to the dining hall.

A bunch of the crew guys are approaching from the other direction. It’s good to be the first here, I think. A cox is supposed to be feisty, a bit overeager—in charge of the sometimes-unruly rowers. I would have been first anyway, because I’m really good at calculating travel times, but this may be the first case—in my life—when that isn’t considered dorky.

I come up to the doors of the dining hall and stop in my tracks.

“Holy shit,” I say under my breath, staring.

Painted in big red letters across both oak doors are the words COLIN PEARCE IS A RAPIST.

Suddenly, I wish I was the last one here. I glance left and right, as if I’m going to see the perpetrator running away with a can of paint. Of course my mind instantly conjures the stalker the other night. Is this Matheson?

The pack of rowers arrives. Seb slows to a stop. “What?!” He smiles for a second and then doesn’t.

“Matheson really sucks at pranking,” I say.

“Yeah,” Seb says. “Uh, Pearce?” He scratches his head.

The others stop. Colin is at the back, and they magically part to let him through.

“What the fuck is this?” He kind of half laughs, but his eyes have narrowed into slits. I move back, valuing my personal safety. His upper body pivots, like he’s considering taking a swing at the door. “What the fuck?” He whispers it this time, a singular shred of evidence that he’s bothered by this. Everyone shifts awkwardly.

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