Bookshelf Boy

one.

MY FRIEND IS a bloody idiot.

That must be the only explanation, I think, for why he's currently zipping down the halls on his skateboard yelling, "WHO WANTS TO PARTY!"

I'm at my locker getting books for History class and turn—along with every student—to see Lucas Flanagan flinging papers into the air around him as he crouches on his skateboard, nearly running over the entire student body. However, instead of the scowls and curse words I'm sure would be flung at him on any other occasion, he's greeted by a large round of cheers and even some applause. 

Now don't get me wrong, our school isn't usually this rowdy or...fun, for that matter. Actually, most of the time, the hallway is stuffy with the tense, combative silence of students who want to tear each other apart if it means being the top of their class. The competitive environment isn't exactly healthy to anyone's wellbeing, but unfortunately, everyone's too stubborn to let their guards down, so instead we walk with sticks up our arses and play the part of the studious, distinguished, shining pupil, all while pretending we don't want to secretly blow our own heads off.

However, there's one night—the annual party before midterms—where the expectation to be the perfect student falls away, where we can forget about our papers and exams. That night was created two years ago by the stupid genius known as Lucas Flanagan, or who Clay Deaton dubbed "The Party Master" during last year's rave, precisely five minutes before he blacked out. The nickname, unfortunately, stuck.

"Oh thank the fucking Lord," Tamara Bronelli, vice president of our student council, materializes next to me with her books hugged to her chests. She narrows her eyes at me. "Wright, what the hell took Flanagan so long?"

I blow my gum until it pops and stare ahead at the absolute chaos in front of me. "No idea, mate."

She bends down to pick up one of the flyers before examining it in her hand. "Christ, he really needs to work on his graphic design skills. This looks like shit."

Now we're not exactly friends. I know this because I once called her Tam after hearing her best friend Ellie Smith call her that, and she damn near killed me with her glare. Loads of people will say she's the most uptight, haughty and annoyingly high-maintenance Type A person to exist, but I've always sort of taken a liking to her. Maybe it's because when she transferred here last year she quite literally blew most everyone out of the waters academically and dominated multiple clubs. Even though she's the sitting Vice President of the student council, we all know she's the spinning wheels behind it.

But for being the absolute stoic, ruthless academic machine she is, I have the suspicion she's got quite the wild side to her. Also, at last year's party, I saw her kiss the living daylights out of Ellie Smith right as the chorus of a remixed Mitski song dropped. And then she proceeded to down two shots back to back before she pulled out her ponytail and started dancing like she was the next Beyoncé.

It was the coolest fucking thing I'd ever seen. So I dunno. Maybe I'm biassed.

"I'll pass that along," I assure.

She nods and straightens herself up, tightens her impossibly sleek ponytail, and marches straight into the zoo of socially deprived kids that is the school hallway.

I look back at the flock of students hurrahing and bumping fists. Upperclassmen always said that Year 12 was the worst; with all the workload that's been shoved down our throats, it's clear why.

Which is probably why the rowdiness of students is more intense than it's ever been. Apart from the usual bouts of excitement and hands patting Lucas' back as he passes them with a "Good on ya," or "It's about fucking time!", a group of girls even go as far as blowing air kisses his way. He looks back and winks.