SKYLAR
I am not okay.
I repeat: I am absolutely, one hundred percent not okay.
My hands are wobbling so hard I have to white-knuckle the straps of my backpack just to keep them steady. Every step I take feels like a march toward the gallows.
Trey walks beside me with a predatory stride, his frame acting like a human shield against the rest of campus. We’ve left the psych building and are crossing the quad toward the athletic complex–a state-of-the-art, multi-million-dollar brick building that houses the varsity locker rooms, training facilities, and… the coaches' offices.
The walk is pure torture. The campus grapevine works faster than fiber-optic internet. Everywhere we turn, heads whip around. Fingers point. Loud whispers follow us aggressively.
It seems half the student body has
