Boys of West Denton ✓

chapter twelve

Sebastian

Saanvi is laying on my bed, her thick black hair hanging off the edge of my twin-sized mattress. It's so long that the ends of it, dyed a bright electric blue that reminds me of the quarry waters, touch my ancient wooden floor.

She's holding her phone up above her head, scrolling through people's stories on Snapchat. I'm not much better off, doomscrolling through the Dartmouth 2026 page. I'd been avoiding it as much as I could, because it was such a temptation while I was trying to study for my APs. Dartmouth doesn't take all of them, like my now-useless 5 in AP Bio and 4 in AP Chem, but I was working hard to get some of them in, like Calc and Comp Sci.

But now that we've officially graduated, I don't have to hold off any longer. I'm in Instagram stalking heaven. Most of the people seem fine, whatever. Some of them are exceptionally nerdy-looking, but others seem kind of dude-bro-ish. I keep showing the screen to Saanvi and asking for her feedback. She knows me well enough to guess the point that I'm about to make before I can even get the words out.

"Hey, Sanv," I say, "thoughts."

The phone screen is a brooding boy with nutmeg hair and a stout but muscular frame. His photos are a bunch of hiking and one of him holding a trombone, the last one with a giant robotic LEGO structure.

Saanvi doesn't roll over, so I turn the phone screen upside down. She holds her pointer finger out to scroll, biting her lip in concentration. "Ummm, I'm gonna say he looks like the type to play ping pong using laptops as paddles."

"Oh totally, yeah."

She swipes to the next photo. Her eyes go wide with surprise, and a little bit of intrigue. "Ooh, shirtless pic? That's thirsty."

"Is it thirsty, or confident?" I ask, leaning back to look at the picture in question. The guy is cute enough, but the six pack really is kind of doing it for me. He's on a cliff's edge, poised like he's about to jump. Fuck, it's reminding me of my idiotic little jump last night. I don't know why I did that, but ... well. Yeah. I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe I wanted to cool down and figured I couldn't back out if I just jumped. Fifteen feet. Live a little. Fuck you, me.

"In his case, probably both. He looks like he would condescend to you about Marxism."

"Like he thinks nihilism is the hottest shit," I add, "but probably also thinks social Darwinism is a valid concept."

Saanvi snorts. "He looks like the type to tell you all about poverty in America from his dad's hot tub, and then turn around and say if people were more educated, they could get out of it."

"Oh, like Brady Evans?"

"Oh, fuck Brady Evans. But yeah, totally like Brady Evans."

I scroll up to the next pic. This one is a cute guy in a flannel, with floppy blond hair and an easy-going smile, poised in front of a corn field.

"Ooh, Midwestern Heartthrob Boy," Saanvi says, finally rolling over. I readjust my phone. She swipes over to the next picture—a happy little border collie that's licking his face while he laughs and tries to shield himself. Fuck, okay, cute.

"He's cute," I offer (redundantly).

"That's your type?" Saanvi asks, rolling over. "Little goofy blond boys who mix flannels and athleisure wear?"

Huh. "Maybe."

She gives me an incredulous look. "So ... then, do you think Harrison McCammon is cute?"

"What? Absolutely not." But I pretend to balk a moment too soon, and she gives me a knowing glance. "What?"

Her eyes widen. "Stop, you do think he's cute!"