Free Away We Go by Emil Ostrovski

repression a kinder face. The beneficiaries are those students whose high NAAP scores apparently qualify them for a better quality of life than other youths in
    Westinger. page 7

 
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    FUCKING POLO
    For a time Zach and I managed to avoid each other, which was quite impressive, considering we lived in the same hall and saw each other once a week at Polo. We never fully committed ourselves to the effort, though—that way, we had the recourse of plausible deniability if one of us worked up the courage to say, Hey, what the fuck, man.
    I was watching the year’s first snowfall through the window of my twentieth-century lit class when my phone buzzed. I checked it under my desk while my professor lectured about how Cheever’s “The Swimmer” is a quest narrative through 1960s American suburbia, as if any of us had any idea of what that meant, really.
    can u meet me on the path bw Gall & Caf
    Coming I responded.
    halfway ;] he said.
    So I ditched.
    Down the steps of Bullsworth and into the academic quad, filled with brown and golden leaves half hidden by fresh snow. I stepped on a crumpled copy of the Westinger strewn on the ground, caught a glance at a headline that read “Director Speaks Out: Westing’s Mission to Help, Not Curtail Liberty.” A tangle of boys played football, leaves and fresh snow crunching beneath their sneakers.
    The football sailed past my head, bounced off Lombardy Hall’s brick facade. I headed up past Lombardy, onto the nearestof the cobblestone paths that ran between the cafeteria and Galloway, whipping my phone out, checking to see if Zach had messaged to explain, elaborate, but nothing.
    I saw him from afar, on a bench in a small clearing off to the side.
    â€œHi, Noah,” he said, raising his hand in a tentative wave.
    â€œHi, Zach,” I said.
    â€œI wanted to show you something,” he said, rising.
    â€œAnd here I thought you missed me.”
    He froze momentarily, turned so he stood in profile, brushed a hand through his hair.
    â€œOf course I’ve missed you. I’m crazy about you, naturally.”
    â€œNaturally.”
    He looked at me, but tentatively, like a scientist who’d just encountered a strange and erratic new species.
    â€œI wanted to show you something. Okay?”
    I sighed. “Okay.”
    He led me into the woods, ducked under a branch, and another, jumped over a stump. He was rushing, leading me—I realized—to one of the traps we’d set with Polo Club. Together with the rest of the club in a conference room on the second floor of the library we’d pored over maps of the neighboring Vermont countryside, discussed which berries and mushrooms were edible, practiced tying knots, making fishing poles and nets and traps.
    Dread squirmed inside me, but I couldn’t stop now.
    I noticed the smell first.
    The squirrel was a ruin. Some other animal—badger, maybe—must have gotten at it while it was stuck.
    I studied Zach, and he studied me studying him, and I said, “I’m sorry.”
    He nodded, as if I’d passed some sort of test. The shadows of branches played against his skin as he talked. “You know it’s funny. I—when I was a freshman here I found this, umm, wounded rabbit. God, I couldn’t get it out of my head. It was a baby. I came back with a box for him. He was upright now, so I reached to touch him, to see if he was okay. I had gloves on, these plastic cleaning things. He almost let me touch him, but then he bolted—didn’t get far, sort of flopped on his side.” Zach hesitated, bit his lip. He looked self-conscious, like I’d caught him being himself. “God, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” He cleared his throat and went on. “I grabbed him and put him in the box and took the box back to my room, set it on my bed. That’s when I straight-up panicked. I didn’t know what to do with him. I