WIP Wednesday: Incoming Credits

Today's WIP Wednesday is a snippet from my YA manuscript, Incoming Credits. I absolutely adore Zeke and his teenage attitude. *g*

Incoming Credits

“Move it, Mr. Cameron,” Mr. Rhodes said. He was already slipping his own navy blazer over his button down. It coordinated nicely with his navy and gold Winthrop Prep tie. He usually coached in the same warm-ups that the players wore, and I wondered if he'd be going all out and coaching in his fancy clothes tonight because it was state.

“It's a five-point demerit if you're not in the gymnasium by the time the pep rally starts, and if you make me late it'll be ten,” he snapped.

While sitting on uncomfortable bleachers and watching whatever over-sexualized dry humping routine the cheerleaders had devised for the occasion wasn't exactly my cup of tea, earning ten demerits for my cohort would definitely be more painful in the long run.

I packed up my stuff without comment and trudged off to the gymnasium. I could hear the dull roar from inside as soon as I turned the corner. I'd cut it close. The hall monitor gave me a dirty look as I passed her, but at least she'd waited until I arrived before letting the door swing shut. It smacked against my backpack, sending me stumbling the last step into the chaos that was an all-school athletic pep rally. I knew the dramatic snick of the lock was in my imagination, but I couldn't help it, knowing that the door had locked behind me. We could get out, but no one could get in. Being in the hallway right now was a one-way ticket to the headmaster's office.

Go Prep.

I picked my way across the gym floor, sticking as close to the bleachers as I dared. It was a fine line. Stray too far onto the floor and get catcalled. Cut too close to the occupied bottom bleacher and get tripped. Good times.

Winthrop was big on decorum—what else would you expect from a place whose motto was Training Leaders for The Present and The Future!—but all that went out the window on pep rally days. Pep rally days were the only time we were excused from our usual blazers, chinos, and loafers, and everyone took advantage.

The bleachers were full of kids wearing the latest trendy clothes, all in navy and gold, our school colors. Even when we weren't in our blazers the bulk of the school still managed to have a uniform—expensive, trendy, and cookie cutter.

I scanned over them, a smirk curving my lips when I found what I was looking for. Kurt's ratty black AC/DC T-shirt and the cherry red leather jacket Chelsea had found at a garage sale when she'd visited me last summer stood out like welcome beacons—or sore thumbs, depending on who you asked—in the sea of designer labels. Leighton was perched on the bleacher seat next to her, looking just as perfect as the rest of the crowd if you ignored the scowl on her face.