The Humvee’s diesel engine rumbled like distant thunder as I backed it out of the garage, the morning light catching on the matte green paint. Gabriel was already in the passenger seat, wearing a black “TRIVIUM” t-shirt and the kind of aviator sunglasses that could make a traffic cone look dangerous.
I tossed him a pair of mine—polarized, dark enough to hide any expression—and pulled my own on before throwing it into drive.
“Seatbelt,” I said.
“Check,” he replied, grinning like a kid who’d just been handed the keys to Christmas.
The island air was sharp and salty as we rolled down the drive, the wide tires humming over the pavement. By the time we hit the causeway, the morning commuters were already staring. A jogger actually stopped mid-stride to watch us pass.
“People are looking,” Gabriel said, voice low but amused.
“Good,” I said. “Let ’em.”
The school parking lot came into view, and I downshifted just enough for the Humvee’s exhaust to growl low and mean. Heads started to turn before we even crossed the entrance. The line of cars for drop-off split in two as I swung into the main lane, the sheer bulk of the vehicle making compact sedans look like toys.
On the front steps, a cluster of jocks—my favorite peanut gallery—fell silent. One of them, Tyler, squinted behind his sunglasses like he was trying to figure out if he was dreaming.
I brought the Humvee to a stop right at the curb. The brakes hissed, the engine still rumbling. For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Gabriel and I stepped out in perfect sync, both of us in dark jeans, boots, and our shades. The slam of the doors echoed across the lot.
Conversations stalled. Someone near the bike racks muttered, “Holy crap.” Another kid actually fumbled their phone trying to get a picture.
Tyler leaned on his backpack strap and smirked—until I looked right at him over my glasses and gave the smallest, slowest grin. It wasn’t friendly. His smirk vanished.
Gabriel leaned closer as we walked toward the entrance. “You just terrified half the football team without saying a word.”
“Some lessons,” I said, “stick.”
We hit the front doors like we owned them, the Humvee still idling outside like a sentry. Even the teachers at the entrance didn’t say a word—just stepped aside.
By the time we reached our lockers, Gabriel pulled his sunglasses off and grinned. “We’re never taking the bus again.”
I shrugged, spinning my lock. “We’ll see. Sometimes you gotta go loud… but it’s more fun when they never see it coming.”