My name is Tate Evans. I attend the National Academy for the Physically Inclined. My hair is spiky and ink black, my eyes are steel gray, and I have an athlete's build. One, two. One, two.
Launch!
Flip, flip, flip, spring, roll, handstand, cartwheel, roundoff, twist flip, arabian. Stick. I swung my arms out to the side and lifted my chin proudly.
"Better, Evans, but that arabian was! Not! STRAIGHT!"
I winced with each shout. Coach Baxter was under heavy stress. Extreme. You didn't cross him. But my arabians just had to. Curse them. To the alleys and back. I mean, it's not like I did many arabians in street performance- I just didn't have the room. And if I mislanded, it would hurt like-
"Break!"
I nodded curtly and dashed for the gym door, gulping in night air. Napi is a boarding school, and so our fields are spick and span, with every variation of special-school vegetation you can think of. I hurried down the walkway to the dorms, biting my lip at the cold. Gym clothes plus cold equals rachachacha cooold. I hugged my chest and walked faster and-
Bumped into hotshot Rilan. Greeeat.
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