Ghostly Grind

Escape from Geometry

I don't know who decided that school was supposed to be fun, but they must've been sadists. Whoever it was must've gotten off on watching kids suffer because my high school isn't just a school—it's like a survival camp for hormonal monsters. I'm not kidding. Most days, I wake up and my first thought is how I could maybe, just maybe, fake a terminal illness so I could avoid the horror of another school day. I'm 16, awkward as hell, and trapped in a place where even the walls feel like they're mocking my existence. And then there's the whole testosterone issue. Ever had your body decide it's time to grow hair in places you didn't even know you had?

Every morning, it's the same crap. I shuffle into class, barely able to drag myself through the door. I pick my usual seat at the back, hoping to blend in with the wallpaper. My hoodie's up, head's down, and I avoid eye contact. I'm pretty sure the teachers are taking bets on what absurd thing I'll do next. Last week during a particularly dull lesson, I jabbed a compass into my thigh just to see if I could get out of class. I figured the nurse might finally send me home. Instead, she barely flinched. She handed me a damp paper towel and told me, "Just walk it off."

Then there's my social life, or rather, the lack of it. I've tried asking girls out, but it feels like trying to sell a coffin to a ghost—pointless and, for everyone else, a bit amusing. I'm the guy who's perpetually stuck in the friend zone. The last time I worked up the nerve to ask a girl out, I was sweating like I had malaria.

When I finally forced the words out of my mouth, she looked me dead in the eyes and said she wasn't into guys. Sure, maybe she was telling the truth, but let's be real, it felt like the polite version of "over my dead body." I tried to laugh it off, but ended up overdoing it, sounding like a hyena on a bad day. And then, just to top it all off, I somehow managed to choke on my drink and snort it out in front of her. Talk about leaving a lasting impression. Classy.

Once Devon and I decided to throw a party, thinking it'd be a break from our otherwise mundane lives. We got the basement ready, thinking it was the perfect hideout. The night kicked off with some excitement. People showed up, and we had our music blasting and punch flowing. Devon had mixed the punch using everything from orange juice to a bottle of cheap whiskey we found in the back of the cupboard. It tasted like someone had thrown a cocktail in a dumpster.

One idiot, determined to show off, tried a backflip off the stairs. He missed entirely and crashed into a pile of pizza boxes, which splattered grease everywhere. His crash knocked over the punch bowl, sending a sticky river of punch mixed with pizza grease all over the basement. The floor was a disgusting mess of orange sludge and half-chewed pizza.

Things got even worse when someone decided it would be a good idea to try and cook in the basement—without any real kitchen equipment. They ended up setting off the smoke detector with a burnt pizza, which led to a chorus of screeching alarms. Just when we thought things couldn't get worse, the cops showed up. Neighbors had complained about the noise and the smell, and they were not in the mood for excuses. We scrambled to clear the mess, but it was too late.

The cops walked into a basement that looked like a crime scene —people sprawled out, punch everywhere, and a burnt pizza giving off a smoky haze. Devon and I tried to play it cool, but the cops weren't having any of it. They gave us a lecture about noise complaints, underage drinking, and how "this is the last time" they wanted to hear from us. One of the officers even joked about sending us a bill for the cleanup.

As they walked out, leaving us with a mess, I caught a glimpse of the pizza. It was the only thing that seemed to be having a worse night than we were.

So, the party was a total disaster, complete with a basement turned disaster zone and a police visit that made "us the talk" of the neighborhood. We ended the night exhausted and covered in sticky punch.