dewashed.

I .

The sun sits high and bright in the midday country sky, beaming down on the man and his companion as they walk down the side of the road. A thin treeline is all that separates pavement from lush fields of corn as far as the eye can see. The countryside stroll continues, and the treeline begins to disappear. There's a laptop sitting at the edge of the cornfield. Bees work here. Laptop reveals bees are being cybernetically modified to make their hives according to a computer program. For better corn production? One of the bees passed out from exhaustion. The system springs into action, controlling another bee to go and stab the fallen bee until it rises to work again. Gruesome, horrific, inhumane.

The boy opens his eyes to darkness. The sun has not yet risen. He turns to look at his phone. 4:38. His alarm doesn't go off for another 6 minutes, so he just decides to turn it off. That was a weird dream he thinks to himself. Should I write it down? Nah, I'll definitely remember that one. Cybernetic bees. Cyberbees. Cybees. Wonder what it all means. Hold on— since when do bees harvest corn? Bees aren't involved in the corn process are they? Look at all this corn. Everything is made out of corn today. These chips, those batteries. Batteries, right? Also jelly, or is that jam? What is the difference between jelly and jam anyway? It's like, spreadability isn't it? Wait— the boy opens his eyes, breaking the long line of dream filled thoughts as he quickly grabs his phone and looks at the time. 6:41. He curses to himself and jumps out of bed.

I always set my alarm early and don't wake up for it, anyway. Why do I keep tricking myself? What is this self sabotage? He throws on some clothes, shoves his unfinished homework into his backpack and runs out of the house towards the bus stop. The bus is already there, and pulling off. The boy sighs and stops running. Might as well brush my teeth since I'm walking. He heads back to the house.

Finally arriving at school, the boy heads to the main office. The school is very old. It was refurbished and added onto about ten years ago but was originally made around the 70s. In the office sits a lady who's hairstyle was inspired around the same time the building was made. It's hard to tell her age, but she looks old. Not white hair old, but certainly wrinkled and tired. The boy never bothered to learn her name the three years he's been here. He walks up to her. "Morning."

She raises an eyebrow at him. "This is the fifth time you've been late this quarter."

"I know."

"It's only the third week."

"...I know"

"You have to go to the holding tank for the rest of the period."

"Yeah yeah, I know..." The boy replies with a sigh. You get three free late arrivals a quarter and after that, you have to go to the holding tank. Which is sort of like detention until the period you arrived late to is over. "It just doesn't make any sense to me." he continues.

"What, coming to school on time?"

The boy tries not to roll his eyes. "No. The holding tank."

"Well, when you fail to follow the rules, consequences occur. Just like in the real world." the office lady responds.

"No, what I don't understand is why you guys feel the need to manufacture consequences like they don't come naturally. And what sense does it make— telling us because we missed some school, we now have to miss even more school as punishment? That's like saying because you didn't finish your peas, you can't eat peas for the rest of the week. If I wanted to skip a test wouldn't I just come t' school late on purpose to—"

The office lady is staring blankly at the boy. Not in surprise, but utter boredom and disinterest. She blinks slowly. He looks down to see she has been holding the pass out for him to take, and probably has been for awhile now. It doesn't seem she is purposefully showing him how little she cares? Rather, she may lack the capacity to conceal these feelings. The boy just sighs and politely says, "Thanks."

The office lady smiles lifelessly, although it does almost look genuine. "Please try to come to school on time."

"Mhm. I always do."

The boy walks down the hall towards the designated room. He feels a vibration in his pocket but doesn't look at his phone.

When he arrives, he sees a dozen or so students ranging from 9-12 grade sitting, using their phones behind books, using their phones behind backpacks, or trying to sleep without putting their heads down. Most of them aren't sitting next to each other. The ones that are, are attempting to whisper quietly.

In the front sitting at the teacher's desk is a random teacher. Either they switch every few weeks or so if they don't have a first period class, or the boy just keeps forgetting who it is. This one is a heavyset woman probably around the same age as the office lady. Honestly, he can't really tell. They all look old and tired here. He walks up to the teacher and hands her his pass. She glances up from the computer to look at him for a moment before looking back down. "Back already? Second time this week."

"Yeah, I know. I just had so much fun last time."

"Sure. Well, you know the drill. Pick a seat. No sleeping, phones or talking."

The boy sits down near the middle of the class and looks at his phone. A message from J;

wya bro

holding tank 😒

😂 damn, son! well, c u in 3rd then

He doesn't respond. He instead decides to try and complete some homework from the night before. The holding tank is good for that, at least. Just as he finds a pencil and gets his work out of his bag, the bell rings. So much for that idea.

The boy leaves the classroom to head to his second period. The halls are bustling with people leaving their classes, meeting up with friends, loitering at their lockers, and heading to other classes. A few people greet the boy on his way to his destination, but it feels out of courtesy— or some ulterior motive. None of these people really like him or know him for that matter. He's just one of the only people like him in the school. The boy is what some would call "cool adjacent". He knows "cool" people, they know him, but he doesn't really hang out with them. He wouldn't get voted in a superlative, or get retweets on twitter.

The boy was originally born in what could be considered the hood, but his family moved away when he was six. Ever since then he lived in the suburbs, but they were suburbs with people like him, at least. He wasn't cool adjacent here, he was hood adjacent. He wasn't the most popular but he had a group of friends he had been with for ten years. Not only was his group of friends well known and fun, they were smart. He fit right in. He loved school back then.

When he moved at the beginning of high school, none of them kept in contact. This new school was in an area with a lot less people who looked like him. When he first arrived here, he was a hot commodity, he was a novelty. Girls waited outside his classrooms to talk to him, everyone wanted him at their table during lunch. It was ninth grade. And he was the new kid. But he was something even more than that; he was that new kid. There was a rumor he was from Compton. He had been asked permission to use "the word" countless times. The boy wasn't "hood" he wasn't even outgoing. He was young, shy, and quite frankly, sheltered.

Had he moved to the area being who he is now— three years later— things would've been different. Or, so he hoped. He would've leapt at the chance to talk to those girls and the advantage he had. No one would be saying the word. Not in his vicinity. He wouldn't find lunch tables to sit at, people would sit around him. But this was wishful thinking. Now, the novelty has all but worn off. It's senior year, and he's just another face in the crowd. A black face.