War and Fletcher

No. 00 - Prologue

Don't underestimate the end of the year. It's probably going to be fun. But I wouldn't get my hopes up if I were you.

The end of the year is the end of a battle. But it's also a battle in itself. You have the challenge of getting yearbook signs, because if you turn up with nothing, you're not getting very far next year. Or beating everyone out of school after the final bell. Injuries are the raging problem, because last year, we had five guys turning up with black eyes and two girls with bruises and scratches on both arms.

And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

I stared at my blank paper that I had taken out to list all of the reasons why I shouldn't apply for Home Economics next year. I had already filled out a page for why I should apply, but that was already stuffed in the hot mess I called a backpack.

Then I thought of something. Something that made my heart sink and my blood boil.

I immediately snatched my pen from the edge of my desk, where it had been balance perfectly on its handle, and scribbled in bright red ink across my page:

Perfect Fletcher.

Thinking back at all the positive reasons why I should join Home Ec. wasn't helping my case. This one con would kill the whole idea for me.

Perfect, or Crystal Fletcher, was the princess of the Fletcher family, with her parents being Ross and Natalie Fletcher, who ran the biggest genuine siderite mining facility in Connecticut. You could imagine that they were at least moderately rich.

I took some time to recollect myself, and in that moment I realized how much free time I had in my last class.

Spooky.

Mr. Kensington was a skinny guy that was abnormally tall and had a stutter problem, mostly because of his constant access to coffee. Today, however, he was knocked out completely, and once again, the coffee was the suspect.

I bit my lip. High school teachers asleep in a room full of Juniors always meant trouble. You'd think that Seniors would be the real problem, but, honestly, the Seniors this year were all too busy doubled over under their desks to take hidden selfies in class, or texting their friends that are 'so far away,' but in reality are in the class next door, probably wondering what gossip to share to pass by the remnants of class.

You're probably wondering how I know this.

Believe me, I've sat in on a Senior class (which got me all the dirtiest looks from every student), and I am one-hundred-and-one percent positive what I saw, was the norm for most the class.

Sure, there were a few good kids, like the shaking, scrawny boy I had seen in the back of the class, who looked like he should have been in the seventh grade, and one of Perfect's 'besties'.

She was trying to pay attention, I could tell, but the phone in her pocket buzzing was driving her insane from the inside out. Amy, which was her name, would reach into the pocket of her absurdly skinny jeans and place her hand on the trembling phone, and every time, she would grip it like she was about to pick it up, but finally released her suffering phone after a few moments of deep thought.

This phone business was seriously throwing her off her game, and I had heard from all the whispers that I passed by in the First Hall that she used to be a straight-A student, until she started dating one of Perfect's guy-friends, who was hand-picked by the Queen Bee herself, let me tell you, and afterwards, her grades plummeted down to D's and F's.

An ear-splitting ringing brought me out of the maze of thoughts I was lost in, and, before I realized it, I was overwhelmed by several sweaty, screaming, running-at-full speed Juniors, who all decided to participate in the most horrific gladiator fight in history.

The weak were left behind in the dust of their opponents, and the strongest runners and fighters made it out of First Hall's front doors first, bursting out into the clean, crisp air of freedom.

Summer.

I decided to wait out the waves of barbarians in the bodies of teens, and stayed behind in Mr. Kensington's barren classroom.

Despite all the action going on around him, Mr. Kensington was still knocked out. And had all kinds of swears and curses scribbled on his hands, face, and neck.

His glasses were colored over with blue marker, and thumbtacks were scattered all over the floor around his desk.

Amazing, I thought, That some Juniors can do all this in a matter of minutes.

Then something caught my attention: right in the middle of Mr. Kensington's forehead, someone had scribbled my name in red marker, so it stood out more.

'Emmy wuz here'

First of all, only some dumb Juniors would think that 'wuz' was ever a good replacement for 'was.'

Second of all, why? Why was my name, of all people, graffitied onto my Trigonometry teacher's face?

But, since I didn't want to get blamed for anything as stupid as a misspelled 'was,' I carefully tiptoed around all the lethal spikes underneath my feet, and smudged the red marker ink with a half-graded exam lying on top of one of the many piles of ungraded papers. I double-checked the paper and Mr. Kensington's forehead to make sure my name wasn't anywhere, and finally snaked my way back through the thumbtack moat and out of the classroom.

Out into the clean, crisp air of freedom.

Summer.