We're Not Friends | phan

1: A Bad Day

Daniel Howell

Dan Howell received some of the worst news of his life only minutes after he spilt coffee on his shirt.

He was sitting in the back of Mrs. Benedict's English class, as usual. It was his last class before lunch period so all he could think about the entire hour was what he was going to eat. Not that he would've been paying attention anyway.

Dan didn't do school.

The entire concept was stupid. What did it matter if he didn't understand basic grammar rules? Or if he didn't have an A level vocabulary? Or if he couldn't use the fucking quadratic formula? None of that was actually useful information. Maybe if he was learning about how to file taxes or how to take out a mortgage, he would pay attention. But school was all some overly regulated and standardized bullshit.

Add the fact that Dan was an athlete planning on going pro, and, well, school became more of an exhausting nuisance than a necessity.

Dan was playing on his phone under his desk when he spilt the coffee.

Caffeinated beverages were the only thing getting him through the day. They were more than a habit. They were a lifestyle. Dan lived off of coffee.

He was paying attention to the dumb game on his phone, lifted the thermos to his lips, and –

Shit!

Dan winced, hissing out of his teeth as the brown liquid splashed down the side of his white t-shirt.

The girl sitting next to him glanced over, and an amused smile flashed across her face before she realized who Dan was. Then a look of terror overcame her, and she turned to face straight ahead, ignoring Dan entirely.

Fuck. Fucking hell. Fucking cunt fuck.

Dan's internal monologue became increasingly vitriolic and creative as he evaluated the damage. The entire right side of his shirt was now stained a smoking shade of shit brown. There was only one thing he could do.

He pulled the letterman jacket off the back of his chair and shrugged into it.

It did cover the stain. Mostly.

Letterman jackets were reserved for members of the football team only, and they only wore them on game days. Dan brought his today because it was snowing outside, but he hadn't planned on wearing it at school. His teammates would probably think he was being a douchebag... or overcompensating for something. But what the hell else was he supposed to do? It's not like he brought a change of clothes.

Dan was so busy fuming about his situation that he didn't realize the bell rang until everyone stood up and started heading out.

Dan grabbed his backpack, heading for the door.

"Er – Mr. Howell?"

Dan paused in his step, slowly pivoting back toward the desk at the front of the room. Mrs. Benedict was seated behind her computer, but she'd turned toward him, pencil in hand.

"Yeah?" Dan asked. Thankfully, almost everyone had left. Some guy was standing by the classroom door, but Dan didn't have time to figure out who it was before Mrs. Benedict gestured him over. "Can I have a moment?"

Dan shrugged. "I guess."

When he stopped at the front of her desk, she lowered her glasses, staring at him with unexpectedly sympathetic eyes.

That was his first sign that something was wrong.

"Mr. Howell, I know you're not the biggest fan of this class."

Dan scoffed. "That's an understatement."

Instead of getting offended, Mrs. Benedict just pursed her lips. "But that doesn't mean you can continue to slack off and dismiss homework assignments without penalty. I realize you're on the football team and that takes up a lot of your time, but I cannot continue passing you without any effort on your part."

Dan felt a jolt of nervous panic shoot through his chest, his dismissive attitude evaporating. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that right now, you're at an F in this class. You're failing. And if you don't work voraciously for the remaining six weeks of this semester... your final grade will be an F. I know the football team has a minimum GPA you need to maintain, in order to stay on the team."

All Dan heard was you're failing.

Jesus Christ, no.

"Er, no, um, Mrs. Benedict, you don't understand, I can't fail, I need to stay on the team to get accepted to a university league–"

"I'm aware, Mr. Howell. That's why I'm telling you now, so you'll have time to bring your grade up. I do hope this will serve as a wake-up call. You can't expect people to hand things to you because you're on a sports team. That's not how the real world works."

She hates me. She hates me and has it out for me, Dan thought, his mind clouded with panic. "Er, okay, okay, I will, I'll bring it up," he managed.

"I hope you will," Mrs. Benedict said, returning her attention to the computer. "I'm here to help, if you feel the urge to seek it. I'm not doing this to punish you, dear. You should know that."

"Y – yeah," Dan said.

He didn't know what else to say.

So he turned, thoughts in a haze, and walked out the door.

Someone was standing in the doorway, someone tall, but that was all Dan registered as he stumbled into the hallway. It was practically empty since lunch let out.

"Hey – wait!" Dan heard a voice calling out behind him. He continued walking, and internally spiraling. What was he gonna do? There's no way he'd ever bring his grade from an F to an A in six weeks, not even with the grace of fucking God on his side. He could kiss his entire future in football goodbye. Jesus. What was he going to tell his mom?

He couldn't even think about telling his dad. The thought made him want to vomit.

"Wait up! Howell!" The voice was louder this time, just over his shoulder.

Dan's hands curled into fists at his side. He stopped mid-step and turned around, ready to throw punches.

Jogging up to him, breathing hard, was Phil Lester.