THE DIARY OF A MISFIT

OPERATION SENIOR_HIGH

[1] Life wasn't built for rules; it was built on rules. But, rules itself is a perceived illusion; conceived by an innate desire for happiness and prolonged stability. Prevailing is rising over dependence and understanding life is created by divine grace and driven by what you make your rules to be.

I could not understand my longing for recognition, and desire to sit in the midst of cheers and adoration from my classmates. But one thing, I wanted more than a million dollars in my account was not to be the kid I once was in Junior High. An object of mockery and scorn of the boys and girls I considered mates.

My story is not one of capes and chivalry. Neither is it a tale of a diamond in the ruff, or a sleeping princess waking to a happily ever after. Mine was more of a daily dose of an unending nightmare—or a blessing. I suppose.

It all began on the first day of Senior High I. To many returning, it was a day riddled with mixed emotions. The happiness of seeing old faces. The mesmerizing thoughts of new love interests and possible adventures. All not without the sadness of seeing sadists in their human form of teachers.

I was not returning to a high social status. Being the joke of the class granted none of those privileges. I was returning to an everyday struggle to be noticed for something impeccable, and not utterly laughable. Only this time, I had decided to overturn my fate. Taking up the challenge to be the coolest kid by the end of Senior High. I had a well-worked plan. I thought I did.

Like every school setting, my Senior High had it all. The Jocks, the Trend-setters, the Rule-breakers, the Nerds, the Girls of every guy dreams, and the misfits—like me. All cool in their way aside from the misfits—that people only wanted around to exercise their ego and improve their social status. All seen in crews of threes or fours in a fight for the school hierarchy; one the Trend-setters and Rule-breakers dominated widely in.

Senior High were divided into Sciences, Arts, and Commercial. Prior to that year, I had nursed the idea of being a Dermatologist. I saw my affinity to blood and gore as a big pass, perhaps, a nudge in the right direction. So, I settled for the science class. The School Counselor, Mr. Tobias had little to say concerning my choice. Or probably, he had better students to deal with that day. My name was signed and in less than five minutes, I found myself in Senior High I science class.

I rolled the sleeves of my red-checked uniform, looking proudly at the badge as I awaited the arrival of other students. The uniform was in good shape all thanks to the previous owner—my brother and former social prefect. A paragon of coolness, I aspired to be. A dream that seemed so far and unattainable from the point I stood. But, not even my low possibility of success could dwindle my faith in my well-thought plan.

I was still admiring the colors of my uniform; basking in the euphoria of a distant success when Aaron Mickson walked in. Aaron was a trend-setter. He was still in his Junior High colors (short sleeves), but damn, he looked a lot better than I did with long sleeves folded.

"Hello Aaron," I said in what I assumed to be a manly voice. But looking back, I think it all came out like a little girl's voice gasping for air.

"Andrew!" His voice sounded manlier. "You look taller."

Flattery at its best. One that inflated my ego perfectly. In seconds, I was standing on the toes of my polished black loafers with my chest protruding out. The scowl on my face completing the look of an ape passing off as a human.

"How have you been?" I asked still with my assumption of what a manly voice should sound like. For one, I wanted my mates to see how much has changed about me in four months. Not the kind visibly seen on Aaron's face. 

His sideburns were reaching his jawline—he was a teenager and I was two years away. So I settled for something that could at least get the attention of the cool girls. Of course, not in a laughable manner.

"Nothing much. The holiday was a bit boring..."

Then he went on and on about things that could make my interesting list easily. As the words fell from his mouth with pride and the coolness of how he dealt with his issues, while he sat on the edge of a dusty table, a sepulchral feeling washed over me; my moment of exaltation turned sour. The thoughts of being a misfit in Senior High raging in my head. I had to work on my plan. Plan A beta, I guess.

"...So, you see. Boring."

"Yes. Boring." I spoke sarcastically. Glad, it didn't show in my tone. Perhaps, he sat on a chair too high to notice how much his plaudits grieved my heart.

He placed his right hand on my shoulder and said. "We are going to rock Senior High."

"Yeah." That was the only word I could let out. His fate was sealed from Junior High. Mine was more like a blank sheet. Or so, I believed. Wild imagination or just plain ignorance?

In an hour or so, the school was thrown in tumult. Glees and giggles as people hugged passionately, talked about holiday adventures and future hopes. Most of them were not in school uniforms—another major jolt to my cool theory!

I had a few people to talk to, no one to hug and tell my holiday adventures—well, lies I prepared earlier. I didn't want to sound like an amateur psychopath, by saying I spent my holiday preparing to take everyone down.

I had one true friend all through Junior High, he was a misfit like me—loyal and fun to have around through my unspoken adventures in Junior High. But, we not talking to each other again was instrumental to my rise to the principal seat of coolness. So, I did the most regrettable thing ever on the last day of Junior High.

"You are going to be in Arts, right?" I asked. He nodded accordingly. "We can't be friends anymore..."

I went on to list excuses that I deemed convincing. Listing his faults and how much he has held me back. Academic excellence and the difference in our life prospects. Talking about my goals and how much I wanted to be cool. I ended by saying.

"That's why we can't be friends anymore."

He got up with a sadness plastered on his face. "Goodbye, Andrew." His bag hung on his right shoulder as he turned to walk away.

That face still haunts me to this day. A constant reminder of the cost of my selfishness and the ability to betray the right path for a plate of recognition. His name, Grey Fisher—one that will remain forever in the halls of good people.

So, I wasn't expecting him to talk to me. We never spoke once during the holidays, why hope for a change?

It then dawned on me. First things first, I needed a close friend—buddy or even a crew loyal to my cause. That wasn't going to be hard. For a fact, it was already mapped out in my Diary of Coolness.

Nothing escapes Andrew Shilling's well-thought plan.