THE DIARY OF A MISFIT

OPERATION EINSTEIN

[4] We are greatness untold. We are the embodiment of the sacredness of both righteousness and wickedness. A walking tenet. A fruit, both bitter and sweet. Choice is man's gift. The true definition of who you are is not left only to a spiritual calling or some glorious epiphany, but most importantly to the choice to become a mantra chorused by your mind.

Every greatness seen by this polluted world we live in has not been without sufficient guidance. Master, Sensei, Rabbi are some of the titles seen to have embodied the true power behind intellectual oversight.

Over the years, we have seen teachers of various kinds—those blessed with hair and those not so much blessed with hair; guiding in various ways that assured success. Divine beings they were—serving graciously as propellants throughout the ages.

My High School had none of those divine beings. No. We had a different kind of not so gracious beings that assumed the title for the sake of torment. And as a Misfit, I was their healthy diet.

I was picked on for virtually everything: for looking dumb, for looking smart, for looking oblique, for a name like Shilling—like I had a say in that.

Who won't love to have Bond as their last name? I am Andrew Bond. Or Andrew Bourne. But no...I had to be Andrew Shilling. Like, I was so cheap that I was created from two Shillings—yeah, that wasn't even worth half the price of a discounted burger.

But in spite of all that, I had a plan not to be the same kid I was in Junior High. Part of that plan involved avoiding most of my teachers. And the #1 on my list was no other than my guardian, Mr. Davis Sundays. A man so despicable that he had three S in his name—that's more S than Satan, Sad, Sorrow, Asshole, Stupid...you get my point.

A guardian was a nice name for a snitch—especially one that got paid for bad reports. And every parent had one watching over their ward. For some logical reasoning that can only be revealed to those have crossed the line of youth into the world of kids and fat tummies.

Here I was, talking in low tones with my new crewmates about my success with Daniella—sitting by my left side, oblivious to things been said about her. Then from the blues, I began to fill an inexplicable chill that something was off...

"Settle down. Settle down!" A familiar voice growled.

My heart felt down as my eyes met Mr. Sundays's gaze. He smiled at me like a sumptuous turkey prepared for thanksgiving. I laughed uneasily—sounding almost like the yelp of a Chihuahua in a pound with a red-lip bulldog.

I knew Mr. Sundays only taught Maths. If he was standing in front of my class,  it had to be...

"Mathematics is very easy for those that are hardworking," he started. "More than eight years have I taught in this school. And I know those that will succeed and those that bound to fail." Enunciating fail as he turned in my direction.

Yup, here we go again.

He leapt to the board with one big step and wrote the world, Factorials.

"Our text is going to be Standard Mathematics I by E.W Deane. Your assignments are going to be from that textbook—" His voice trailed for a few seconds as he caught my glare. "—so get yours on time!"

He walked to the last row to my left where Daniella sat. I whispered a quick prayer and words of caution to the air, Don't let him in.

"I am seeing some new faces and some old ones—" A few do-gooders' giggled. Pitiful souls. "—We kick off the class with an introduction. Starting with me." He heaved a sigh of exasperation. "I am Davis Sundays."

There was a brief spell of silence. He seemed to go on, but as my theory rightfully postulated—he was from a race of Terminators and didn't want his secret exposed.

He walked to the first seat on the row. "You first," he demanded.

"Isaac Weeney!" The boy declared. His face looked unfamiliar—he was either a new face or he was way better at blending in than I was. We shared the same build and height, but not the same sense of fashion—judging from his untucked shirt and dirty shoes.

Mr. Sundays wasn't interested in asking any further questions. Cementing my theory of a room of secret cameras and computers brought from his homeworld. He nodded to the next person like a satisfied secret agent he was.

"Zaara Karim," a soft voice answered. I knew her. We had been classmates since Junior High I—that's three years and counting. She was one of those that one category couldn't really qualify them. Some part a Nerd and some part a Trendsetter.

"Daniella Barry," The next voice spoke, like music to my ears.

"Daniella, you are a new student?" asked Mr. Sundays, to my eternal horror. She nodded and he smiled, rather despicably in my eyes. "You are welcome," He said before nodding at the next person.

And on and on it went peaceably till it was my turn.

"My name is Andrew Shilling."

The class broke in a loud peal of laughter. Even Mr. Sundays tried to hide his amusement with a straight face—one he failed at. A voice from behind called. "Little Princess Cuddles." And the whole class roared with laughter yet again to my embarrassment. I felt like sinking deep into the ground or maybe, disappear to the comfort of my warm pillows to cry my eyes.

My eyes felt hot as my heart grieved on. But I promised myself, I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of watching me cry. Not in front of Daniella Barry. Or the crew that looked up to me.

"Who said that?" Mr. Sundays thundered. Hush ran over the class immediately—quicker than a pickpocket's hand on new year's eve. "Do you think you are better than this boy?"

Graveyard silence.

"You do not know how your life is going to turn out. Never look down on anyone. That's my—" His voice lost to the school bell. He looked at his watch with disappointment. "Sorry, I was late today. But tomorrow, we will begin on time. Get your books from the bookstore..."

The rest of the words that came out of his mouth was meaningless to me, like the 'p' in psycho. He did something unexpected for me. Something I will cherish and hold unto till my days on earth become nothing but a faint whisper. He stood up for me when I was at my lowest. He proved my better judgment wrong.

Nevertheless, I still had a problem that I needed to deal with to seal my rise to power. Bullies. As expected, I had a plan.

Nothing escapes Andrew Shilling's well-thought plan.