SUPERWORLD

Marco I

Sweetwater High, home of the Golden Eagles, so named because of the greatest athlete who ever lived, John 'Golden Eagle' Smith attended the school in his youth, was a high school writ large by the massive donations brought in by the football team. Students were being dropped off by their families' autonomous automobiles before walking up the granite steps to the great, wide-open doors flanked by statues of eagles painted gold.

An army recruiter waved at Marco as the young man entered the building from his table by the entryway, but Marco ignored him, not interested in the military, even before he noticed the recruiter had waved at him with a cybernetic prosthetic arm.

Walking these halls made Marco feel at home, everyone waved and greeted him when he walked past. He'd never had any problems with anyone in high school, except the teachers.

"Mr. Rivera, a moment?" A painfully familiar voice called behind him.

Of course.

"Mr. Albertson, mornin'!" Marco put on his best smile as he turned to greet the squat, balding man.

"Morning indeed. Were you able to finish up that homework last night?" The chemistry teacher asked.

You know I did...

"'Course I did. Knocked it out in an hour or so." Marco said, doing his best to keep calm.

"I would hope so because Rufus McKenzie is out today, so he won't be able to...help you with it if you didn't." Albertsons narrowed his beady little eyes at Marco.

"Ok, bye." Marco turned away and rushed off before the fat man could say anything else.

Marco did his best to avoid Albertson, a man convinced that, to be a football player, one had to be a cheating imbecile. Marco never cheated. Never even thought of doing it. Sure, everyone else on the team did, but that was their business. Marco studied until his eyes hurt, the sun was long asleep, and the moon was past its apex.

There were times when, as the rooster crowed, Marco had been awake working for hours and wondered how that feathered slacker got anything done. But Albertson would never believe it. Marco studied harder than anyone, but he still only managed a C in chemistry while Tom Wilcox, the football team's kicker, famous for drinking a gallon of Elmer's on a dare and not vomiting, got an A in Albertson's class because McKenzie did all his work for him and provided him with cheat sheets for exams and quizzes. 

Marco made it to the lunchroom where the sickly-sweet smell of government-provided breakfast coated the air in a thick cloud of invisible grease. Marco rushed to his table where his friends, Jackson, Tony, and all the other teammates sat.

"Damn Rivera, you look like shit." Tony laughed.

"And a good mornin' tah ya too, Tony." Marco replied.

"Nah, come on now, you know Tony don't know no better. He's just sayin' what we all thinkin', you look tired. You tha only baller tah get a full ride to college and work harder, shit don't make no sense." Jackson agreed, and the team laughed.

"Ain't nothin' for sure in this world. I could break my back at practice today, never play again, then what?" Marco argued.

"Damn, why you gotta get all depressed and shit? I was just sayin', maybe you let McKenzie take some off your plate. 'Ol boy done got me through all my shit with a B or better. Coach don't pay him for nothin'." Jackson countered, gesturing with a plastic spork/

"I'm good, thanks. Don't need no help. Y'all go over the Morrison Creek film yet?" Marco quickly changed the subject, knowing that these slackers probably didn't even realize the film of the next team they'd play had been up for two days.