Heartstrings and HighJinks

01

Fact: You'd think that every wealthy kid on the planet despises being tailed by their personal guardian of shadows. You know the drill.

"Seriously, Landon, I said no entourage," I grumbled in exasperation.

Landon, a fully grown 35-year-old, treated me to an eyeroll deluxe combo, complete with a side of explanation. "We've got reports of kidnappings around town. I'm just trying to prevent you from becoming a ransom story, Ryan. It's kinda in my job description."

"I'm well aware, thanks to my avid news-watching habits."

A trace of amusement tugged at his lips, "Ah, you and your sophisticated 17-year-old habits."

"But really, Landon, can you just not shadow me?" I pleaded.

He grinned slyly, "Alright, Mr. William-Smythe, I'll let you conquer the halls alone."

As Landon finally exited the scene, I headed to school – Westside High, the territory of the privileged, also known as home to the White Stags. Although in my book, it was more like the playground of the entitled snobs. Pondering this, I barely escaped a collision with my best friend.

"Dude, couldn't you have caught that?" he questioned, retrieving the brown football of impending doom from the floor.

I cringed, both at the thought of being tackled by a sports scholarship and at the 2% chance of football players getting into college with one. So much effort for an uncertain future. They might as well major in horseshoe throwing or something. Just kidding, or am I?

"Hello, McFly? Overthinking again?" he snapped his fingers in front of my face.

"Huh?"

His tongue clicked in a mix of exasperation and camaraderie. "You're in your head again."

"Mood," I agreed, offering him a fist bump.

"Exactly."

Sporting a black tee that triumphantly proclaimed, "There's not enough coffee or middle fingers to survive this Monday," along with jeans, Nike Air Force 1s, and my ever-present grey beanie – who cares if it's not winter yet? – I nodded to Kyle, "I'm off. Got 'stuff' to attend to."

"Kyle Juventus Winston, remember your promise for this year."

Puberty and its struggles, ugh.

His shoulders slumped in memory, "Oh, right. Well, then, consider this Monday officially ruined."

A snort escaped me, a token of amusement, as he sauntered off to greet his teammates, wielding headbutts like a secret handshake.

Kyle Winston, my partner in crime, the charismatic wide receiver of Westside's famed football team, was practically a deity among the ladies. At 6'3", with brown eyes, curly brown hair, and a "killer smile," he was a hit. While he conquered hearts with charm, I was conquering quadratic equations and algorithms. Ryan Parker, 6'1.896 if we're getting precise, black hair, blue eyes, the least popular guy in the lineup. Not an athlete or a stereotypical nerd, although the glasses do make a case. But yeah, hit me with the nerd label and I might just hit you back.

As I returned to reality, I headed to my locker, dialed in the combination, and grabbed my day's artillery – textbooks. In the middle of this highly productive existence, I found my locker being slammed shut by none other than a pest named Derek, who then promptly trapped me against the wall.

"Listen, you cockylorum," I snapped, not about to tolerate his Monday-morning antics, "it's Monday. My patience for your stupidity is on vacation."

Facing his questionable breath, I added a grimace for emphasis, trying not to suffocate in his secondhand halitosis cloud.