The Bad Boys' Soft Boys' Lonely Hearts Club - The Full Package

The Prez-o-dent

"A school club?" I ask in puzzlement, as a person with doubts tends to do. And you know if a chapter starts with a question, things are about to get expositional.

"Brother," says Hayden, putting a fresh brownie in front of me, this time with a couple of previously macerated raspberries on top, "you're not the first bad boy trying to escape who he is. You can run from destiny, brother, but you will only make you more fit and supple."

"Do you think about the things you say before you say them?" I ask. "Cuz, yeah, you did invite me out to eat, and while I'm flattered, I'm not that type of dude. Three dates first, minimum."

But he ignores me. It only makes him hotter. Dang these bad boys.

"The point is," he says, leaning forward with his hands crossed together like a boss explaining why I'm being downsized for upper management to afford that third golden yacht the Vp of communication wants for her daughter's quinceañera, "there is strength in numbers. Being a bad boy is forfeiting one's destiny. To always be the football captain, or the mysterious new kid, or the guy that rescues the damsel in distress, or to fulfill a prophecy."

"Or being an orphan," I add, "or get kidnapped, or be the subject of a cult, or strong-armed into solving a mystery, or being the only emotional anchor to someone who needs a dedicated therapist."

"You get the idea," he says. "Point is, trying to go at it alone is futile. You saw what happened today. The old vent trick? That's amateur. I did that when I was in middle grade. Eat your brownie before it gets hard. I hate it when it gets hard."

"Again, maybe you should think before speaking," I say. But true, it's too good to let it go to waste. I wish it went to my waist. Maybe he's kinda right — powerwalking everywhere will only make me fit. Maybe I can find a moped. That's a fat guy's motorcycle.

"You tried everything to avoid all the trappings, and you still got a TAGB behind you, the attention of what should, by all accounts, be the school bully, and detention. It's like trying to be vegan at a cheese factory. At some point, you're gonna be head-first into a tub of cheddar, whether you like it or not."

His words are compelling, but not as much as the raspberries. Is there some rum in them? He is a bad boy, after all.

"Speaking of cheese, got any milk?" I ask.

He gives me a lopsided smile, taking a thermos from under the table. "Thought you would never ask. Got something better - golden milk. Cashew milk, some ground turmeric, black pepper, and down the hatch. Complements the richness of the brownie."

He pours the thick, mildly yellow liquid into a cup, placing it gently in front of me, and topping it with two small grates of what I can only assume is nutmeg. Please refrain from making jokes about drinking nut milk. While not the best thing in the world by itself, it feeds off the slight bitterness of the chocolate and the earthy umami of the hazelnut to explode into new flavors.

"And you made all this?" I ask.

"Hell yeah, brother!" he says, a smile of pride plastering his face. "Turns out, my hands ain't only good at handling balls. All the calluses I've developed have turned them into what is known as asbestos hands. I can grab hot things from the oven or a pan and not burn myself. And yet, they're so dextrous that I can perform delicate tasks, like playing and decorating. I'm a natural-born Jock bad boy, but I'm also a natural-born chef! Which is why I need you."

"What do you mean?" I say.

He puts an arm around my shoulder, pulling me closer to him, as if what he is about to tell me is an intimate secret. In an empty cafeteria. Just the two of us.