"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.
"Don't you feel this thing between us?" he whispers. Oh god, his breath smells like peppermint.
"I see it in your eyes," he says. "Ever since we started talking, you haven't monologued once."
It...is true. I haven't felt the need to describe everything around me in detail. Then, it dawns on me. He didn't get me into the cafeteria just for the heck of it. He got me in the cafeteria because it's the most nondescript room in the entire school. You know what a cafeteria looks like. You don't need me to tell you what it has. It is a universal concept.
This man is no dumb Jock with a heart of gold and cooking skills. This man is a genius.
"Snap out of it, man," he says, shaking me back a fort. "I know by your face that you got it, and I'll tell you why: it's destiny's loophole. Bad boys are not supposed to be with other bad boys, unless we are in a K-pop band. Every time two bad boys meet each other, the universe thinks we are about to fight and takes it as an action scene. Dialogue heavy, small descriptions, lots of tension."
"Oh, I feel the tension," I say.
He lets go of me, putting his hand over his mouth. Hey, short and sweet! "This is why I say that I need you. We need you, actually. I said before that you're not the only bad boy trying to escape. There is another one, just like us, that I found last year. We've been pounding at it every day, all day, hard."
"And by it," I say, taking a sip of the nut milk, "you mean...?"
"Making a club, of course!" he says with gusto, standing up. He looks like a politician delivering a stump speech for some animal rights stuff. Probably about turtles. It's always turtles. "See, I want to make a space in which bad boys who want to escape their destiny can gather and be a support for other bad boys. A place where they don't have to be worried about mysterious girls, or boys, bumping into them. Where it doesn't matter how much money, or parents, they have. I want to build a safe space for bad boys, so that they can achieve their dreams, like cooking! Or..." he says, giving me a look that tells me I'm supposed to be finishing his idea.
"An online customer support representative?" I say.
"Really?" he says, obviously a rain in his parade. "That's your dream?"
"Don't dream-shame me, nut boy!"
"Alright, online customer support representative," he says. "But that is the dream, brother! To be free!"
"But," I say, knowing what was coming.
"But, for that, we need at least three people," he says, sitting back down. "There is the other bad boy, me, and hopefully, you."
I chuckle a bit under my breath. This wasn't how I pictured my first day of school going. To be pitched a school club by a chef jock bad boy.
"Will you join us, brother?" he says, grabbing my hand.
What do I say? This really seems like an important plot, but I don't wanna be in no plot! But he has a point. I haven't been more relaxed in a school since that time it caught on fire with me inside, knowing full well I didn't need to sit in another English class my Mr. Mykolas any time soon. Now that I think about it, I think he was a Soviet spy. Oh well.
No time like the present, I guess. If anything, I can walk away anytime, right? And if that means having Hayden's cooking on a daily basis...
"Alright, you convinced me," I say. "I'll join your weird club."
For a second, I honestly think it was the right call. I'm proved wrong almost immediately as Billiam and Laila run into the cafeteria, hollering as if someone's face was being fisted in.
"Don't fist in Ayden's face!" yelled Laila, followed by her usual diatribe of fuckery. "Omg they both look so fierce so strong just like my dream"
"Hey, over here!" yells Billiam A.K.A Scooter into the hallway. "They're inside, boss!"
Boss? What boss?
I don't even have time to register my surroundings, the loophole being closed as the couple approaches, but I do notice Hayden scramble to get the brownie, the milk, and all his props into an oversized gym bag and toss it under the table. No, he didn't use a Tupperware. That's gonna be a mess to clean, or lick. Whichever tickles his fancy.
Before I can react, the most authoritative voice I've ever heard, which sounds like a mixture of Mary Poppins, that evil headmaster from Harry Potter, and a Russian dominatrix, speaks from the doorway.
"What did we tell you about sneaking into the cafeteria, Mr. Wilson?"
What steps inside can only be described as a badass girl. The aura of cold, calculated power that she exudes is like she was born to be a leader, and I've only seen her the few moments I've taken to tell you about her. She is that badass. Wavy, raven black hair all the way to the hips, dark skin without a single wrinkle, azure eyes that-
"You," she says, pointing at me with a perfectly manicured finger. "What did you monologue about just now?"
"Nothing," I say. What is she on about? Why am I monologuing? Why can't I stop? Oh no, shit, shit, shit. Is she a love interest?
"I know that face, bad boy," she says, both with measure in her words, and poison at the last words. "You're monologuing, aren't you? Care to share with us what you were thinking?"
"I'd rather not," I say.
"Just the first word that came into your head," she says. She doesn't flinch, or show anger, or nothing. She almost looks bored. "C'mon, I don't bite."
Well, if she insists. "I was just thinking you look badass and strong, is all."
By the cringy looks that everyone is giving me, I believe that's the wrong answer.
She approaches me, still maintaining a respectable distance. I'm way taller than her, but she is somehow finding a way to look down on me, almost as if I'm some pitiful dog that just peed on the carpet. Just to be sure, I pat myself to see if I peed. Clean as a whistle, which, why do we use it as an example? Whistles are nasty, bacteria-ridden mouth-shits that are meant to sit in the most disgusting part of your body.
"Stop monologuing for a second and answer me something," she says, rudely. "Why are girls always labeled as strong, or badass, while boys can be smart, cunning, sharp, witty, charismatic, worldly, sexy, and so on? Why can we only be strong, or badass?"
"I feel like this is a trick question," I say. "I plea the fifth."
"Wise choice," she says, followed by her turning her back on me. "As for you, Mr. Wilson, this is your first warning of the year, so I will write up an official report, which will be submitted to the office of Mrs. Strickland in two business days. You are free to make your case then and only then, is that clear?"
"Yes, boss," he says in defeat. All the onus of power and poise he had on him disappears the moment he opens his mouth.
"And you, Mr. Gomez, wasn't it?" she says. "I'll let you off with a warning. On behalf of the Hill Valley Mountain Woods Highschool student council, I welcome you. Now, please, everyone, leave the cafeteria in a neat and orderly fashion."
With her at the helm, Billiam and Laila exited the cafeteria.
"Who is that girl?" I ask a still-stiff Hayden, who picks up his leaking bag of nut juice and chocolate.
"That's Lee Vazquez," he says. "The student council president. She's the one that authorizes school clubs, so you better not get any funny ideas. Anyways, let's pick up this convo tomorrow."
But funny ideas were already in my mind. They were very much indeed.
What a way to end my first day of school. Back to the vent I go.
What? I'm not gonna risk going home. I don't wanna be strong-armed into stopping a mugging or something equally likely to start a B-plot on the first day of school. I'll leave on the weekend. Till then, I have everything I need in my vent.
What did I get myself into?