"you know," says Brayden, massaging the desk marked and carved by generations of bad boys before us, "i like this. this feels nice. just you, me, hayden, us together in a room, like a club. feels bitchin', ain't it? no problems, no nothing. just us bad boys, being alone with our feelings, an' shit."
"Sure," I say, thumbing the several penises and swastikas someone carved on my desk, which are the only two things you're aught to find in any classroom, no matter where in the world you are. "Peace and quiet. Loving it. Only, we are not in a club room, but in detention."
To make my point clear, I pan out my narration to include the ever-balding teacher trying his best to finish the same sudoku board he was trying to solve yesterday, and the sulking kid with a million scarves, hat, and trenchcoat with his nose buried in a Garcia Marquez book by the corner. Not to mention the two mobster looking-walrus fucks sitting behind us taking two seats each.
"what's detention but mandatory chillaxing time?" says Brayden, leaning back and taking a long draft from his Juul. "gotta take it easy, bro."
"Please, don't do that," says the teacher. "We have a no-vaping policy. Also, who are you two in the back?"
Jungkook and Harry look at each other, possibly playing ping-pong with the only brain cell they share between them.
"We're students, y'see?" says Jungkook.
"Yeah, we get classes with the boss — I mean, with bro," says Harry. "Like, you know, math. Science. Books."
The teacher looks at them from top to bottom, and by God does he have lots to see. "I only have four people in detention today according to my list. Could you tell me your names?"
Jungkook takes his dark glasses to reveal a pair of smaller, Morpheus-style glasses underneath. "Yeah, my name's Noneofya, and this is my brother, Biznaz."
"Our last name is Gofúckyerself. Stress in the ú cuz we fancy as fuck, boi," says Harry. All punctuated by a three-way high five between the pair and Brayden.
The professor punts his pen against the sudoku sheet, accidentally scratching a one on the lower left quadrant, which, coincidentally, is the only correct number in that thing. "Gentleman, this behavior is completely unacceptable!"
"Whatchagonna do, put us in detention?" says Jungkook.
"Well...yes! Yes, I will."
"Then we belong here," says Harry.
"Yes, you do," says the teacher, but not before picking the pen and erasing the one. Shame. "Now, is Noneofya written with a y, or with a j?"
"see? all smooth, like a pb sandwich," says Brayden. "yo, hayden, could you-"
Even before he could finish, a plate flies from Hayden's desk on my right to Brayden's desk on my left. There's pb and marshmallow fluff on the sandwich. No crust.
"Got your back, Jack," says Hayden. When did he do it, or where he summoned the ingredients from, is a mystery.
"sweet! pb and mayo, my favorite!"
Okay, I can't be next to this animal. I'm 100% sure this guy is a psychopath. As a rule of life, never trust someone who likes mayo unironically, people who use Yahoo email, or someone who doesn't like dogs. Those are the first ones to go apeshit when the first zombie is confirmed at their local Costco.
"Could you excuse me for a minute? I just gotta...yeah."
I stand up, changing seats to be next to Hayden, instead of being in between the world's most disgusting sandwich.
"Yo, Hayden, what the shit?" I ask the jock. "You want us to make a club with this fuckwad?"
"C'mon, brother, don't be like that," says Hayden. "He's really a sweet kid underneath that oversized sweater. Want some pb and mayo? I can add some onions if you want."
Am I having a stroke? Is this something that is happening in the current year? I haven't been so confused since that weird cult pumped funny gas into the vents during that Chili Cook-Off. Something about a hallowed recipe and missing children during a full moon. Look, I don't remember much, okay?
"Look, all I'm saying is that I don't get this kid. He doesn't even wanna graduate, he acts like a mobster, and clearly doesn't care about classes. Why are we bothering with him?"
"because," says a lowercase voice just besides Hayden, "he's a bad boy, just like you, and wants some peace and quiet. ain't that right, you greaser-wannabe, fonzi-looking, rebel-without-a-cause, aviator-wearing, leather-clad-travolta-minecraft-skin looking freak."
Mental note: a convenient-hushed-voice-next-to-someone trope doesn't work with other bad boys.
"Look, kid," I say. "You clearly like being a mobster, don't even wanna graduate, and why am I repeating it? You already heard it! Look, Hayden, I just don't understand why we need this weirdo in our club. Are you looking?"
"hayden," says Brayden, "why don't you tale ayden that he can go fuck himself sideways. we were friends before this hunk of fuck came into our lives."
"Hayden," I say before Hayden could say anything. "Can you tell him the club we are trying to make is for us not to get into trouble and be chill, not bring mafiosos to school and insult the principal? Also, it's tell, not tale."
"how the hell are you correcting my grammar if i'm speaking?"
"I eat lots of carrots!"
If it wasn't for Hayden standing up just now, we would've continued our fight. The dude's huge, what can I say?
"Can you stop fighting for five seconds?" says Hayden. "You're giving me mad anxiety. I don't like people yelling and using me as a medium. It reminds me of my parents when they were divorcing. I hate being a pawn in a fight!"
The look on Hayden's face, with those eyes, and nose, and lips, like lips of someone with a look and a face, it wrecks my heart.
"You guys, I want a club where I can be chill with friends. Where no teacher is telling me what they want me to do. Where no coach is telling me what I can achieve. Where no boy, or girl, or plot can reach me. I want peace, goddammit! And I thought you wanted it, too!"
And with that, he grabs his bag and storms out of the room.
"Mr. Wilson, sit down!" says the teacher.
"Or what? You gonna give me more detention? Newsflash, I'm into that shit! Because I can be with my friends," says the meandering voice of Hayden as it disappears down the hallway.
And this, dear reader, is what a pit in your stomach feels. In my own folly, and search for peace, I broke somebody else's. I am the worst of the bad boys.
But in a twist of fate, the universe throws me a weird lesson from an unlikely place. Like a philosophy lesson from Beppo the Murderclown, the dude who saved me from said funny gas on the Chili Cook-out. On second thought, maybe he was the one who released the funny gas and was trying to kidnap me. Oh well.
In any case, Brayden stands up, not even giving me a glance over before running after Hayden. And me? I don't move a muscle. That says more about me than anything else.
Damn that kid for making me feel bad.
I grab my binder and follow after them, much to the teacher's protests, which are so useless that I won't even use them to bloat this chapter. It isn't very far when I find Hayden and Brayden...and a girl, tied up in bondage?
"Help!" she yells, throwing herself against Brayden. "The bad boy billionaire gang leader is kidnapping me!"
"no, i ain't," says Brayden. "she just came out of the bathroom and started to grind on me."
"Yes you are!" says the girl, trying to make Brayden hold her, to no avail. "He wants to kidnap me and have hot bondage sex for a year to make me fall in love with him!"
And at that moment, with Brayden's ashamed face trying to fend off that erotica stereotype, and Hayden being mad and heartbroken with tears in his eyes, I realize something. No matter our origins, or how we chose to live our lives, we are all bad boys, and we all have different hardships. How we chose to overcome it, with food, or tasteless jokes, is irrelevant. What we need is to be around each other and not judge your fellow bad boy.
Faces, we see. Struggles, we don't.
Kicking away the squirming girl, I grab them both by the shoulder. There is something I have to do.
"I'm...sorry," I say. "I didn't know. To both of you. I shouldn't judge you because of who you are, or assume you don't need this. This friendship. I was an asshat."
"and a manbitch, right?" says Brayden.
"Yes, a manbitch," I say. "Now, can we go back? Please? Before we get into more trouble?"
And so, silence, the friend of the monologue. He stays completely still, staring at infinity. Only the wells of tears beneath his eyes shimmering under the fluorescent light gave any sign of life. And with a single tear falling down his perfectly shaven cheeks, he finally nods.
"Yeah, let's go back in, asshats," he says. "Under one condition."
"Which is?"
"You gotta eat a pb and mayo sandwich with us," he says with a smile. "Take it as an initiation."
The things I do for love.
It isn't as bad as it sounds.