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I was thinking about the intricacies of life, and how simple it was to control them, if handled with efficiency and precision, how there could be no surprises, no mistakes.
But I knew there wouldn’t be any mistakes; after all, there was no true right and wrong. Everything was relative, and relativity only called for adaptation. I knew this as sure as I knew the sky was blue, and Taco Tuesday at my school cafeteria was invented by cannibals. It was as real as the game device in my hands, or the air in my lungs.
Anticipation mounted, and my heart started to skip. The last piece of the puzzle was seconds from touchdown when—
“Dinger! Put that game away!”
I nearly flew out of my seat at the sudden interruption of my Tetris game. I luckily (skillfully) remained cool, merely snapping my eyes up to meet the discerning stare of my tenth grade AP American History teacher, Mrs. Smithe.
I had to grin, because her darkened eyes were burning over the top of her thick, black-framed glasses, and I knew she was annoyed. This was not the first time, today or otherwise, she had stopped, mid-lecture, to remind me to pay attention. In her world, no matter how addictive the game was, it was supposed to come second to her teaching. “Supposed to” being the operative phrase.
“Aw, but I’m so close to beating this level.” I smirked good-naturedly.
The silent, deadly expression I received told me it was clearly not one of her good days, so I shrugged carelessly, smiled brilliantly, and tucked away my Game Pac. I even decided to graciously wait ten more minutes before pulling it out again. Mrs. Smithe seemed reassured by this illusion of obedience, and went back to teaching. She was always a bit of a control freak, but I’ve never really met a good teacher who wasn’t.
And for all her trouble, Mrs. Smithe—Martha—was probably my favorite teacher at Apollo Central High School. She was middle-aged, with short curly hair that almost stood on end when her teacher-senses were tingling. I supposed it was her glasses that really gave her an authoritative demeanor, since her short height and tiny bone structure did not. And she always had coffee nearby. I once figured out while I was bored in her class that she could support a small company stock all by herself. You have to admit that’s impressive. If I had any problems with her, it was that she just didn’t seem to understand that Tetris was the ultimate meaning in my life.
I’d played the game for years, and it was the key to unlocking the secrets of all life—that we were all just players, some of us winners, a lot more of us losers. That there was nothing more to life than filling it with fun, and working to fit all of the pieces together cohesively, in order to claim glory and the right to brag. It was a beautiful, meaningless thing, the epitome of my preferred existence.
Plus having the title of Tetris King was a nice touch—I’d thought “Tetris Emperor” was a bit much.
“Psst, Dinger.”
I turned toward my friend, Evan von Ponce—whom I nicknamed “Poncey” awhile back and everyone, of course, universally accepted—to see he was wearing a pair of glasses he’d no doubt pilfered from a nearby nerd. “What is it, Poncey?” I grinned. I knew what was coming.
“Put that game away—now!” Poncey mimicked Martha almost exactly, with his own bit of dramatic flair added for effect.
I attempted to keep my chuckles in, but to no avail. A matter of seconds later, the inevitable reprimand came.
“Dinger! Ponce! Do I need to separate you?” Martha scowled at us, reminding me of a time when my mother actually used to act like a mother to me. All the other students in the class glanced over at us, and I played it cool, but the tension was thick. A few of my classmates wore smiles of smug superiority, while others tried not to be the next ones to giggle.
It was really nothing different from the norm. Every day it was something else. Class stopped because of someone talking or playing games, and the intellectual lecture was traded in for a behavioral one.
But there was never a day when Martha punished me or any of my friends with a detention. Which, in all fairness, she was supposed to do. She’d always been fond of me and my cronies.
Despite that, however, Martha tightened her lips in irritation; she had to put on some show of authority. “May I continue?”
“Sure, Mrs. Smithe,” I assured her, though my laughter was still trying to poke its way out of my mouth. “What was that about the American colonies?”
“That was ten minutes ago. We’re discussing the new country disputes now. Pay attention, Hamilton Dinger!”
Ugh. I hated it—and still hate it—when people use my full name. Or even my first. Trust my parents to come up with the weirdest name in all of history and give it to me. I was a victim of bad parenting and awkward social trends. My name said it all.
Martha turned with a militaristic air toward the front of the room, continuing with her presentation. “Okay, then...In his farewell address, President Washington clearly advocated for the unification of political parties and a policy of isolationism ... ”
Her words faded as I fell back into boredom in record time. I thought about pulling out my Game Pac again as I’d essentially blown off the lecture. I was not worried; I would read the chapter later, and then I would ace the test. That’s how it was. That’s how it always was.
Not that I’d complain. Being the class genius was fun. And being popular was, too. It was nice to be a regular on the “Apollo Central High School Hot List” organized by the cheerleaders of the so-called “Social Elite.” Which was basically just the cheerleaders.
It was nice that I had more than my share of charisma, and probably more than my share of good looks, too. I was voted “Best Eyes” in the last two yearbooks.
It was great that I was, at sixteen, famous for my high school career as a football player on the Apollo Central Falcons. (I’m sure you can look up my world record.) But what I was most well-known for was my trademark smirk, the one with the power to transform me from teacher’s pet to troublemaker, to instantly irritate a saint or charm a viper.
There were some who didn’t appreciate my commentary, my skills, or my presence. That happens a lot when you’re popular. Someone is always ugly, or jealous, or both, and they take out their insecurity on you. But I figured someone had to be popular, and I had to say I was very good at it. So it was my duty, my curse and blessing, to be so. And frankly, that’s the way I liked it.
“Yo, Dinger.”
I turned to see Jason Harbor, a member of my inner circle of friends. Jason was on the football team like me, and one of my most competitive rivals for MVP each year. But considering I’ve been playing sports practically forever, that really wasn’t as much of a compliment as it seemed. “Yeah?”
“You coming to the Falcons’ party tonight?”
I nodded. “Sure am. Still gotta tell Mark and Cheryl though. Supposedly, she’ll be home early tonight, but I’m not going to hold my breath or anything.”
I honestly can’t remember how long I’d been on a first-name basis with my parents. It wasn’t that I didn’t love them or anything, because I supposed I did (sort of). It’s just that their years of parenting, the parts which didn’t come with a bill or some kind of other payment attached to them, were well over with.
“Sweet.” Jason cautiously glanced back at Martha before telling me, “Poncey’s coming over early to help set up. You wanna come? Simon can pick you up.”
“Nah, it’s okay. It’s not too far to your new house.”
I’d lived across the street from Jason nearly all my life, ever since I moved to Apollo City with my parents. But Jason’s dad had recently lost his job, so Jason and his family moved away from our ritzy, upscale neighborhood to the northern slums of the city, where it is considered “more cost-effective to live.” (That means it’s for poor people, but I wasn’t going to make discriminating judgments like that on a friend; I was content to save those for other people at school.)
Because of the awkward subject, I focused on a more substantial concern. “I still can’t believe Cheryl and Mark aren’t letting me get my license until I’m eighteen.”
“Well, you were caught trying to break into your own house at two in the morning,” Jason reminded me with a smile.
If you knew the story, you'd think my parents should have been turned over to social services for excessive punishment. But after it was told so many times and exaggerated in so many ways (to legendary status), I was quite bored by it. “I forgot my key at Poncey’s. It was a simple mistake.”
“Breaking down the back door and setting off the indoor sprinkler system was a simple mistake? I’m still trying to figure out how you managed that.”
“Ah, shut up,” I said, glaring. I must’ve had this rage-fueled look on my face, because when Poncey interrupted the conversation, Jason’s expression involuntarily looked relieved. (It’s well known people who argued with me usually ended up being hated in some form or another; whether I encouraged it or not was another matter, of course.)
“Did I hear you’re coming to the party, Dinger?” Poncey asked, his expression pathetically eager.
It was always endearing to me to know my friends depended on me as immediately as they did food and water, so I humored them. “Sure am.”
“I hear Gwen’s going to be there.”
At the sound of her name, I felt my heart give a happy jolt. I’d never thought, at that point in my life, that there was only one true love for me. It seemed like people who thought there was only one person for them out there were narrow-minded, and kind of shallow. Or really picky.
I really just wanted someone who would love me and fit well into my life. And I didn’t think this would be too hard for me to get. (I never had a problem getting them—it was always getting rid of them that was the problem.)
I was Hamilton Dinger, after all. I was smart, strong, and hot. Who wouldn’t love me? Who wouldn’t change her whole life around to fit into my world?
But I was sublimely happy, nonetheless, at the thought of Gwen. There was no girl in the world who could compare with Gwen Kessler, in my own humble opinion. I’d searched and compared enough girls to know she was the perfect girlfriend for me. She was cute, and smart, and athletic, and she agreed with me on mostly all the right things. She had been the one who had nicknamed me “Hammy,” saying it went well with my “cocky, devil-may-care attitude.”
And on top of all things, I was more than happy to ask her out. I contentedly leaned back in my chair. “Cool.”
Mrs. Smithe effectively ruined the chance for my friends to rag on me about Gwen; I was able to tell by their expressions they were looking forward to it, too. I didn’t blame them. Let’s face it, it wasn’t often they got to do it.
“Okay, class. Before we go, our first history exam is coming soon,” she announced.
Everyone groaned. Immediately, whispers and concerns were voiced without appreciation. I refrained, but only because I knew I’d pass it without a hitch.
Mrs. Smithe ignored the complaints. “It’s on everything covered in the book, lectures, and notes I’ve given you. It’s worth fifteen percent of your grade this marking period.” Then she looked down her nose at all of us, eyes narrowed. “And this exam is not curved, so bribing Dinger to stay home will not help you.”
Half of the kids in the class rolled their eyes, while the other half snickered. Hoshi Tokugawa, the exchange student from Japan, groaned. “Darn, I was saving my money for that, too.”
All of this happened while I basked in a sea of my own satisfaction. It was well known that I had the highest grade in the class.
“Hey, Jase,” Drew McGill spoke up. “What time are you going to be ready for the party?”
“Around seven. Don’t forget to bring your video games, okay?” Jason sat back, relaxed. “After all the arguing over which ones to bring, you can’t forget them. I don’t want to have to kill you.”
“Yeah,” Poncey agreed. “Nothing says, ‘Let’s go Apollo Falcons’ like a stack of pizza, buckets of ice cream, and hours of playing Death Raiders III: Alien Slayer.”
“Parties, girls, and school-wide fame. Ah, I’m glad to be a football player,” Drew sighed happily.
“Not to mention all the trophies we get,” I added, trying not to sound too smug.
“You mean you get,” Jason shot back. “You’re the best player on the team. The rest of us suck, man.”
I knew that, but I liked to hear it as often as possible. “Well, there's no denying I can smoke you guys on the field. But I’m not as good as all of you at other things. Even though I can’t really think of anything at the moment.” Attempting to be humble was hard, due to my insincere tone and the large smirk on my face. “Still, football’s fun.”
“Very true,” Evan agreed. “And it’s cool to watch the cheerleaders. Some of them are pretty fast, if you know what I mean.”
Before we could laugh, a classmate of ours, Guy Fitch, butted into our conversation. He was tall and lanky with glasses, and hung out with uncool people a lot. I couldn’t help but pity him sometimes. Fitch tried so hard to be popular, it’s really a shame how bad he was at it. I sighed inwardly, preparing for the usual misplaced Fitch comment.
It came as expected. Fitch smiled. “Yeah, I’ll say. One time, I saw this girl start running down the track, trying to tackle this kid who'd stolen her hot dog.”
The guys and I gave him a weird look before laughing awkwardly. It was clear Fitch didn’t understand Evan’s statement. Really, it’s no surprise, I thought pityingly. Fitch didn't seem to get anything. I sometimes wondered if he just acted stupid, or if he really was that dimwitted.
Oh well. Either way, it didn’t really matter. He’d never be popular like me, so I didn’t have to worry about him.
The bell rang, and everyone headed out of the room. “Dinger!” Mrs. Smithe called. “Come over here a moment.”
I walked over to her desk, pausing for a moment to wave to my friends. I watched as Evan waved back. His elbow hit Brittany Taylor in the process, causing her books to go flying all over the floor as she fell. Evan was too busy laughing to help her pick up her things.
I had to literally choke down a chuckle at the scene. Mrs. Smithe wasn’t a good person to go to happy, when you were pretty sure a reprimand was coming. And I was pretty sure it was coming. “Yes, Mrs. Smithe?” I put on a charming, eager face, wide-eyed with innocence. “Do you need me to run an errand for you?”
“Dinger, I understand you aren’t impressed with my class.” Her tone had some bite to it, so I knew I needed to tread carefully.
“That’s not true,” I argued. Not completely true.
“Put your lips in park, Dinger,” she snapped lightly. “I know you're capable of learning. You have the shortest attention span, yet the highest grades. You must’ve been born under a lucky star.”
I grinned. “Thanks.”
“You know that's not a compliment,” she replied. “Luck and miracles can't get you through life unless you die young. I can’t have you being a distraction in my class. You want more work?”
“No.”
“Fine.” She paused here momentarily. I saw the hardness on her face leave as genuine concern replaced it. “Your mind is a gift,” she told me. “But if you don’t start to use it, you’re going to lose it.”
“I thought I was,” I replied in my best non-confrontational voice. It was good that I was an exceptional student, because otherwise I don’t think she would’ve bought it.
“Not in the way of common sense,” Mrs. Smithe huffed. She scrunched up her nose and added, almost as an afterthought, “Or manners, come to that.”
I smiled shyly giving her the goody-goody face. “I understand, Mrs. Smithe. I'll be a better example.”
“Good. I'll hold you to that.”
“Cool. Well, I got to go. See you later!” I waved good-bye, closed the door, and a victorious sneer crawled across my face. Another one bites the dust!
Semantics are wonderful. It wasn’t for nothing was my mother one of the most influential lawyers of Apollo City—probably the whole state of Ohio, too.
I'd set a better example, all right—next year, when time just seemed to be more convenient than it was at the moment. After all, my life was absolutely perfect—except for a few minor things, like my parents, and my brother, and all the unpopular people who thought I was just awful so they could sleep better at night. Why bother risking a change?