HOME | DD

Description
Sitting here at this desk, staring at my palms I wonder.  Wonder while I wait for Ms. Juleson to be my detention warden.  Being here, I ask myself how exactly did I end up in this room again?  This room with the regulars, herb nerds, and of course the one Mormon kid, Tommy Seltsa, that went too far trying to convert Julie Nelson, the junior with a Hello Kitty tattoo right next to her swastika one.  I didn't mean to do it, actually I don't even know why I did it.  Oh that's right, Her.
I am the top kid of my sophomore class.  Grade average of 100.35, which of course has to remain at a big one double oh.  I can solve a Rubik's cube under three minutes with my eyes shut, and should technically be a freshman.  My parents have a plaque in our cock themed kitchen (cock as in rooster for any seventeen year old guys out there who can't handle the actual term for male chicken).  It reads Johan Baayden, Prodigy.  My friends upon arriving to my house see this and promptly begin to change my last name to Gayden while laughing at the plaque.  Each time I have to resist pointing out their terrible pun, for I just expose myself to more mocking about my genius status.  For all of my fifteen years I had believed there wasn't a puzzle I couldn't solve.  That is until She arrived.
I was in advanced trigonometry, my sixth period of the day.  I was staring out the window, counting the trees that made up the school's property line.  I was up to nearly seven hundred when my teacher, Dr. Reynolds, called my name.  He stood up front beckoning for me to hurry it on over, standing next to him was Her.  Although instead of being called Rubik she was called Sunday Marie Smith.  Not only did her first name happen to be my new favorite day of the week, the rest of her name was so generic it was almost an oxymoron to her appearance.  Out of all the people with brown hair she had the shade that did not remind me of a field mouse, but rather some sort of copper or bronze.  She was curvaceous and of course dressed herself to prove this.  But the best part about Sunday was her eyes.  Any lovesick hero in plays we have to analyze in English knows that it is always the eyes that get you.  I may not have been a hero, but I was definitely feeling at least a cold coming on staring at her eyes.  They were grey.  But the kind of grey that mornings have before the sun lights the sky.  In totality I was whipped before even telling her my name.
Dr. Reynolds had me come up to the front, explaining to me that Sunday was new and I was chosen to be her buddy.  I was to partner up with her for a week, and in turn was excused from all my classes.  As it turns out the school figured it wouldn't hurt me to miss a week of their "education."  I concur.  Sunday was not a prodigy, but she was in advanced English.  She wrote poems, and of course songs.  I never heard any of these, seeing as she stuck to Amateur Writer's Code, show no one.  I tried to talk to her, when guiding her to Geometry.  I, the great Johan Baayden, asked her the make-it-or-break-it question.  "Do you like this weather?"
After that, well it continued to go up hill, and then plummet of the cliff face.  After the week was up, which was completely silent after my first and only question, she tried to get as far from me as possible.  While she tried to stay away I puzzled as to what was so wrong with me that Sunday was so put off to even look at me.  I lost sleep over this, my GPA dropped to a 100.20 for Christ's sake!  I couldn't stand to do the Rubik's cube anymore, or any puzzle for that matter.  Everything I looked at reminded me of bronze hair and morning eyes.  But I made sure that my mental stress did not show, wouldn't want to worry good ole mom and dad.
Months of this agonizing kind of torture went on until today.  Today my fine strands of mental strength were snipped by one Jim Bateman.  I had left Trig early, 29 minutes and 23 seconds early actually.  I was meandering through the music wing upon hearing a scream made by a young freshman boy or a girl of any age, followed by the distinct sound any self respecting "freak" would be able to identify, body against locker.  Normally I wouldn't really get involved, seeing as I'm not really the most physically endowed when it comes to muscle and height.  But I heard a voice I had studied for many nights, and that voice screamed no.
I'm not entirely sure what happened to me after my sudden testosterone surge, but I do remember what I witnessed after turning the corner.  Sunday pinned against a red locker with Jim Bateman's filthy hands over her.  Specifically over her mouth and under her shirt.  I also distinctly remember me lying on top of Jim Bateman while punching his fucking brains out, well for about five seconds before he palmed my nose.  His injudicious action of palming my face ended up getting blood all over his hand and me, not to mention it stunned me long enough for a turning point in the Battle of Sunday.  By turning point I mean him running away after flipping me onto the floor.  Sunday was catatonic, and just sort of mumbling with her back against the lockers, number 827G.
A teacher came out, and saw a scared girl with ruffled clothes and a boy on the floor with a bloody, possibly busted, nose.  What was she supposed to think about the situation?  I looked over to Sunday, but she was absent.  Leaving me out to dry with a very angry female administrator.
So now I sit here in this desk that breaks at least six safety regulations with a swollen nose.  Wondering how I am supposed to get myself out of this one, all the while having Tommy Seltsa preach about the wonders of Lehi in my left ear.  Was it worth it to punch that smug bastard in the face?  Yes.  To see Sunday become put off the male race forever?  Not really.  To soil my status as genius with something that could render me some jail time?  Definitely.  But there is an even better puzzle to solve than the one of clearing my name, and that would be Sunday Marie Smith.

Description
Sitting here at this desk, staring at my palms I wonder.  Wonder while I wait for Ms. Juleson to be my detention warden.  Being here, I ask myself how exactly did I end up in this room again?  This room with the regulars, herb nerds, and of course the one Mormon kid, Tommy Seltsa, that went too far trying to convert Julie Nelson, the junior with a Hello Kitty tattoo right next to her swastika one.  I didn't mean to do it, actually I don't even know why I did it.  Oh that's right, Her.
I am the top kid of my sophomore class.  Grade average of 100.35, which of course has to remain at a big one double oh.  I can solve a Rubik's cube under three minutes with my eyes shut, and should technically be a freshman.  My parents have a plaque in our cock themed kitchen (cock as in rooster for any seventeen year old guys out there who can't handle the actual term for male chicken).  It reads Johan Baayden, Prodigy.  My friends upon arriving to my house see this and promptly begin to change my last name to Gayden while laughing at the plaque.  Each time I have to resist pointing out their terrible pun, for I just expose myself to more mocking about my genius status.  For all of my fifteen years I had believed there wasn't a puzzle I couldn't solve.  That is until She arrived.
I was in advanced trigonometry, my sixth period of the day.  I was staring out the window, counting the trees that made up the school's property line.  I was up to nearly seven hundred when my teacher, Dr. Reynolds, called my name.  He stood up front beckoning for me to hurry it on over, standing next to him was Her.  Although instead of being called Rubik she was called Sunday Marie Smith.  Not only did her first name happen to be my new favorite day of the week, the rest of her name was so generic it was almost an oxymoron to her appearance.  Out of all the people with brown hair she had the shade that did not remind me of a field mouse, but rather some sort of copper or bronze.  She was curvaceous and of course dressed herself to prove this.  But the best part about Sunday was her eyes.  Any lovesick hero in plays we have to analyze in English knows that it is always the eyes that get you.  I may not have been a hero, but I was definitely feeling at least a cold coming on staring at her eyes.  They were grey.  But the kind of grey that mornings have before the sun lights the sky.  In totality I was whipped before even telling her my name.
Dr. Reynolds had me come up to the front, explaining to me that Sunday was new and I was chosen to be her buddy.  I was to partner up with her for a week, and in turn was excused from all my classes.  As it turns out the school figured it wouldn't hurt me to miss a week of their "education."  I concur.  Sunday was not a prodigy, but she was in advanced English.  She wrote poems, and of course songs.  I never heard any of these, seeing as she stuck to Amateur Writer's Code, show no one.  I tried to talk to her, when guiding her to Geometry.  I, the great Johan Baayden, asked her the make-it-or-break-it question.  "Do you like this weather?"
After that, well it continued to go up hill, and then plummet of the cliff face.  After the week was up, which was completely silent after my first and only question, she tried to get as far from me as possible.  While she tried to stay away I puzzled as to what was so wrong with me that Sunday was so put off to even look at me.  I lost sleep over this, my GPA dropped to a 100.20 for Christ's sake!  I couldn't stand to do the Rubik's cube anymore, or any puzzle for that matter.  Everything I looked at reminded me of bronze hair and morning eyes.  But I made sure that my mental stress did not show, wouldn't want to worry good ole mom and dad.
Months of this agonizing kind of torture went on until today.  Today my fine strands of mental strength were snipped by one Jim Bateman.  I had left Trig early, 29 minutes and 23 seconds early actually.  I was meandering through the music wing upon hearing a scream made by a young freshman boy or a girl of any age, followed by the distinct sound any self respecting "freak" would be able to identify, body against locker.  Normally I wouldn't really get involved, seeing as I'm not really the most physically endowed when it comes to muscle and height.  But I heard a voice I had studied for many nights, and that voice screamed no.
I'm not entirely sure what happened to me after my sudden testosterone surge, but I do remember what I witnessed after turning the corner.  Sunday pinned against a red locker with Jim Bateman's filthy hands over her.  Specifically over her mouth and under her shirt.  I also distinctly remember me lying on top of Jim Bateman while punching his fucking brains out, well for about five seconds before he palmed my nose.  His injudicious action of palming my face ended up getting blood all over his hand and me, not to mention it stunned me long enough for a turning point in the Battle of Sunday.  By turning point I mean him running away after flipping me onto the floor.  Sunday was catatonic, and just sort of mumbling with her back against the lockers, number 827G.
A teacher came out, and saw a scared girl with ruffled clothes and a boy on the floor with a bloody, possibly busted, nose.  What was she supposed to think about the situation?  I looked over to Sunday, but she was absent.  Leaving me out to dry with a very angry female administrator.
So now I sit here in this desk that breaks at least six safety regulations with a swollen nose.  Wondering how I am supposed to get myself out of this one, all the while having Tommy Seltsa preach about the wonders of Lehi in my left ear.  Was it worth it to punch that smug bastard in the face?  Yes.  To see Sunday become put off the male race forever?  Not really.  To soil my status as genius with something that could render me some jail time?  Definitely.  But there is an even better puzzle to solve than the one of clearing my name, and that would be Sunday Marie Smith.