Henry Mickleton hated mornings. Whether or not it was because mornings meant that he had to leave behind a dream world where he was the CEO of a billion dollar corporation and dating a supermodel, or that he had stayed up late the previous night playing Space Destruction Three, he would never know. What he did know, however, is when glistening rays of sunshine streamed in through his window, and he heard the sound of birds chirping sweetly, he wanted to throw something.

On April 29th, one month before graduation, nothing was different. Henry had dreamt the same thing he usually did. The sky was infuriatingly clear. The birds sang a song sweet enough to give those who heard it a toothache. And Henry Mickleton was late.

After a few moments of swatting at an imaginary foe, he sat up with a start, grabbed his glasses, and looked at the clock: 7:26. He jumped out of bed and snatched some jeans and a shirt from the pile on his closet floor (Henry Mickleton never hung up his clothes. On the off occasion that his mother straightened it out he was convinced that aliens had taken them for inspection.) He then opened his door and dashed out of the room, careful not to crinkle any of the Star Wars posters that cluttered the walls.

He then entered his bathroom and proceeded to dress, trying to ignore the décor that had haunted him since childhood. Pale pink tiles were pasted along the bottom of the room, while flowers bordered the ceiling. And no matter how many times Henry had tried to air out the odious room there was always the feint smell of Chanel No. 5.

Henry looked in the mirror as he tried to tame his dirt brown hair. He wasn't wearing what one would expect from a "Geek" of his caliber. But then again going to the richest high school in the state tended to mess things up a bit. Besides the Caviar Fridays, the students at Midland Prep were enlightened. Not that they sat around reading philosophy, but they had learned from their parents at an early age that Geeks or Heirs usually ended up being the most successful people. And Henry Mickleton was both.

So while at many schools Henry Mickleton would have been ignored, picked on, or even shoved into lockers this wasn't the case at Midland Prep. Henry Mickleton was invited to every party. Not that he had any fun. He spent most of his time alone in the corner sipping his rum and coke, without the rum, bar a few instances when people had thrown up on him thinking that he was a coat holder.

Henry ran down the stairs and dragged his backpack behind him. It was filled with books for all the honors courses that he was taking. Although only a junior Henry Mickleton had spent his entire high school career planning to graduate early. For although Henry Mickleton loved to learn, he hated high school.

When he arrived in the kitchen his mother, dressed in her usual pink suit and pearls, handed him a plate and kissed his head. His mother was the explanation for the all the pink that surrounded his life. A Mary Kay consultant, even her car was pink. Sometimes Henry wondered if his life would have turned out differently if his father hadn't been killed in a freak coffee pot accident on his naval base, a mere three months after Henry was conceived.

Henry Mickleton began to shovel the steaming eggs and bacon into his mouth as he glanced at the watch he had fastened to his wrist. 7:42, Shit he only had eight minutes before the limo service came. That was another of Midland Prep's oddities, being the second most expensive high school in the Midwest (the first being some school in Illinois called The Chicago Academy for the Arts) they had a limo service instead of a bus. But it was one of the few extravagances that Henry Mickleton didn't mind.

He mumbled thanks to his mom, his mouth still full of eggs, grabbed his pack, and ran out the door. He had only descended two steps when he realized that he had forgotten both his history book and jacket on the staircase. He groaned and reentered the house.

His mom was waiting for him there with both items. He looked at her quizzically. She just smiled. "You always forget these on the stairs." Henry didn't have time to ponder though. He simply grabbed his things and ran. He reached the edge of his mile long driveway just as the stretch limo pulled up. He waved to the limo driver, Dr. Mike, who oddly enough had a Ph.D. in History.

Since Henry was the last "bus" stop before school the limo was already full of kids. Although he squashed in between Samantha Fitzgerald and Patty Carmichael, no one seemed to take note of his presence. Henry was used to this however.

Henry pulled out an essay and began to reread it when Dr. Mike asked his daily question. "Ok kids so what will it be today? The Saxons? The Persians? Need I remind you that it's been eight months and you have yet to stump me?" Dr. Mike loved showing off his knowledge. Dr. Mike was also the reason Henry wasn't majoring in History. He was more successful as a driver than he had ever been as a teacher.

At first they had gone along asking him questions just to humor him. But after they had done it for three months without stumping him it had become sort of a challenge (at least for Henry Mickleton.)

"In…" started Henry.

"What is it about art this time?" asked Dr. Mike. Henry could see his eyes wrinkling with laughter in the mirror.

"What?"

"You always ask about art on Thursdays," replied the driver.

"I do not," protested Henry, but now that he thought about it… Then something miraculous happened. Lacey Silla, a beautiful girl, who had never so much as looked in his direction, talked to him.

"Yes you do. Last week it was the Greek noses. Before that it was Manet. You always do art on Thursdays." Henry's mouth just hung open. He wasn't sure if he was more surprised at Lacey or the fact that she knew more about his habits than he did. It was ok with his mother but just creepy from a total stranger.

"So what was your question Henry?" asked Dr. Mike. But Henry just sat there, his mouth open wide, staring into space. So for the first time that year it was Gregory Hills who asked the morning question and not Henry.

By the time they arrived at school Henry Mickleton was in a decidedly bad mood. He stormed through the hallway, grabbed his books, and slammed the door to his locker (which only succeeded in crushing his thumb.) He arrived in Calculus a few minutes early, and began to review his homework. He never felt that his homework was good enough, but the anxiety was somewhat eased if he reviewed it one or two or seven times.

Although calculus wasn't his favorite subject he didn't hate it. He slowly fell into the routine of his day, and it wasn't again until fourth period that something worth mentioning happened.

Ms. Patricks, his AP English teacher, was a sweet and somewhat eccentric old lady. She actually believed that it was bad luck to hand in papers before the end of the period, not that any of the kids minded. She also always stayed to the edge of the room, afraid that she would trip and die if she stumbled on a desk. Henry went to grab his report on Existentialism but it wasn't in his English folder.

He searched through the crumbled papers in the bottom of his bag frantically. Oh please don't let him have forgotten it at home! "Um, Henry," Half-said, half-whispered Ms. Patricks. He looked up immediately.

"Try the red folder."

"What?" Ms. Patricks cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable.

"Well whenever we have a project it takes you forever to find your paper and it's always in the red folder." Henry just stared at her, but his hands betrayed him and grabbed the red folder. Sure enough the report was there tucked neatly in between the cardboard. He handed it to her, rendered speechless for the third time that day.

The bell rang, and Henry Mickleton wandered aimlessly down the halls (well not really aimlessly because he was heading to the cafeteria.) It was after he had grabbed his usual sandwich and chocolate milk that something unusual happened. Three senior football stars sat down next to him.

Henry nearly sprayed his milk all over them, but managed instead to choke on it.

"What?" he asked, gasping for air.

"Shh… No one's seen us yet," said Gregory Gregson. His friends were looking around the room like Secret Service agents in football uniforms.

"We think we can help each other," said Timmy Thomson V. He pulled some papers out of his backpack, and handed them to Henry. Henry turned them around and looked at them.

"These are…" started Henry.

"Quiet," yelled the three causing Pamela Johnson to spill her shrimp cocktail down Gracie Pennington's Gucci jumpsuit. "Someone might over hear," finished Rocky. No one knew Rocky's real name. He had been called that since their pre-preschool days.

They were blue prints on how to take over the school's score board from a laptop. Not a complex procedure, but certainly not something these three could figure out. Henry looked at them suspiciously.

"Where did you guys steal these?" Gregory Gregson looked at him, offended.

"We didn't steal them. My brother's did them for us. He's a geek. No offense to your kind or anything."

Henry looked at him and sneered sarcastically, "None taken." Gregory however didn't seem to get the joke. Henry went back to looking through the papers.

"What do you plan to do with these?" All three broke out in victorious grins.

"Get this," started Rocky.

"No let Timmy explain it. It was his idea."

"Fine." They leaned in towards him as if they were going to reveal the meaning of life.

"Get this," said Timmy, pausing for dramatic effect. "A giant…"

"Yes?" asked an enticed Henry.

"Banana." Henry sat back. Was this some kind of joke? It had to be. But no they were all sincere. He would have laughed if the hadn't looked so serious (or if each of them weren't six-foot-tall.)

"What about a giant banana?"

"Shh," they all hissed pulling back into their huddle.

"Every baseball game we're going to run around the field in a giant banana costume."

"So what are the plans for?"

"Shh," they hissed again. Henry heard some trays shatter but he didn't turn around to see what had happened.

"We want you to announce us…"

"…Before we go out there…"

"…Can you imagine the look on Gremlich's face." Timmy leaned back and reported like a news anchor. "Head master has heart attack due to shock of Giant Banana." Gremlich was the head master at Mid-Land Prep. Not even Henry, a bonified teacher's pet, liked him. Henry thought about it for a moment.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you doing this? "

"Well that's obvious," started Gregory. He didn't look like he was going to finish however until Rocky shoved him. "Oh yeah. Because we hate those baseball jerks…"

"…every year it's us in the fall…"

"…and them in the spring…"

"…and we want to be both seasons for a change…" Henry looked at them for a second. He felt as if he had just stumbled into a group of helpless kittens that just happened to weigh about two hundred pounds.

"You do know that no one will know it's you behind the banana?" They looked as if they couldn't comprehend the idea.

"So?"

"Never mind," he shook his head. "I'll do it." Rocky grabbed his hand and almost shook it off. Gregory slapped him so hard on the back that he almost spilled all of his lunch over the table, and Timmy gave him a noogie the likes of which made him wonder if he would go bald.

What was he doing?