CHAPTER ONE

Now, let me get this straight, even before I start

this story: I am not a geek. I am adament about this

one fact. I mean, I’m definitely not the stereotypical

image of a geek, the kind that trips over himself in

the hallway and wears glasses that take up eighty

percent of his face. I don’t tuck my shirts in, I

don’t have a bowl cut, and I don’t snort when I laugh.

Unless I laugh really hard, but c’mon. I bet even Tom

Cruise has snorted a few times.

“This isn’t mission: difficult, Mr. Cruise. It’s

Mission: Impossible.”

(Snorts) “What the hell? Mission: Impossibe? Who wrote

this script, a three-year old?”

Yes, I sympathize with you, Mr. Cruise. Oh, yes. I

have snorted a few times in my life (and one of those

times was during my viewing of Mission: Impossible.

I’m a cynic, I know.)

But I’m getting off track here. What I’m trying to

say, plain and simple, and as I have already stated in

the first sentence of this story, is that I am not a

geek. Granted, at the point where this story begins I

am breezing through my Advanced Algebra homework, but

hey. Some people are just good with numbers.

I close the book and sigh, looking out the window,

just in time to see Bus 19 pulling up to the curb and

ejecting my sister. Great. Here I am having a good

day, doing my homework, studying, and generally being

bored, and she has to come and ruin it!

In walks the Queen of Darkness. I hear the music

before I see her. Then Bri comes along, accompanied by

the screaming noises being emitted from her iPod.

“Ahh, the lovely sounds of satanic death metal,” I say

by way of a greeting.

“Screw you,” says the Devil’s Spawn. It’s classy,

really, how my sister and I get along. It’s like Wally

and Beaver, only this Wally’s a girl (I think), and we

don’t really like each other, I’d go so far as to say

hate, and we aren’t principle characters in a

wholesome TV sitcom.

“Ditto.” Who says ditto anymore? Me. I say

over it.

“Where’s the phone?” she asks. “Scar’s gonna call me.”

“Why, are you going to pick him up from

kindergarten?”I get a withering look from my sister.

Scar is Bri’s boyfriend, but I prefer to refer to him

as “The Common Man’s Idiot.” That’s how stupid Scar

is. Example: He picked the name not because he has

some hideous switchblade scar right below his eye or

something manly like that, but because The Lion King

is his favorite movie, along with House of the Living

Dead, and he liked the evil lion (Scar).

“Do you know where the freaking phone is?” she asks

again. No, I do not know where the phone is, Bri. Do

you think I get many calls? Bri knows full well that I

have almost no social life to speak of, apart from

Steve. So why would I know where the phone is? It’s

probably up in your room, short-circuiting under the

piles of black t-shirts and other unmentionable items.

“Nay, young furious one. Whither are thy speaking

device, I know not.”

That gets a kick from her, and I yell in pain as her

skate shoes connect with my ankle. I wouldn’t have to

suffer through this if my parents were here more. But

no, they work in the city. Now there’s good parenting!

Leave your kid alone with the vicious she-wolf!

She-wolf. I’ve been reading too many comic books.

Just as she’s about to give me another whack, the

seemingly lost phone starts ringing. “I’VE GOT IT!”

she practically shrieks, and I add banshee to my list

of comic villians that Bri resembles.

I hear her skidding across the linoleum in a mad dash

for the phone, as if it’s a beeping time bomb. “Scar?”

Apparently not, because there’s an audible sigh and

she walks back into the living room, dejected. “It’s

for you.”

I take it, feeling smug. “Don’t let it get you down,

sis. I’m sure ol’ Scar’ll give you a ring. He just has

to learn how to use the phone frist!”

“Aagh!” I yell as her foot says hello to my knee.

“Jesus, Jake, way to scream in the reciever. What is

that, “hi” in Taiwanese?”

“Funny. No really, I’m laughing.” I sit down on the

couch, massaging my wound.

“I sure thought so,” Steve says amiably. I can almost

see the grin on his face. “So how’s it going?”

By this Steve means how’s it been going since about

twenty minutes ago, when he said “later man” and I

walked off the bus. “In the time since I saw you last,

I’ve circumnavigated the globe, defeated an entire

army of ninjas, and married and divorced an entire

catalog full of Victoria’s Secret models.”

“So, in a nutshell, you did the math homework and

watched reruns of some dumbass show on TV Land? I envy

you there, man. What a life.”

“Does this motivational speech have a point?” I ask,

though I know where he’s going.

“Does it have a point?” he repeats. “Does it have a

POINT? Dude, math homework is not a way of life. You

need to get out! You need to feel vigor in your bones,

compadre!”

“We’re going to scope out girls at the mall so you can

score with them, aren’t we?” I ask.

“Yep. That’s about the size of it.”

I could rag on Steve about the fact that scoping out

girls while he’s in a relationship (with a girl that I

find truly amazing, no less) is probably not the best

idea. But Petra really couldn’t care less, as long as

she get’s Madison High’s star QB back after he’s had

his dose of mall girl makeouts. So I don’t really have

anything to rag on him for. I might as well go to the

mall, eat some fast food, and watch my best friend

mack with hot girls.

Hey, at least the food’s cheap.