Status: Active. (Based on the novel by Laurie Halse Anderson.)
Twisted
Thirty-Five
Our homecoming football game had always been held on Friday of Columbus Day weekend to give everyone an extra day to recover from the hangovers.
No, not really.
It was on Friday of Columbus Day weekend because our archrivals, the Forestdale Warriors, needed that extra day for hangover recovery. We Centennial Bulldogs prided ourselves on intelligent drinking. That’s what people said, anyway.
Since our football team was 0 and 7, there wasn’t much interest in the game itself. There was a lot of talk about parties that I was never invited to, but nobody bothered about our chances.
That all changed when we got to school on Friday.
Instead of the normal crowd hanging out in front of the building, streams of people- looking strangely awake- were hurrying towards Bulldog Stadium. There, the police had cordoned off the gate with yellow crime-scene tape. We ran around behind the bleachers to stare through the chain-link fence.
“Those bastards,” my little brother muttered.
Someone, some Forestdale Warrior, had burned BULLDOGS SUCK! into our sacred football sod with weed killer.
My fellow students swore vengeance and punched the fence until it jangled. Members of the football team were told to kill the opposition so that we could regain our lost pride. This wasn’t just a prank; it was a declaration of war.
I stood very still. Were people staring at me? Did they think this was my handiwork? Did they think I would stoop so low?
Of course they did. I was the moron who specialized in misspelled defacings of school property. Maybe I should curse loudly. Or hawk up a loogie and spit on the ground, just to prove that I wasn’t a traitor.
I twisted my head around, looking for Kelsey and the drones, half expecting them to drag me on the field, tear me limb from limb, and set my corpse on fire. I didn’t do this, did I?
“Aaron, where was I last night?” I whispered.
“What are you talking about?”
“Just help me out. What was I doing last night?”
“You tried to pay me to IM Sean and convince him to go out with you. And then you took a shower that was so long you emptied the hot water tank.”
Oh. That.
“Thank you,” I said.
I couldn’t have done it. It wasn’t me. Good. Sometimes I scared myself, because once you’ve thought long and hard enough about something that is colossally stupid, you feel like you’ve actually done it, and then you’re never quite sure what your limits are.
No, not really.
It was on Friday of Columbus Day weekend because our archrivals, the Forestdale Warriors, needed that extra day for hangover recovery. We Centennial Bulldogs prided ourselves on intelligent drinking. That’s what people said, anyway.
Since our football team was 0 and 7, there wasn’t much interest in the game itself. There was a lot of talk about parties that I was never invited to, but nobody bothered about our chances.
That all changed when we got to school on Friday.
Instead of the normal crowd hanging out in front of the building, streams of people- looking strangely awake- were hurrying towards Bulldog Stadium. There, the police had cordoned off the gate with yellow crime-scene tape. We ran around behind the bleachers to stare through the chain-link fence.
“Those bastards,” my little brother muttered.
Someone, some Forestdale Warrior, had burned BULLDOGS SUCK! into our sacred football sod with weed killer.
My fellow students swore vengeance and punched the fence until it jangled. Members of the football team were told to kill the opposition so that we could regain our lost pride. This wasn’t just a prank; it was a declaration of war.
I stood very still. Were people staring at me? Did they think this was my handiwork? Did they think I would stoop so low?
Of course they did. I was the moron who specialized in misspelled defacings of school property. Maybe I should curse loudly. Or hawk up a loogie and spit on the ground, just to prove that I wasn’t a traitor.
I twisted my head around, looking for Kelsey and the drones, half expecting them to drag me on the field, tear me limb from limb, and set my corpse on fire. I didn’t do this, did I?
“Aaron, where was I last night?” I whispered.
“What are you talking about?”
“Just help me out. What was I doing last night?”
“You tried to pay me to IM Sean and convince him to go out with you. And then you took a shower that was so long you emptied the hot water tank.”
Oh. That.
“Thank you,” I said.
I couldn’t have done it. It wasn’t me. Good. Sometimes I scared myself, because once you’ve thought long and hard enough about something that is colossally stupid, you feel like you’ve actually done it, and then you’re never quite sure what your limits are.
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