To be honest, I kinda thought that detention was gonna be a blessing. A place where everyone just sits down, looking at an underpaid grunt of the American education system, wasting away his golden years in a tenure position that has probably resulted in a few divorces, without being able to interact with each other.

Meaning, a perfect way to not interact with anyone. It should be empty, right? I mean, who even gets detention on their first day of school?

That was before I realized that the answer to that question is, of course, bad boys. I fell into a cliche and didn't even notice. I got Breakfast Club'ed!

Now, as I enter the Reagan-era classroom that I'm sure is painted with at least three layers of asbestos and dreams of thousands of students being churned out of the education system like sausages - which most of them don't even know what they contain - my worst fears are realized.

Not only are me and Hayden in, but also that weird Laila girl from earlier, along with a couple of weirdos. Of course they. In my efforts to stay out of any possible plot point, I'm forced to be with a bunch of main characters. How do I know that they are? They all have colored hair, impossibly handsome features, as if sculpted by Adonis himself, and weird clothing.

The first of this handsome weirdos is a blonde guy with freckles, chewing an apple. Why do all douches have to eat apples? Are they powered by bitter skin and disappointing levels of sugar?

The second is a guy who looks like he bumped into a wardrobe. Full-on gloves, a scarf that obscures his face, thick glasses, and wait a minute. Am I describing everything in a monologue again? Goddammit! Their trap is already working.

"Mr. Gomez, isn't it?" says the underpaid teacher in charge of detention, a poor sap who looks like someone who can describe his love life with titles from Taylor Swift songs. Probably listens to them unironically, too.

It now occurs to me that I've been standing by the door like an idiot while I monologue, and continue to do so. Maybe if I stopped doing it would I be able to get away from this trap. "Yes," I say. Genius.

"Take a seat wherever," he said with the same poise one would use against someone demanding to see the manager of a Mcdonald's because their french fries weren't salted enough. Meaning, too light for what it really meant.

Since I was the last one in, everyone had already taken a seat relatively apart from each other in a way that forced me to sit adjacent to at least one of them. See? This is why being first is always the best move.

Now, where to sit? Right out of the bat, I'm not sitting next to Laila. Since I got here, she wouldn't stop staring at me and monologuing under her breath.

"What is hidden behind those glasses," she yells/whispers, again, without proper capitalization of what is obviously a question. "Will his orbs be aquamarine or topaz or rondonite ? or are his endless pools as dark and mysterious as his jacket? I can't help but quiver by the though of crossing paths with him once again. How are the odds of us meeting again?."

"It's pronounced 'thought' with a t at the end," I whisper to myself. Won't be sitting near her anytime soon.

Certainly not near Hayden. I know his type. Jock bad-boy, captain of the football team, probable boyfriend of the head cheerleader. I'll give my left nut if he doesn't drive some kind of sports car. Probably will take my presence near him as an affront that only his fists can solve, and I'm not about to be fisted at school.

That sounded bad. Anyways.

It either comes down to Captain Overcoat-during-summer, or Douchy Van Dick. I'll go safe and go with the scarf-man.

But wait, what if he's important to the plot? What if he is a Mysterious-type bad-boy? Those are even worse than Jock-types. New Cool Kid-type bad boys and Mysterious-type bad boys are like water and oil. Generally don't mix, but add a totally average b/g egg, mix it up, and you have a clusterfuck plot mayonnaise.

I'll stick with the generic, yet handsome douche. Those are always supporting characters.

As I drop my 10-subject binder onto the seat next to him, the kid engages me. An eager one. I hate eager douches.

"Hey, you're the new kid, right?" he says, leaning over his bag which inexplicably sits on top of his desk. "Ayden Gomez?"

Now, again, this is a very delicate matter. Engaging with douches is different from engaging with a totally average g/b. You know what? Let's abbreviate it to TAG/B. Easier on the mind-tongue. The micropenis bit won't work here. There is an effective way to deal with them.

I take out my wallet and slip him a $20 bill. "I'll give you this if you shut the fuck up."

Usually, that's all it takes. Douches love power, and money is power. They are $20 richer, and you get away from an awkward conversation.

You can understand my puzzlement when he slides the money back into my hand and gives me two slaps on the back.

"Man, you're funny!" he says, revealing a set of crooked teeth. "Everyone thinks you're this big, scary dude, but you're pretty good at heart!"

Oh, fuck. I miscalculated. He's not a douchebag. God, I wish he was. He's actually the only friend to the bad boy who knows deep inside that he's a good boy and serves as an info dump to tell the MC how good they are and continue to be around the bad boy in spite of him being an undeniable dickwad. He's a TOFTTBBWKDITHAGBASAAIDTTTMCHGTAACTBATBBISOHBAUD!

I made a calculated risk, and boy do I suck at math. Now he's going to tell everyone how "approachable" I am. If I blow him off, it would just reinforce that I'm just in a shell. If I engage, I would prove him right.

Get your head in the game, Gomez!

"I'm Billiam!" he says, extending his hand to shake mine. "Or Bill, for short. You can call me Scooter. Everyone calls me Scooter, because I'm Scottish. Scooter Bill, they call me. Or maybe because my middle name is Scott. Billiam Scott Exposito. So, Bill Scooter Scooter. Double Scooter! Does that make me a car? Car Bill?"

I regret every decision I've ever made.

"Make it $40," I say, in a vain attempt at shaking him off. Doesn't work.

"You are hilarious!" says Bill. "So, Ayden, you must be pretty lost in this new school, eh?"

"I could care less if the principal came in here and gouged out my eyes with freezing sporks if it would mean not talking to you," I say. Which, fun fact, happened two Highschools ago. Something about my eyes being cursed or something.

"Haha, so crazy," says Bill. "Let your old pal Bill fill you in on some stuff. I'm kind of an informant around here. A know-it-all."

"Please, don't lean on that old stereotype of the guy that lays the exposition."

"That there," he says, pointing at Laila, "is Laila McKenzie. Her father is this millionaire who is never home, but she's pretty down to earth about it. Just your average girl, daughter of a millionaire."

As he tries to put his arm around me, I jab my elbow against his ribs to keep him at bay. "Good for her."

He pushes on, the masochist freak. "She sometimes falls asleep during class and wakes up screaming. Very mysterious."

"Again, couldn't give two fucks if I had a surplus of fucks and someone needed a fuck transplant ASAP," I said from the bottom of my heart.

The idiot doesn't take a hint.

"Haha, crazy," he says. I must add that he smells of mustard and baby powder, for some reason. "Anyways, heard you have a fight with Hayden Wilson. Want some Intel on him?"

"I have a feeling that you're gonna tell me anyway, regardless of what I say," I say, sayingly.

"Of course!" says Bill, "cuz I'm your pal! Now, Hayden is the captain of the football team, so he's, like, school royalty."

"Lemme guess. Boyfriend of the cheerleading team captain?"

"Oh, yes!" he says, giving me a tap in the back. "As thick as thieves, those two. He has led this school to be the best in the league for three years now. Everybody loves Hayden. Every woman wants to be with him, and every boy wants to be him."

"Charming," I say. It's official: he's gonna get into a car crash soon. It always is a car crash. Or a broken leg. Such is the curse of the Jock-type bad-boy. "What about the scarecrow in the back?"

As long as he's spouting exposition, might as well make use of him. Ah! I get it, Bill Exposito. Exposition. Clever.

"He's Okayden McHuman," says Bill. "Nobody knows anything about him. So mysterious!"

At least I got one right. Mental note: stay away from him.

And because the exposition was over, so was our chance to speak, as cliche dictates that the teacher shuts us up if the plot demands it. And sure enough, the teacher stands up, gathers his stuff, and looks at the clock. "Okay, kids. Time's up. You're free to go. Don't go making a mess, now."

Before I can even think about standing up and running away from getting either my face or somebody else's face fisted, a hand grabs me by the shoulder. It is strong, thick, as if accustomed to handling balls all day.

"Hey, little guy," says the unmistakable baritone voice of one Hayden Wilson. "Ready to get creamed?"

Worst. First. Day. Ever. Surprisingly erotic, too.