A Tale of Star-Crossed Lovers

It was 10th period on a typical Friday afternoon—the final 45-minute stretch before the familiar monotonous bleep of the end bell, and the delectable release of the weekend. Each second felt like minutes, each minute like hours. I licked my lips, fantasizing about barging out of the door, getting out my textbook, and starting on my math homework. 

My daydream was interrupted by my mortal enemy, Harvard, who sauntered over with a sly smirk. Recently, he has adopted an irksome habit of donning hoodies with his name emblazoned in big block letters—one of the many tokens of appreciation from the U.S. government for yet another “country-stabilizing disease breakthrough.” It has clearly fed into his ego; before, he looked like he had a stick up his butt 24/7, and now he constantly adds a creepy smile to the mix. Prefacing with a sassy huff, I knew I was in for a yapfest. 

“Hmph. I’m absolutely hopping mad! I believed the Nobel Peace Prize was in the palm of my hand with my last accomplishment, but these darn European institutions are brainwashed,” he sighed. 

“Oh no,” I somehow mustered to say sympathetically. “How unfortunate. I’m sorry, my man.”

“As the young and upcoming Generation Alphas might refer to it, this may be a ‘What the Sigma’ moment.’”

Sigma…the word rang a painful, all-too-familiar bell. Unbeknownst to even my best friends, I have a terrible secret. Every month, when the moon is at its fullest, a bald spot forms on my forehead, I grow thirty years older, and I transform into Pegleg Peter Stuyvesant. Almost unstoppably, I begin to growl about governing New York and resisting attempted English seizure. As a lone wolf, I suffer alone in my barking and snarling until the moon’s fullness subsides. 

Harvard snapped me back into reality by shaking me alive. I looked at him with contempt, angry that his crusty-dusty face was the first thing I saw when I was brought back to consciousness. But even if he could negotiate world peace multiple times, there’s one thing he can’t beat me at. 

I flattened my tongue on the roof of my mouth and tilted my head to reveal my chiseled jawline. I blew my well-slicked strands of hair out of my face, just for them to fall back in front of my eyes again. The intended effect: girls swooned and threw their heads back. If AP Rizz was an exam, I would get a 6/5 because I already scored straight 5s on all my other APs, no biggie. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a girl who did not have her head thrown back. She was different—her hair was pulled in a messy bun, and she wore an oversized hoodie. She was currently invested in rubbing two rocks together, her eyes lighting up whenever she saw a small spark. When she looked up, she locked eyes with me, and our pupils fought for dominance—only for a few moments before she returned to her task.

“Who’s that?” I thought out loud.

“That’s Brooklyn Tech. She transferred recently. She’s not like other girls, I’d say.”

To assert my manliness, I went up to her. “Hey girl, are you a fart? Because you just blew me away.”

She responded in kind with, “You must be an alkali metal. One touch and I can tell you’re highly reactive.”

A chemistry nerd? Who could’ve made a more perfect match? “Oh, are you taking AP Chem? What’s your favorite unit in chemistry?”

“I don’t have one, but combustion reactions are my ultimate favorite topic. I love the way carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen can combine to form water and carbon dioxide…it’s just a delicious reaction, wouldn’t you think? Teehee.” 

“Yeah, that’s cool. What do you like to do for fun?”

“I like watching things get utterly destroyed. All types of fire are cool, especially premeditated crime. Normal classes are so futile in the grand scheme of things. I usually spend my time thinking about the optimal method of starting a fire, at what time of day, at what place. I’d love to see this school erupt in a big blast of flames. Teehee.”

“Oh, cool beans. You know what? I can say fire in multiple languages. Fire, for one. And then fuego, which is like Mandarin or some other really hard language. And uh. That’s it.”

“Oh my god. That’s so hot, like, over 1562 degrees Fahrenheit, diamond-burning kind of hot. Will you be my pookie bear? We can form a sigma bond; we’re each like one electron that’s finally found each other.”

Brooklyn Tech’s mention of sigma was completely unlike Harvard’s. It no longer carried the same weight, painfully reminding me of who I am, but characterized our future relationship as lovers. It warmed my little heart up inside. Maybe I could start going down the path of self-acceptance and inner peace.

“I accept your proposal, the other electron in my orbital.” We went in for the respectful church hug of people who’ve literally only known each other for less than a minute.