Another Day in Paradise

“How much would it take for you to break?” He asked.

“Huh?” I replied.

“Man,” he continues, “I asked you if you were in a like, World War Two type battle, how long could you go in the trench before you broke?”

“Oh hell, I don’t know. What kind of question is that? Maybe I wouldn’t break? I mean it’s war, right? I know what I’m getting into, or whatever.”

“Pff- that’s what everyone says. I give you, like, two days– tops.”

“Thanks for your vote of confidence, I guess. Anyway, we gotta finish this project, Eddie.” 

“Yeah I know that, but–”

I glance back down at our shared paper. I’m in a weird sort of haze today. I can’t remember what I had for breakfast, and I can’t remember what my last class was. Obviously, by my schedule, I know what it is, it’s chemistry. But if I try to recall from today’s experience? I can’t remember. Wait, what class am I in right now? I look around. I see black and white posters, I see my lazy-looking substitute– Mr. Golden– I see a textbook in front of me, and… it says “History.” Okay, I’m in history. Now the paper says, “The Importance of Martin Luther King Jr.” at the top. Eddie is no help on this, he’s one of those people who are racist but not in a radical way. He probably thinks MLK was “too left” or whatever else these people like to call revolutionary thinkers now. God, is he still talking?

“--and anyway, he didn’t do that much. He was just a big lefty and the PC community just loves to toot the horn of anyone who is–”

Yeah, there it is. Okay. So let me crack the textbook and copy stuff down onto the sheet. Is school meant to be this menial or am I doing it wrong? Analytically, I’m not a good student, but on paper, sure, I am. Okay, the first reason of importance is down… wait, what did I write just now? I should go back and look, no I’ll do it later. But don’t I say that every time? I never go back. Maybe this is why everyone is smarter than me now, I don’t put in the work. I’m a junior in high school and I’m probably still just as dumb as I was in eighth grade. Who I am? Have I just been going through the days on autopilot? 

“--man, can I write something or are you just gonna keep peddling this CNN bullshit?”

“Brother, what are you talking about? I’m just writing what the book says.”

“Dude, I’m sitting here speaking my mind and you’re there just writing like a typical sheeple.”

“Maybe I like being a sheeple, and anyway, what do you want me to write? That MLK wasn’t important? I don’t think History would agree with you. I don’t care what the basic-looking white guy yells at the camera on TV. “

“I don’t watch TV, I get all my news from TikTok. What are you? Seventy years old?”

“Yeah, man, I am. Can I just copy from the book in peace?”

“Just let me write a little bit and then you can do whatever.”

“Okay, how about we put our names next to the parts that we write? That way whoever is grading this will know of your wisdom.”

“Good idea, I don’t want someone mistaking me for a sheep like you.”

Eddie starts to write and I’m still thinking about if I’m even real. It seems like everyone has a little character role that they’re filling and I’m the only one that doesn’t have one. But, maybe I just feel that way because I can’t look at myself from the outside. Or maybe I look at myself from the outside too much? I don’t know. What did I do yesterday? Did I work? No. I think I just slept after school. I had school, right? Yeah… today is... Tuesday? God, the weekend is so far away. I don’t know if I’m gonna make it this week. I think just being in this damn school is taking years off my life. Maybe everyone could live way longer if we just got rid of high school. When I think about my mental, I think I stopped being happy during Freshman year. Everything was so new when I started and now it feels like a sitcom that is past its expiration date. Or maybe I’m past my expiration date. I mean, is everyone meant to live, like, seventy years? Maybe I’m just meant to live these sixteen. Maybe everything after that is just gross, you know? I bet if someone did a scan of my soul, it would be moldy. Maybe it’ll spread to my skin. Is that what acne is? No, can’t be, because mold doesn’t go away… or maybe it does. I don’t know, I should’ve paid more attention to my science classes. I don’t think chemistry would hold my answer either, all chemistry does is talk about moles and make me wanna smash a beaker against my head. 

“Alright, man. You write one more and then we can be done.”

“Sure, Eddie.”

He wrote some weird conspiracy stuff about the CIA and how, really, MLK was just a plant to make minorities feel better. Oh boy. I start copying from the book again and he pulls out his phone. He’s scrolling a social media platform. They all look the same to me recently, I think that’s intentional. I bet one of them is gonna seize all the others soon, and then there will be a monopoly on our attention. Everyone will hook into it, maybe literally. We’re basically jacked in already, now we just need the cord wired directly to our brains. Social media might be the reason I don’t feel real. I spend all my time there and it doesn’t add anything to my life, it just distracts me. I finish up my copied answer and sign my name next to it. I put my name at the top also and let Eddie do the same. I stand up to turn the worksheet into the tray. Mr. Golden is asleep at the desk. He has an old football game playing on the desktop monitor. I don’t know the teams. One team has red helmets and the other team has green ones. The footage is super grainy. I drop the paper into the tray. There’s a meme taped on it that’s about ten years old. I wonder if it’s still funny to our teacher. It probably is, or maybe she forgot that it was there. Doesn’t matter. 

I’m walking back to my desk when I hear a door slam shut in the hallway. I try to glance out the door’s little window but there’s a red curtain draped over the outside of it. Whatever. I sit back down at my little desk and Eddie is still scrolling. I could pull out my phone– but now that I’m thinking about social media, I don’t really want to. Kind of like when you’re going to clean your room but then your parents tell you to. Really puts a sour taste on your… brain? I hope that connection makes sense. Eh, I’ll come back to it later. The door to our class swings open and suddenly I remember that I heard the door slam out in the hall. See? Brain haze. God, that's scary. 

I look at the doorway and see a kid I know named Frank standing there. Frank was in my Honors English class freshman year. Why do I remember that? I don’t know if I’ve seen him in the halls since then, he doesn’t look that different. He looks upset though, and tired. I remember him being kind of rambunctious and happy-go-lucky freshman year. He was the kind of kid to drink Monster Energy when he probably didn’t need to. His hair is all messed up, but it looks like the same cut he had back then. He’s holding a gun. That’s a little strange– maybe there’s some event happening today that I forgot about, like a spirit day kind of thing. No, that doesn’t make sense. Eddie looks up from his phone.

“What the hell?” He says. 

The gun that Frank is holding looks very serious, a real “Call of Duty” sort of deal. It looks too large for his small frame. He steps in the doorway and mutters something. Mr. Golden is still sleeping. I see Frank’s posture change, he’s bracing himself. I don’t move a muscle. The air is tense, the classroom doesn’t know what to do. I see Frank’s hand move, a shot rips out, or multiple really.  I guess, actually, the shots don’t stop. I don’t hear anything past the rupture of the first shot though. The shots just kind of move out of the barrel continuously, the repetitive flash reminds me of fireworks. I feel like I read something the other day about automatic weapons. What social media did I read that on? Frank sweeps the room with the outpour. I don’t feel anything, possibly it was just a pop-gun sort of thing, a drill. I look down and it looks like my sweatshirt has been soaked through with grape juice and it clings to my skin. I guess this is real. I can’t look back up. I can’t hear anything except a tinge of ringing from that first explosive sound.

I’m still trying to remember what class I had last period. My vision is darkening. I wonder if the shots woke Mr. Golden up. I wonder what Eddie’s media folks will have to say about this. Oh, I hope my parents aren’t too upset. Chemistry. I had Chemistry and I smiled at this girl, what’s her name– Maxine? I think that’s it. God, her smile is so bright. I think I have a crush on her. I don’t know. I’ll come back to that later.