SCOTT

It didn't start with anything big. No explosions, no praying mantis creatures terrorizing the hallways, no sentient goo dissolving anyone. We'll get to stuff like that in a second, sure, but not at first. I mean, the story would be way cooler if it did start like that. Like if the first line of the story was something like, "Holy shit, I'm being attacked by bees!"

Alas, it started, as I imagine most things do, with something mundane. In this case, a can of Dr Pepper. Or Hawaiian Punch. Who even knows anymore? You're probably thinking, How could this guy not know which one? Let me set the stage for you.

This was not any ordinary day. And I'm not just saying that because it was homecoming week and it was '80s Spirit Day. Each day during homecoming week was a different theme, and students were expected to wear outfits congruent with that theme. But this day was not special because of the amount of low-rent Madonnas with fishnet leggings and crosses around their necks or Sonny Crockets with white suits and loafers with no socks roaming the halls.

Normally I would bring my lunch. But it was Tuesday. Tuesday is crispito day in the cafeteria. I stood in queue with all the other students that had B lunch, sandwiched between two students wearing Frankie Say Relax T-shirts (a reference they probably didn't even understand), waiting to get a tray of those tubes of deliciousness that were crispitos. For those of you who don't know, a crispito is essentially a crispy burrito, filled with the lowest-grade beef available and covered in whatever cheese product the government deemed appropriate for public school students to eat.

The lunch lady, Becky, according to her name tag, was here every Tuesday. She wore the same red polo and khaki pants that were the uniform for all cafeteria employees. Her expression, or lack thereof, was flat and unchanging. Her hair threatened to burst out of the hairnet that trapped it. She used a spatula to move the crispitos onto the trays and put the trays out for students to grab, her movements mechanical.

I'm not one to smile at someone, or initiate any sort of social contact, but this was the exception. Each week I couldn't help but smile at Lunch Lady Becky as she placed the crispito-filled tray in front of me, and this week was no different. I smiled at her, and her face remained stoic. How could someone dispense something that made so many people happy and not have joy about it? I think maybe she did but just didn't show it. I could understand that. I try not to show any. High school kids can be vicious at the first display of any sort of genuine emotion, and she probably already dealt with enough having the (unfair) stigma of being a lunch lady. I liked to think that her joy was like a little secret that was just between us.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. The Dr Pepper. There is nothing better to wash crispitos down with than a cold Dr Pepper, and thanks to schools being strapped for cash, they let all the major soft drink companies sell their carbonated sugar in the cafeteria. I grabbed a Dr Pepper out of the large can-shaped drink display full of ice. I handed the cashier lunch lady my school lunch card, and as the transaction processed, I decided to pop open that Dr Pepper. The cool metal touched my lips, and as the liquid hit my tongue I tasted ... fruit punch. Hawaiian Punch to be exact. The fruit flavor was such a shock that the sip got stuck between being spit out and swallowed, and I ended up choking on it a bit and coughing instead. I held the can away from my face and, sure enough, looking back at me was that freckled guy with the weird red antler hair. I stood frozen for a minute, the taste of fruit punch still in my mouth.

"Well, are you gonna stand there, or are you gonna take your lunch?" asked the cashier lunch lady. Donna, her nametag said.

"Sorry. I must have grabbed the wrong drink" But something was off. I didn't think the school even sold Hawaiian Punch. "I meant to grab a Dr Pepper."

Lunch Lady Donna raised one eyebrow. "Son, that is a Dr Pepper."

I gave her a confused look, but when I looked down at the can, sure enough, a Dr Pepper was in my hand.

"Oh ... I ... uh ... never mind, then" Dazed, I placed the can on my tray and headed toward the library, where my few friends and I normally eat lunch. I figured I was just tired or stressed or something. Or maybe the delicious (but probably toxic) fumes from the crispitos had overloaded my brain. I was wrong. Way wrong.

Something dripped down my upper lip and into my mouth as a metallic taste hit my tongue. I set my tray down on the nearest empty table. A quick touch to my upper lip left my fingers red with blood. A nosebleed. I hadn't had a nosebleed in ... I couldn't even remember the last time I had a nosebleed. Wary of leaving my crispitos unattended but knowing I needed to stop bleeding, I rushed over to the table where the plastic knives, forks, and spoons and paper napkins were kept. The handful of brown made-from-recycled-paper napkins I grabbed felt rough against my face and scratched the inside of my nostril, but they did their job.

I threw most of them away, saving one to shove up my nose to keep it clogged in case the bleeding started again. The good news was my tray was still on the table where I left it. The bad news was that someone used my few moments of physical vulnerability (well, it's not like I'm some muscle fortress normally, so maybe I should say "my few moments of higher-than-usual physical vulnerability") to swipe my crispitos. A lone can of Dr Pepper sat on a red plastic tray. They didn't even bother to take the whole tray. They literally just swiped my crispitos. Shoulders slumped, I walked over and picked up the can. At least I still had my "Dr Pepper."

I turned to continue my trek across the lunchroom to the library and collided with an oblivious perfumed object of some sort. The thing — most likely a person, as my brain quickly deduced — wore a tight pink shirt, one of those low-cut T-shirts that all teenage girls seem to have that show just enough cleavage. A brown, sugary stain was spreading across said cleavage. The can of soda in my hand felt considerably lighter.

"Ohmygod, watch where you're going," she said, her hands raised, palms open in a "why would you do this?" position. "Uh, hello? Scott?"

I realized that I was just staring at her chest. Not at her cleavage, I want to be clear here, but at the brown stain. It was less boob related and more me taking time to mourn the loss of my soda and, to an even further extent, my crispitos. She pulled her bright-pink '80s-interpretation shirt up to more thoroughly cover herself — not that that is what I was looking at, again, just to be clear. I raised my eyes to hers, and it was just as I feared. My eyes met those of Davey Burgess. I ruined the costume of the girl who was, relatively, the homecoming czar, whose idea it was in the first place for this ridiculous spirit day.

At the time she was born, I'm sure her parents thought Davey was an adorable, spunky name for a girl. I bet they literally used the word spunky when deciding to call her that. Now it just sounds less cute and more like something the movie Juno threw up. I didn't really know her that well, just that she was a cheerleader, that she dated some bag of douche on the football team, and that she had an all-around reputation for being a serious...