“How was your summer, Bob Golf?” chuckles the hottest guy in school. I like to stand behind him in the hallway until he notices me. “Terrible,” I respond. “I got cut from the golf team, so now I’m a nobody named Bob.” With that, I begin a vivid description of how horrible this year will be. He responds with an anecdote from his summer in Fiji.
In first period, I force myself to sit alone like a loser. “Do we have a, Bob Golf?” the science teacher asks, peering around the classroom to where I’m sulking in the back corner. I stare into his eyes and state that I am just Bob. “Oh, that’s fine,” he responds. “I just wanted to make sure because I thought there was a bizarre typo on the attendance sheet.”
At lunchtime, I storm into the cafeteria and interpret the lunch lady’s ambiguous stare as active animosity. “Yeah I know you probably heard that my last name isn’t Golf anymore so you think I’m a misfit,” I scream in her face. “That’s a detention, young man!” roars the lunch monitor, noticing that I’ve grabbed an extra chicken tender. I pass the golf course on the way to the principal’s office. A single tear trickles down my cheek.
“Bob Golf,” the principal greets me, familiar with my extensive behavioral issues. “Just Bob, no golf,” I bark. After he looks through his records and cannot find any student named Bob, he tells me that I functionally don’t exist. “As such, I cannot discipline you,” he concludes. “Please head to Calculus.”
I hate math, so I grab my stuff and jump into Mom’s car, where she waits all day in the parking lot. “How was school, sweetie?” she asks. “I didn’t brood in the bathroom all day,” I report. And we hug because we both know this is the best day ever.
