Dr.

My sleep.

Your blood will be your trophy.

I'm standing next to my desk and I stare down at it.

The words are scrawled and red across the top of my laptop case.

What the fuck?

I mumble, then look about the room at my classmates.

I find a few sets of eyes checking me out, but they go back to whatever they are working on.

Which one of you did this? I ask. but they go back to whatever they are working on.

Which one of you did this? I ask. I lean closer to my laptop and shake my head.

Ketchup? Really?

It better not get into my computer.

Mr Norris, Mr. Lawson says.

He's my third period math teacher and it looks it.

His 50s, bald with a sad comb over, always wears a tie, even though it's not 1985, and the

tie never matches his shirt.

And that pocket protector? What the hell is up with that? The guy has two pens

and a pencil tucked in that thing that he never uses because, you know, computers, duh. The guy says he's married, but I don't think he's ever been laid.

Is there a problem, Mr Norris? Mr. Lawson asks. An issue with your computer?

Yeah, there's a problem and an issue, I snap.

Someone wrote all over it with fucking catch-up.

Language, Mr Norris, Mr. Lawson says.

...