Daniel Nominated for "Mr. DHS"
Early Thursday morning, reports flooded our newsroom of an occurrence of the most absurd kind: Our very own Daniel Kenneston had been nominated by a group of anonymous teachers to run as one of five contestants for the title of "Mr. DHS." Among his competitors are rumoured to be Evan Sandborne, Trace Feemster, Jason Wheeler, and none other than Daniel's arch-nemesis, Hans Meyer. Our reporters have not been able to confirm Daniel's acceptance or denial of these alleged claims, which begs the question... will he run? (See "DHS," page A-4).
I sit in the dim corner of the Roadrunner Cafe, trying to make a spiral out of the leftover ketchup on my plate. I'm using the tongs of my fork to part the sauce, thus allowing a thin line of the white plate beneath to emerge. It's harder than it looks, because there are bits of french fries and some discarded lettuce mixed in with the tomato paste, so I can't make the lines of the spiral too close or else the previous circle will be messed up and I'll have to start all over. Delicate business, this is.
The table shakes as I complete line four, jiggling the fork into the last two paths. I give up and instead mash the blob of ketchup with my previously unused spoon. It looks much cooler now, anyway. I can discern the source of the tremor without looking up - Hans had just sat back down across from me at the table.
Returning my focus to the company and conversation at hand, I pick it up somewhere at this:
"No, we can't tell you. Any of you. Besides, you already guessed it... it's a Pirate Prom." That was Leah talking, regarding our insistent inquiries as to the theme of this year's Prom. To Leah's left, Taylor sits looking absently at her plate. Probably trying to figure out how to coerce her ketchup into a spiral. And then next to Taylor is Laycie, resting her head on her hands, giggling at Mike's feigned look of fury towards Leah's um-teenth denial.
A small gap separates their table from the one that Hans and I sit at. We had all decided to go out to breakfast after zero period while the teachers met to discuss various aspects of our oh-so-valuable education for an hour and a half. So here we were, Hans, Mike, Laycie, Taylor, Leah, and I, just finished eating our food, killing time before second period started at 8:45.
"Fine," I concede, locking my gaze on Leah's own, "but at least tell us this: Will there or will there not be a live band?" I raise an eyebrow imploringly.
"Yes. And they'll all have eye patches and peg legs. But we have to make sure Legado will allow for their parrot to accompany them."
I flick a bit of hamburger bun from my plate towards her, but it misses and lands amid the pile of tip money left for the waitress. A collective chuckle meets her remark.
"I've got it!" Mike suddenly says to the group, perking up and raising his hands to indicate his sudden inspiration, "Hans. For your 'improve the school' part of the Mr. DHS thing, you can say that John Scott died in surgery, and paint a John Scott Memorial Wall in the multipurpose room!"
"Genius! Why the dilly-oh didn't I think of that?!" I say, banging a fist on the table in frustration. A John Scott Memorial Wall is just what DHS needs to up school spirit... drat! Leah had informed Hans and I earlier in the meal that we had both been nominated by teachers to run for Mr. DHS in April, and we had both somewhat grudgingly accepted. During April, we'll have 'community service,' 'improve the school,' and 'charity' weeks to determine which out of us is real Mr. DHS material, and then a pageant (groan) will reveal the judge's choice.
The waitress comes in to collect the few plates we have left. I see with slight satisfaction that Taylor apparently fared no better then I at ketchup sculpting. Everyone gets ready to leave as the waitress retreats to the kitchen. We stand and stretch, gathering sweaters and cellphones from around us.
"Does no one else think this is weird?" I ask, flipping open my phone to check for missed calls or texts. No one really answers... they just look at me questioningly. "I mean, Hans and I... Mr. DHS? I dunno, it just seems pretty crazy."
"Uhhh... I guess so?" Laycie says, her tone insinuating disbelief, "but I don't see why not, you know?"
I don't really know, but I shrug and nod anyway. "It's just weird," I repeat.
We begin to pay for our meals, talking in the mean time. I'm trying to sneak my way in front of Leah in the line, but she keeps blocking me. Hans asks me if my picture is still up. I tell him I don't know what he means, so he points to the table closest to the front windows.
It's one of those wooden table tops with a huge sheet of glass set on top, allowing for interesting newspaper articles or witty cartoon clippings to be placed between the tabletop and the glass for the diners' enjoyment. It takes me a while of looking, but finally I see what Hans and Mike are laughing about. There, on the left side of the table near the wall, is one of my senior pictures, slid underneath the glass like it had been there since the restaurant opened. I stand for a moment looking down at my smiling pose.
"Really weird," I amend myself.
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