A Catastrophe of Nerdish Proportions by Alan Lawrence Sitomer

doesn’t stupid-appreciate how not stupid video games are. Am I right or am I right or what?” he argued.
    â€œPreach it, brutha. Preach it,” I said, hoping that if I agreed with him he’d let the whole thing go.
    â€œThank you,” he said, happy to see that there was at least one person who could really understand where he was coming from (even though I had no idea where he was coming from).
    Logan wandered away. As he did so, one thought, one inescapable, unavoidable, never-to-be-disputed fact, filled my brain.
    He’s got a cute butt.
    I blame genetic programming for random zone-outs like this.
    After I managed to avoid Tuesday’s booby-trapped cookies, Wednesday and Thursday were free of pranks, but when lunchtime came on Friday, it was Game On once again.
    Q’s eyes darted from side to side, looking around to make sure no one was watching us. The outdoor courtyard, where we always ate lunch, bustled with activity. Boys punched other boys, then ran off. Girls played with their phones while gossiping or doing homework. A few kids flirted. Nothing out of the ordinary, just another Friday on campus. Once Q felt the coast was clear, she reached into her backpack.
    â€œI got the goods right here,” she whispered.
    I cranked my neck to see what she’d brought.
    â€œExploding pens. The kind that, when you press down to write, they will”— Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh —“blast a squirt of ink into the person’s face.”
    â€œNiiiice!” I said.
    â€œI got them at the magic store down on Harris Street,” Q continued. “But how are we going to get them into the ThreePees’ hands?”
    â€œGood question,” I said as I gazed across the courtyard. Just as we were huddled around the table trying to come up with a way to really stick it to the ThreePees, it seemed they were also huddling to try and figure out a way to stick it to us.
    â€œCan I just officially say that I don’t like any of this?” Beanpole remarked. “I don’t like it at all. I mean, every time I sit at a desk I check for tacks or ‘Kick Me!’ signs or glue. It’s making me crazy.”
    â€œHey, glue,” I said. “Good idea, Beanpole.”
    â€œYeah,” said Q, her eyes glowing with possibilities. “Maybe we could glue the witches to a park bench, cover them in corn kernels, spread maple syrup over their faces, and import some Australian crows to eat out their eyeballs!”
    â€œThey’ve wounded you, haven’t they?” I asked.
    â€œMore than you know,” Q replied.
    â€œHow come I don’t think you two are really listening to me?” Beanpole asked.
    â€œWe’re totally listening, Beanpole,” I said, getting ready to ignore her again. “Just go play with your phone or something, while we figure this out.”
    â€œI’m not getting it till this weekend,” she said. “By the way, have you heard from your dad again?”
    I pretended not to hear the question. “So, the ink that will be squirted, is it blue?” I asked Q in regards to the magic pens.
    â€œDeep purple,” she answered. “Think grape juice.”
    â€œNiiice,” I said.
    â€œYou know, Mo,” Beanpole said, knowing that I’d quite clearly heard her question yet chosen to ignore it, “denying reality doesn’t change reality.”
    â€œWell, if God didn’t want me sweeping reality under the rug, then why did he make me so good with a broom? Now,” I said to Q, “what if we put the pens—”
    Suddenly, Mrs. Chambliss, one of the vice principals, walked up to our lunch table. She was wearing a yellow sweater over a white blouse with a necklace made of topaz. While some teachers are slobs who look like they don’t even own an iron, Mrs. Chambliss always dresses with class and style.
    â€œAll right, girls…let’s go.”
    â€œWhere?