We are bloodied, tired, dirty, smelling like a barnyard in the summer heat—and in the case of Brayden, cranky, because he missed his nappy time—but we are here, at last. One last push towards a peaceful life.

As we step out of the school doors, sun bearing down on my skin, I feel a tension in the air, one I've felt before. The end is near, once again. I only hope this will be the last one we wrap this up. My heart can't take the stress of being a YA protagonist anymore.

"Babe, what time is it?" I ask. Due to time dilation, who knows if we even missed the deadline? With our luck, we might as well be two weeks forwards in time.

"2:40. Shit, we got 20 minutes before the thing starts. Move your asses, now!" yells Hayden with the energy of a dad on a road trip that thinks that leaving after sunrise is a sin that can only be forgiven by yelling at his kids until they cry. The god of roadtrips demands tears.

"but i haven't slept, and i'm hungry, and i'm out of crackers, and-"

"I have food in the truck, and you can sleep while we ride there!" yells Hayden.

"...you don't have to be so mean about it," says Brayden, walking towards the parked truck just beyond the street.

"Uh, my friends. I, um,

Have an issue over here,

With my clothes and such."

Sure enough, one look at Okayden tells me the problem: He's mostly naked, save for his wide-brimmed hat and a pair of ripped pants that left nothing to the imagination, but kinda look grungy at the same time. I dig them. He had destroyed his trencoat, scarf and other clothes when he transformed back at the forest. Lucky for the most impressionable of our audience, besides his fleshy ten-pack, every inch of his body is covered in black fur. Not enough to shelter him from the sunlight currently cooking him into a nice medium-well, but enough to satiate the furries amongst the readers.

"Shit. I have a spare change of gym clothes in my Dick Mobile. Hop on it and I'll make sure to cover you good," says Hayden.

Okayden, still sizzling, ponders the option for a second while Hayden is tapping his foot.

"Is it the old one?

Or the new one with the shorts,

'Cause I don't wear shorts."

By the look of Hayden's face, it's the new one with the shorts. He facepalms hard enough that I can see the skin on his face ripple from the impact. "Again with this shit? Just wear the damn shirt then, no shorts, brother! Grow the fuck up. We don't have time for this."

Okayden shakes his head before turning around towards the school.

"I have standards, okay?

I'll go look through lost and found,

And pick a jacket."

"God dammit, Okayden! We don't have time to fucking wait for you to have a personal fashion show. Get your tail into my Dick Mobile, now!"

Dear reader, I've never seen Hayden so mad before. His head looks swollen and red, about to burst. His hands shake with courage as he makes that hand gesture all dads do when they want to reset their kid's operative system with a well-rounded punch to the back of the head, but they can't, like they're trying to grip an imaginary set of floating tiddies. I'm genuinely kinda scared right now.

"Hey, babe, look at me," I tell him, grabbing him by his arms. "Relax. Everything is gonna be okay. Go start the truck. I'll deal with this, okay?"

Now, I don't know if it is the fear in my eyes, or the very stereotypical way that I use to calm him down, but his bloodshot eyes soften a little. He takes a very deep breath before power-walking away from me, stomping all the way.

Okay, then. Time to deal with Okayden, who is looking at me expecting from the shade of the school entrance. I take off my leather jacket, careful not to pick my hands with the shoulder spikes, and give it to Okayden.

"Sorry about that, please, wear my jacket," I say to Okayden, who graciously takes up on my offer. "I don't know what's getting into him."

"I understand him,

He hitched his future on the,

Club, and he's afraid."

"Uh, how so?" I ask him.

Okayden takes a step into the sun, and besides a few sizzles, he's okay...then. I'm sorry, I'll stop now. He walks towards the Dick Mobile just as Hayden finishes his starting ritual.

"If we lose, we're fine,

But he needs the scholarship,

Or lose his one dream."

"Yeah, I know about that," I tell him, "but-"

"No, you do not know," interrupts Okayden, rather forcefully, I might add.

"I already achieved my,

Dream, Brayden as well."

"Wait, what?"

"He has his Father's,

Respect. And I can become,

A manager now."

Well, if he's the one opening commerce in the forest, I doubt the power of his economic pull wouldn't allow him to be an owner-manager of a Footlocker. Besides, he's a billionaire now. He can buy as many shoe stores as he wants. And Brayden has been less... daddy-issues'ish since his father stood up for him at the wedding, and frankly, I think it was all he wanted all along.

"You have a father,

That pays for your tuition,

But not Hayden, see?"

Is he... is he telling me to check my privileges? Is that what it is? He's somewhat right, I guess. I don't suffer from money, and, honestly, my dream can even be achieved by not graduating at all and just applying for jobs. But Hayden has to do it if he wants to get anywhere in the culinary world. If he wants to study his dreams. And this is a chokehold for his entire life, and it all depends on us getting there in the first place.

Still, I think he's exaggerating a bit here. There are government aids, grants, and other things he can work with to pay his tuition. This doesn't have to be the end-all, especially since it means we have to deal with this obvious trap.

Whatever happens, I'll be here for him. We can get through this together.

"Finally, we are three minutes late!" says Hayden as we climb his Dick-Mobile.

Brayden is already tuckered out with a sippy cup in one hand and a home-made twinky-like pastry in the other, snoring and dribbling away. Okayden gets in, followed by me. I'm all the way to the passenger door, while Hayden is on the opposite side. I don't know if you have ever been in love, dear reader, but when you are with your special someone, you crave for them. Not in the biblical sense, but in the physical sense. You want to touch them, feel them close, feel their warmth irradiate from their body next to yours. To have their hand on your leg while they drive, just to make sure you are there. That you are his' or hers'.

It's a matter of closeness and familiarity that you always want to have, and feel like shit when you can't have it, as if an arm has been ripped raw. Well, that's how I'm feeling. Hayden is, realistically, only two people over, but all I want to do is be next to him, arm in arm, just basking in his existence. This distance feels gargantuan.

I sure do hope it's not a foreshadowing to anything in particular coming down the line.

(Author's note: Little do you know...)

Zip it, product of my schizophrenia!

While "Creedence Clearwater Revival" plays over and over again, and I'm praying that the bumpy scrapyard wheels Billian's cousin put on the truck don't fail, Hayden taps his fingers in annoyance as he steals glances at his dashboard clock. None dares to speak, partially because Hayden is running on a short fuse as it is, but also because his driving is so recklessly fast for such a big truck that I'm afraid the weight of my words will somehow shift the balance on the truck in a tight corner, and we will do our best Beyblade impersonation into a puppy shop, or something equally as horrible.

But no. It's just some good old-fashioned, albeit legal, street rage. It doesn't take us long—or, if you as Hayden, a fucking eternity—to reach the Founder's park, where a few tents and booths line up the far end, leaving a canopy of yellow trees to pick up the slack of the student body gathering in silence. In the middle of the park, perched atop a stagnant fountain of yellow water and mosquito breeding, is a statue of Athanasius Finch, founder of Hill Valley Mountain Woods, in all his 5'2'' glory, holding a hammer while stroking his chin. Legend says that if you rub his foot, you will get tetanus because the statue is shoddily built and a public health hazard to all who touch it or even see it. It's advised to wear gloves, a facemask and a condom if you so much as walk next to it.

We make it with a whole minute to spare, one Hayden didn't use to do things like "Park properly" or "Make us exit in a calm, timely manner." Brayden just screams his little lungs out in panic. And he keeps yelling. Just bear in mind that everything that's gonna happen will be happening with the background music of Brayden's panic-inducing screeches. This is why you don't wake up the baby before his nap ends.

"Bombodichuslian, bombodichuslian!" Hayden yells at a poor girl with glasses and a clipboard that I remember seeing in the student council. "The password is Bombodichuslian!"

The girl looks at us with confusion, and then a bit of shame. Weird. "Ah, yes. Just go gather with the rest of the groups and you will be briefed shortly."

With a weird look in our faces—or, in the case of Brayden, screeching the hypothetical scenario of a walrus mating with a chicken—we enter the park. I can see lots of familiar faces in the crowd, like Billiam and his newspaper posse, Li-yang as her broopies salivating towards our directions, the itty-bitty-titty-committee girl looking positively tsundere, and even Laila and Leeland, oh-my-goshing about something or other. The gang's all here, I see.

And walking towards us, with a smile to sodden a thousand panties, and call forth at least twice as much as that in punches to the face, is Aiden, followed by Haide,n Braiden, and a fourth, uninteresting-looking guy in a hoodie and Crocs, with socks, if I may add. He doesn't look like a bad boy, being pudgy, jovial, and without a smirk. Odd.

"Well, well, well, I didn't think you would make it, brah," says Aiden, pulling his hair back. "In any case, if you didn't make it in time, I would've allowed you to join our club, no problem."

"I don't know, kitten," says Braiden, chewing on a toothpick. "I don't want these mooks to drag our style down, see?"

"To have your style dragged down you need to have style in the first place," I say. "Three-button suits are out of fashion. Get with the times."

"yeah, eat dirt, dingus," says Brayden, in a brief pause of yelling and screaming. Emphasis on brief.

"It's 3 pm," says Haiden, the brute, as he walks like a gorilla towards me. "Time for Haiden to beat puny greaser."

"It's actually 3:02 pm," says Okayden.

"Seems like you missed your mark, bro,

Better luck next time!"

"Uh, okay," says Braiden, disappearing back into the fold.

"Speaking of mooks," says Hayden, "who's the weirdo in the hoodie."

The jovial man gives us a sincere smile, with no hint of malice of smirk, and shakes Hayden's hand vigorously. "Hello, hello! My name's Kyle. Kyle Mendelson. Nice to make your acquaintance!"

Huh. Weird. No Kyleden? Just Kyle? Seems... mundane. Not a bad boy at all. Who is this interloper who dares break our naming conventions?!

"He's my neighbor," says Aiden. "Couldn't find a fourth bad boy to round up the team, so he volunteered."

"But I sure like me some feet!" says Kyle.

Eh, close enough. He can be the fourth evil bad boy for all I care.

"Shut up, Kyle," says Braiden.

"Okey-dokie, artichokie!"

"Well, duty calls. See you on the other side, fuckboys."

The foursome disappears into the crowd, except Braiden, who appears shortly after on a small stage in front of the largest tent. Oddly enough, Principal Strickland, Principal Dickweed, Lee Vazquez, and a bald man in a suit stand behind him, looking grim and serious. And bald. Gosh, is the man bald.

"Hello, hello, kittens and cool cats. I'm sorry about the wait, but we are ready to start the School Club Battle Royale!"

I don't know if he expects cheering and excitement, but he's not getting it. Not from this crowd of anxious teenagers whose future hangs in the balance.

"Oh... uh... is what I'll normally say, but, well, we received a very strongly worded letter from the Department of Education telling us that his tournament is, uh, highly illegal and has threatened a lawsuit not only against the school district, but me personally. So, please, welcome Superintendent Patel who will tell us how we will be moving forwards."

This does generate a buzz of confusion amongst the crowd. Murmurs turn to whispers, to talking, to yelling, snowballing into shrieks.

Superintendent Patel, the bald man, steps to the podium and clears his throat. Now, this is an educator. He looks like he has carried the weight of dumb students and teachers alike on his shoulders with poise and gravitas. I wouldn't want to be on the business end of that baldie.

"Hello, students," says the bald man, "I'm Superintendent Patel, and I'm in charge of this school district. I'm very sorry about the confusion and heartbreak you must have felt when the news about the school budget was announced, and the absolutely idiotic and highly illegal plan to supplement it was unilaterally imposed on you. For that, I'm sorry."

He gives us a small bow, which makes me feel awkward for some reason.

"My principals somehow failed to inform me of this plan," he says, giving the pair of principals a look that could easily drill a hole into their skulls if not handled with care, "and I take full responsibility for this. To combat this deficit in our budget, Messina-Park Wet-Wipes has so generously donated, under no penalty of lawsuit, a sum of $20000, no strings attached, no selection process or dumb battle royale anime stuff involved."

...This is it? Is it that easy? All that tension of the past 30 or so chapters just gone with the wind? It surely can't be that easy.

"However," says Superintendent Patel, "it is true that the school, as it stands, has too many clubs. Thus, me, Principal Strickland, Principal Chillman and Ms. Vazquez, your student council representative, will be interviewing each club today, and will be determining which ones will be kept, and which ones will be disbanded. Again, we are sorry about this, but the budget will not allow us much more than this. We will begin our interviews now."

There it is, the two worst enemies of a bad boy: Bureaucracy, and public speaking.

We are fucked.