As I sit in class, no underwear, getting increasingly chafed by the skinny leather jeans that could choke an anaconda — which, if we go by a not-so-literal sense, it is doing — I find it severely difficult to pay attention at the droning voice of the physic's teacher. A man so typecast to be a nerd that the casting call for a hypothetical T.V adaptation would only say "poindexter."

"Objects at rest tend to remain at rest," he says, scribbling uninteresting lines with a marker that is clinging to the last of its ink for dear life. "And objects in motion tend to remain in motion, with the same speed, and in the same direction." 

It is almost like a droning chant, a lullaby for nerds and outcasts. Maybe sleeping in a vent is not the best move. I keep being woken up by the faraway chants of what I believe is a secret coven of witches putting hexes on the football team. Their Latin pronunciation is horrible, which is the part I find most egregious. 

"Unless acted upon by an unbalanced force," says the teacher. "Let me repeat myself. An object in motion-"

Just as I was about to count electric sheeps, I hear a "pspsps" sound behind me. Since I am not a cat, I refuse to answer. But, isn't that what cats do? Not answer to the call of the pspsps? By not answering to it, am I asserting my catness? Is this what Shroddinger's cat is all about? 

Just to be sure, I turn around, where I am immediately thrusted with the burden of a paper note by none other than a smirking Leeland. I specifically sat in front of the classroom to avoid that daily reenactment of the postal service — which, a reminder, is something we have to protect as a vital institution for democracy. Who even uses paper notes anymore? Super wasteful to the environment. It's just one of those highschool cliches that doesn't make sense in the modern age.  

Use your phones like normal kids. This majestuous tree didn't grow for 15 years and chopped down by an underpaid lumberjack for you to play tic-tac-toe on. Trees are supposed to be used in education, dammit! 

"-tends to remain in motion-" 

Since I'm already in possession of the note, it is my duty, as established by the unspoken rules of the school, to deliver it to its destination. However, there is no one else in front of me. This might be a mistake. 

I turn back, shrugging my shoulders at Leeland and pointing at the note — the universal sign of an oblivious idiot. One I didn't recognize until I did it. 

If you have to ask who is it for, chances are that it is for you, which thankfully Leeland confirmed by pointing at me, followed by what I assume is the sign-language equivalent of how good my hands would serve as a choker around his neck. 

Now, a school note is one of the biggest red flags you can have inside the classroom. It usually means that a misunderstanding is about to occur. That, or as the historical bad boy movie "The Social Network" taught me, a moment of reckoning. And I'm not about to find out. 

I grab it, raise it enough for Leeland to see it, and crump it on the spot.  

"-with the same speed, and in the same direction-"

A new note falls on my desk almost immediately. That seems even ruder than pspsps-ing me. 

I turn back to Leeland, ready to give him a stern talking about classroom etiquette, when he points to the person behind him, which points to the person behind me, and so on and so on, until it reaches the back, where the huge, beef-worthy figure of Hayden shily waves at me, pointing down as his desk. 

"Ugh theyre exchanging letters so jealous ugh," monologues Laila next to me. "Why are all the good looking boys taken ??!"

"-unless acted upon by an unbalanced force," says the teacher. "Let me repeat myself. An object in motion-"

Well, I can't avoid this. I open the note, which seems to be written with some sort of purple crayon, which reads, and I quote: "Sorry 4 ur underwer, will make up 4 u. Lunch on me?"  followed by a crude drawing of me with a sad face and stinky lines on top. 

Crunch it again, toss it to the garbage. I really don't have time for this. Why can't people just learn at school? Does it have to be all about drama? I need to write a strongly-worded letter to the district's superintendent. 

Yet another note falls on my desk. This one has a smiley-face on it. 

"-tends to remain in motion-"

This one just reads "R U Mad? :(" in big, bold letters. 

Another one to the pile. I'm sorry, Mr. Tree. I salute your services. 

"-with the same speed, and in the same direction-"

Another note, just as the last one got into the trash. "Dont be a meanie. U, me, lunch. On me."

Another one arrives, not even giving me time to toss the other one. "I have a brand new notebook I can do this all day."

A third one is hidden underneath the second one, this one just reads "Sowwy," with a crude picture of Hayden's hamburger head pouting. 

That's it. I can't with this guy. Just can't. I stand up in a fit of fury, making Laila yelp like a chihuahua next to me. 

"I get it! Okay!" I scream. It turns the classroom into a graveyard, in which a bunch of barely-conscious people mourn the death of the youth of the professor. 

Oddly enough, he is the only one that seems lively. 

"Excellent, Mr...Gomez, wasn't it?" says the teacher. "Just like me repeating the same thing over and over again, an object in motion will remain in motion, with the same speed and direction, until acted upon by an unbalanced force. In this example, it was Mr. Gomez who acted as an imbalanced force against my rambling. Good job, Mr. Gomez. An extra credit is due, I believe. You can take a seat now."

Oh, that was interesting. And it also gives me a good idea on how to solve this whole cheerleader fiasco. 

"Pick anything you want. My treat, brother," says Hayden, left hand on my left shoulder as he shows me the wonders of sloppy joes, cold pizza, and whatever the hell they are trying pass as bologna here. I swear I can see it wiggling. 

"I'll just take a can of Dr. Pepper, and a banana," of which, I might add, are piled up in a corner, peeled, menacingly.

"We don't have Dr. Pepper," says a bald lunch person, which seems to still be required to use a hair net, despite having no hair. "We got Physician Spice."

"Just the banana, then," I say, getting a soggy, half-browning excuse of a berry — because a banana is a berry — on a plastic plate. 

"That'll be $2," says the lunch person.

"I got it," says Hayden, with the same onus as a businessman paying for a dinner that will make it close that deal that will land him a promotion. 

"I want daddy to buy me lunch ugh," says Leeland somewhere behind me. Reminds me to add that to the strongly worded letter. There is a rampant problem with sexual harassment in this school. 

"Hey, brother," says Hayden, picking up three sloppy joes, one lime Jell-o, and a plate of unidentified gruel, which is also wiggling around. "Wanted to say sorry about the underwear." 

"Don't mention it," I say, not to sound humble, but to lock that moment in a box in my mind, toss it into the river of my subconscious, and never to be touched upon again. 

"I'll be happy to pay for it."

"Don't worry," I say, sitting at the only empty table in the cafeteria. And yes, I know it is a trap, and that I'm just asking for trouble, but believe me, I know. It's part of my plan. "I got a guy. He gets me cotton underwear in bulk. I just need to run home and get a new pair. Several, would be ideal, just to keep at the vent for any emergencies." 

It's gonna chafe like a motherlover.

"At least let me drive you home," says Hayden, with his mouth full of beef. "It's the least I can do."

"That depends. Do you have a convertible or a sports car that would drive to be our eventual demise?"

"Hell no!" he says, with added texture from flying meat. "I'm in my senior year. That's a tragedy waiting to happen. It's like being a cop taking a last case two weeks before retirement. Nah, brother. Got the closest thing to an armored truck that I could find."

"Alright, deal," I say. 

Just as I say that, I see the trio of cheerleaders walking towards us. My plan is now set in motion. 

"Hey, Hayden," I say, leaning forward. "Got a cellphone?"

"Sure," he says, taking a sleek smartphone from his pocket. Or, more accurately, slimy, from all the grease. "Need to make a phone call?"

"Could you set it to record and place it on the table?"

"Sure. Why?"

"I think I have a plan to get rid of your cheerleading problem. Just be ready to point the camera at her when things go down." 

"Whatup, bi-tches!" says Leighlay, tossing her tray on the table while wrapping around Hayden's salame arms. 

It's showtime.