The words Hayden told me yesterday still reverberate in my mind like a loose peanut inside its shell - malformed, slightly chewy, and rancid, but unforgettable.

A PCL, or "Plot Canon Love" as it is known in the bad boy support forums, is one of the most, if not the most, existential threat to our laissez-faire way of life. The PLC is also commonly defined as "The One," "The Click," "The Zing," or "The Good Girl." But since every other name romanticizes this curse, we call it the PCL.

When a bad boy meets their PCL, the whole universe, destiny, and plot will work towards putting the both in wacky, funny, and romantic situations that either turns out in them getting together, or one or the both of them dying, depending on the writer's fancy for comedy or tragedy.

Think the good girl Juliet to the bad boy Romeo. Romeo has a mighty good life being a bad boy with his homeboys Benvolio and Mercutio, crushing vajayjay and getting into parties, slaying Capulets, until he met Juliet and the plot happened. Three days later, he got married and participated in the most romantic murder/suicide this side of Florida. That is the PCL's power. Bad boys can't fight their power.

If, and that's a big if, Lee Vazquez is my PCL, that means that I can kiss my tranquil school life goodbye. And the way things are moving, I could even kiss my life goodbye, period. God, I wanna kiss her.

No, bad Ayden! Stay focused. Lucky for me, today is Friday - i.e I can say goodbye to being around Vazquez for the weekend. That's how it works.

But why is the first class of the day P.E, and with her class to booth? I can't think of anything else but her slender, curvaceous body, like a treacherous mountain pass, stretching just a few feet from mine; her wavy hair, shimmering like an oil spill on the gulf, all tied in a bun, like the innards of the fishes swimming there; her-

Something bonks me on the head, hard enough to make me snap out of it.

"I know that look," says Hayden, picking up the football he perfectly spirited against my head. "You're thinking of her, aren't you?"

"Yeah, thanks for the percussive therapy," I say.

Yesterday, we made a deal. Every time I get lost in thought thinking about Lee, he will smack me in the head as hard as possible. Think of it as returning the favor from that whole boyfriend fiasco. I, in return, will not call him a big chungus for doing so.

He places his bologna arm around me, spinning the football effortlessly with his other hand. "Ain't nothing I can't do for my best bud, brother. Besides, every excuse to slam you hard with my balls is a good one."

"Omg, did you hear that?" says Laila, somewhere behind me. I can feel her moist, rotten breath. "Ayden is a bottom."

"Ugh, I wanna be Hayden's bottom ugh," says Leeland, just beside her. "But I'm sure Ayden is a powerbottom."

I try to get away from him, but that only makes him grip me harder. "Dude, think before you speak."

"thinking is for losers, geeks, and people who watch movies with subtitles," says Brayden, who, until now, has been sitting by the bleachers thumbing his phone. "daddy says that real leaders only listen to their guts, their dicks, or their heart, in that order. that's why that's what he takes from snitches."

"Want me to smash my balls on him as well?" asks Hayden.

"Omg!" says Leila. "Did you hear that? Brayden is also in on the action!"

"And Hayden asked Ayden, which means that Ayden is the owner of the harem," says Leeland. "I wanna be the lettuce in that hunk meat sandwich ugh."

And with that, I fill my weirdo quota for the day. I just hope Lee doesn't hear this. She is a stone's throw away, and I would be devastated if she were to think badly of me. I mean, I'm not into poly, but I'm not against it, either. Everyone can make candelabra out of their ass if they want, I don't judge. But what if she is into that stuff? Oh god, do I have to make a bigger harem?

And with that, another ball hits my face. Good thing I wore ball-proof sunglasses today.

"Thanks," I say. "A few more and I've filled my free concussion card."

And yet, I can't shake this feeling that Lee is observing my every move. Weird. That's the power of the PCL.

"Don't worry, brother," says Hayden, this time grabbing the ball and spinning me, "all you have to do is survive today, then we will apply for our little club on Monday, then it's smooth sailing until next year. Only you, Brayden, and me, all alone in a room, away from anything and everyone, and nobody can see us, no matter what we do."

The yells and squirms from the two damaged fools behind us are palpable.

"i'm gonna put a pool table, and a ping-pong table, and a pinball table, and any other ball game we can dream of," says Brayden, again not moving from the bleachers. "we gonna be balls deep in balls."

Great, now he's doing it, too.

Thankfully, a new diversion comes into play, just in time for Leila and Leeland to stop squirming around in what are thoughts best reserved before sleeping, or a long shower, or a line at the bank.

The person who enters the gym is as tall as Hayden, and at least twice as buff. The sheer size of his dancing pecs jet out two rock-hard nipples that could cut the thin fabric of the gym shirt if he even moves funny. The standard short shorts every boy is wearing looks like a thong on him, leaving nothing to the imagination. His legs are so thick and strong, and perfectly shaven too, that he could easily pass as a model, were it not for the series of bulging veins of all colors, mostly resembling a map of the Moscow subway system.

His neck is thicker than his head, which is also smoothly shaven, save for a bushy mustache with traits of hot dog and mustard on them. He, like me, is also a proud wearer of ball-proof sunglasses, which seem redundant given his drill-sergeant-esque hat that provides more than enough shade. And to round it all up, a tattoo, on the right side of his neck, that only says "Beef" in Times New Roman.

"Alright maggots, line up!" he spouts, as there is more spit than sound in his words. "Move, now, now, like you were running out of battery and the nearest outlet is on the other side of the room and there's only one charger!"

And just like that, you can figure out his personality right away.

I follow the rest of the class in lining up in front of the bleachers, each and every one of them moving to varying degrees of not giving a fuck. Half of these people's brains are still on their bed, and the other half are just those athletic freaks whose only chance at life is getting a sports scholarship, followed by a college concussion/ligament damage, and coasting off Uncle Sam's good graces.

Basically, not the cream of the crop. Is that how it goes? I dunno. The raccoons were having a family argument yesterday and kept me awake.

"Listen up, maggots," says the man, standing at ease in front of us, his pecs moving up and down with a mind of their own, "for those who don't know me, I'm Lieutenant Colonel Fuches, retired, Marine Corps. Not Fucks, nor Fucke, Fuches. And those of you who I don't know, I don't care to know. Y'all maggots to me."

He takes out his glasses, revealing a pair of beady eyes that look like if a Ditto took human form. "Now, the school district has informed me that I can no longer call you by particular gender-specific insults, so no more mama's boy, daddy's little failure, Sissy McFarts, or Your Majesty, Lady Useless. From now on, I will only use gender mutual insults, like maggot, useless, waste of air, light beer, or waste of DNA. Are we clear?"

Everyone, in unison, says "yes sir," before also standing at ease. So this guy is that type of guy who never left the military entirely, and will probably live an unfulfilled civilian life, holding everything to an unrealistic standard while also voting for a party that slashes pensions for veterans while also stoking a faux sense of patriotism statistically leaving him homeless, destitute, or suicidal. I'll let you decide which party is that.

He places his arms behind him, pacing in front of every one of us while giving us the stink eye. Or so I think. His glasses kinda make it hard to be intimidated by him.

"Look at you lot, with your body positivity, and Airpods, and fidget spinners, and Game Boy Advance, and affordable health care," he says, poking each and every one of the people he passes in the gut. "Summer has made you weak, complacent, wearers of LuluLemons. All you maggots should take a page from Hayden's book. Step forward, Hayden."

Hayden, blushing like a schoolgirl being called cute, steps forward, trying, and failing, to look three sizes smaller than he actually is.

"Sweet 6 PC. Spicy Chicken Nuggets Wendy's Combo, look at that...human!" he says, powerwalking with impeccable form if I might add, to where we are. "That's how a person should look. I wish you were my son/daughter/offspring, kid. Damn, if I had a daughter, I'll let you breed her. Hell, if I was a lady, or a dude, or anything in between or beyond, I would have panty pudding just by laying eyes on your sharp chin. Man, you're a stud. Don't tell the school district I said that. At ease."

At that moment, he turned around to keep walking down the line, but something must have caught his eye, for he spins in place with both grace and poise in the world's most fabulous double-take ever.

"What in the sweet and tangy barbecue sauce are you doing, maggot?" he asks. But to whom?

"You, the one with the monologuing eyes," he repeats. That can only mean one of three people.

I look to my right, and Hayden is at ease. I look to my left, and Brayden has the dead stare of someone replaying BTS songs in their mind, but no monologue. That can only mean...

Me. He's talking to me. Here we go.