It’s Friday here at Morgan High School, a B rated school with nothing to boast for except its Chess Team and History programs. I’m pretty sure the school’s been here for a while because we still have chalkboards and the walls look like they’re about to fall over any second. Right now it’s sixth period, and I’m walking to math class.
I sigh at the yellow lockers lining the walls and stop at a paper-covered bulletin board. I skim it, looking for any school activities that don’t involve physical work when I hear arguing from behind me. I turn around, already identifying the two voices. I see my best friend, a tall teenager with a broad jaw and eyes with laugh lines, no doubt from using his smile to charm the pants off of any living being, yelling at a gorgeous, curvy Hispanic girl half his height. My heart flutters as I look at her.
“Hey Matt.” I say, interrupting them. “Hey Natasha.”
Immediately they stop, Matt gives me an annoyed expression. I roll my eyes; he hates to be interrupted during any kind of argument.
“Hey Curly,” Natasha smiles and faces me. “Nice beanie. Very hip.”
Immediately I touch my head, feeling self conscious, “Oh thanks. Nice...” I look up and down her body quickly for something to compliment. She’s wearing a green t-shirt, jeans and sandals. And she has really big boobs...
“Face.” I blurt out, “Nice face.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Matt facepalm. Heat rushes to my face. Smooth, Curly.
She gasps, “Why thank you! Normally guys would comment on my boobs or something. You’re such a gentleman!” Before I could ask her what kind of guys she hangs out with, she hands me her AP US History textbook.
“Can you give this to Mr. Gustavo? I won’t be here during history because of the science fair today.”
I take the book, “Wait. Why are you giving this back to him? Won’t you need it for class...?”
Now Matt takes an interest. He looks at her curiously, “Yes Natasha, the year ends in a few months.”
“Yeah, I know that,” she blows her black bangs out of her eyes, “I’m not stupid.”
“Well your civics quiz begs to differ.” he smirks, peeking at a paper that was sticking out of her backpack.
Natasha gasps, and spins around, “God help me Collins, if you don’t leave me alone, I will slap you back to your home country.” She looks up at him with a glare that would make an ordinary man pee his pants. I fight the instinct to disappear. Fist fights would not be considered a stretch concerning those two.
But instead of retaliating, his face becomes stoic. “Fine.” He turns away, walking as fast as he can through the hallway. I think about running after him, he is my friend after all. But he’s about as emotionally open as a sealed safe. Besides, Natasha’s more important. There’s a pause when I make eye contact with her.
She looks at her feet. “Sorry about that.” she whispers. I put a hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’re just stressed. You guys must have had some fight” I say sympathetically. She looks up at me, her expression unreadable.
“I’m dropping APUSH when the semester ends.”
My stomach drops to the floor.
“What? But you get all A’s in history-”
“It’s not about grades, Curly.” She stares at me, a deadly sting in her eyes.
“Then what is it-” the realization hits me, “Oh.”
“Yeah. I’m just tired of competing in that class with Matt. Every time he does better than me, I come closer and closer to...” she squeezes what I presume to be Matt’s imaginary neck, “Also, he’s a Hamiltonian.” she says this the same way someone would describe Hitler. I laugh nervously, scratching the back of my neck.
She smiles at me, “I’ll miss you though. We’ve had a lot of good times in that class.”
“Me too.” I say meekly.
She smiled again, “Ok, well bye Curly. I’ll see you later, at least until the end of the semester.” She walks away, her black ponytail bouncing behind her.
“Make sure to do the project on Monday.” I pathetically call after her. She turns her head around and gives me a thumbs up and disappears in the crowd.
She said she’ll miss me. My heart speeds as I think of the possibility of her liking me back. But then I think about the Great Debate of Seventh grade. A new American History teacher thought it was a good idea to make this prompt for a debate: “who was the best Founding Father?” Unknowingly, that innocent idea of a ‘fun class project’ would create a hole in the wall of the classroom from where my best friend Matthew Collins had thrown a textbook in the heat of an argument with Natasha over who was better: Alexander Hamilton or Thomas Jefferson. The worst part? The feud continues to this day, only ten times more crazier.
But I’m about to change that.
Monday I adjust the wig on my head, making sure none of my brown hairs are sticking out. The pistol in my hand should feel heavy from the deed that is about to be done, but it feels like air.
Pendleton, Van Ness and Dr. David Hosack arrive a few seconds after I do, but I don’t see the man I supposedly challenged in the first place. As soon as I was about to ask the party of three where he went, he emerges from behind. He’s wearing a black, tailored suit with a spot of white cloth strategically placed around his neck. His posture is immaculate; as soon as I see him I straighten my shoulders. With his nose stuck high and with a confident stride, so to he looks very regal, every about him is, the bastard.
Pendleton finds the center of where we stand back to back. Following code duello, we each take ten paces away from each other, him to west, I to east. The world is silent when it hears our footsteps slap against the floor. We come to a halt, the space we’re in is very small, not an ideal location for what we’re about to do, but we’re not left with many other options. I face the wall, a thin coat of sweat covering my palms.
I move the pistol into firing position in my hand, a calm coating me like the cold of a Boston morning.
“Present.” Pendleton says.
The breath of t of the word sets the world in slow motion. My eyes move from the wall to the other side, my finger slowly pushing the trigger as I spin around. A sound out of place occurs above my head, and my trigger room is gone.
The shot is fired. A black suit falls. The deed is done.
I have killed Alexander Hamilton.
The silence in the room is eternal.
“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
A curvy Hispanic girl stands up and cheers. Natasha.
The rest of the class follows her lead by standing up and cheering on Matt’s and my performance. Matt rises, and flamboyantly bows, revealing the spot of red paint I shot him with. I grin and bow with him. And the class cheered on.
*When the class ends, I walk to my desk, happy from the A on my project and because of Natasha, who sits on the desk closest to mine. I sit next to her, the tail of my thrift-shop petticoat sticking out behind me.
“I would’ve never thought Matt would’ve done a skit that killed off his favorite Founding Father. He’s too much of a pretentious asshole,” Natasha looks forward as she drums her fingers along the desk, “Which is why it would make sense that you would have something to do with it.”
“How’d you know?” I ask, taking the wig off my head.
“Elementary, my dear,” she grins as I laugh. “Actually, Matt told me about how you feel about me. I’m not much of a detective.” When I don’t respond, she turns her head and speaks softly. I stare at her black eyes, barely seen under her bangs. “Why didn’t you say something?”
I take a deep breath. “Because I’m a pussy.”
She laughs, “You really are.” She looks at the floor, her hands flattened beside her. Suddenly, I don’t think I need a Founding Father’s help to make a move anymore.
I grab her hand. She looks at me strangely for a second, and I begin to regret my decision. But then I feel her fingers slowly curl around mine. I smile and silently thank Matt, even if he made me wear a wig.
I sigh at the yellow lockers lining the walls and stop at a paper-covered bulletin board. I skim it, looking for any school activities that don’t involve physical work when I hear arguing from behind me. I turn around, already identifying the two voices. I see my best friend, a tall teenager with a broad jaw and eyes with laugh lines, no doubt from using his smile to charm the pants off of any living being, yelling at a gorgeous, curvy Hispanic girl half his height. My heart flutters as I look at her.
“Hey Matt.” I say, interrupting them. “Hey Natasha.”
Immediately they stop, Matt gives me an annoyed expression. I roll my eyes; he hates to be interrupted during any kind of argument.
“Hey Curly,” Natasha smiles and faces me. “Nice beanie. Very hip.”
Immediately I touch my head, feeling self conscious, “Oh thanks. Nice...” I look up and down her body quickly for something to compliment. She’s wearing a green t-shirt, jeans and sandals. And she has really big boobs...
“Face.” I blurt out, “Nice face.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Matt facepalm. Heat rushes to my face. Smooth, Curly.
She gasps, “Why thank you! Normally guys would comment on my boobs or something. You’re such a gentleman!”
Before I could ask her what kind of guys she hangs out with, she hands me her AP US History textbook.
“Can you give this to Mr. Gustavo? I won’t be here during history because of the science fair today.”
I take the book, “Wait. Why are you giving this back to him? Won’t you need it for class...?”
Now Matt takes an interest. He looks at her curiously, “Yes Natasha, the year ends in a few months.”
“Yeah, I know that,” she blows her black bangs out of her eyes, “I’m not stupid.”
“Well your civics quiz begs to differ.” he smirks, peeking at a paper that was sticking out of her backpack.
Natasha gasps, and spins around, “God help me Collins, if you don’t leave me alone, I will slap you back to your home country.” She looks up at him with a glare that would make an ordinary man pee his pants. I fight the instinct to disappear. Fist fights would not be considered a stretch concerning those two.
But instead of retaliating, his face becomes stoic. “Fine.” He turns away, walking as fast as he can through the hallway. I think about running after him, he is my friend after all. But he’s about as emotionally open as a sealed safe. Besides, Natasha’s more important. There’s a pause when I make eye contact with her.
She looks at her feet. “Sorry about that.” she whispers. I put a hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’re just stressed. You guys must have had some fight” I say sympathetically. She looks up at me, her expression unreadable.
“I’m dropping APUSH when the semester ends.”
My stomach drops to the floor.
“What? But you get all A’s in history-”
“It’s not about grades, Curly.” She stares at me, a deadly sting in her eyes.
“Then what is it-” the realization hits me, “Oh.”
“Yeah. I’m just tired of competing in that class with Matt. Every time he does better than me, I come closer and closer to...” she squeezes what I presume to be Matt’s imaginary neck, “Also, he’s a Hamiltonian.” she says this the same way someone would describe Hitler. I laugh nervously, scratching the back of my neck.
She smiles at me, “I’ll miss you though. We’ve had a lot of good times in that class.”
“Me too.” I say meekly.
She smiled again, “Ok, well bye Curly. I’ll see you later, at least until the end of the semester.” She walks away, her black ponytail bouncing behind her.
“Make sure to do the project on Monday.” I pathetically call after her. She turns her head around and gives me a thumbs up and disappears in the crowd.
She said she’ll miss me. My heart speeds as I think of the possibility of her liking me back. But then I think about the Great Debate of Seventh grade. A new American History teacher thought it was a good idea to make this prompt for a debate: “who was the best Founding Father?” Unknowingly, that innocent idea of a ‘fun class project’ would create a hole in the wall of the classroom from where my best friend Matthew Collins had thrown a textbook in the heat of an argument with Natasha over who was better: Alexander Hamilton or Thomas Jefferson. The worst part? The feud continues to this day, only ten times more crazier.
But I’m about to change that.
Monday
I adjust the wig on my head, making sure none of my brown hairs are sticking out. The pistol in my hand should feel heavy from the deed that is about to be done, but it feels like air.
Pendleton, Van Ness and Dr. David Hosack arrive a few seconds after I do, but I don’t see the man I supposedly challenged in the first place. As soon as I was about to ask the party of three where he went, he emerges from behind. He’s wearing a black, tailored suit with a spot of white cloth strategically placed around his neck. His posture is immaculate; as soon as I see him I straighten my shoulders. With his nose stuck high and with a confident stride, so to he looks very regal, every about him is, the bastard.
Pendleton finds the center of where we stand back to back. Following code duello, we each take ten paces away from each other, him to west, I to east. The world is silent when it hears our footsteps slap against the floor. We come to a halt, the space we’re in is very small, not an ideal location for what we’re about to do, but we’re not left with many other options. I face the wall, a thin coat of sweat covering my palms.
I move the pistol into firing position in my hand, a calm coating me like the cold of a Boston morning.
“Present.” Pendleton says.
The breath of t of the word sets the world in slow motion. My eyes move from the wall to the other side, my finger slowly pushing the trigger as I spin around. A sound out of place occurs above my head, and my trigger room is gone.
The shot is fired. A black suit falls. The deed is done.
I have killed Alexander Hamilton.
The silence in the room is eternal.
“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
A curvy Hispanic girl stands up and cheers. Natasha.
The rest of the class follows her lead by standing up and cheering on Matt’s and my performance. Matt rises, and flamboyantly bows, revealing the spot of red paint I shot him with. I grin and bow with him. And the class cheered on.
*When the class ends, I walk to my desk, happy from the A on my project and because of Natasha, who sits on the desk closest to mine. I sit next to her, the tail of my thrift-shop petticoat sticking out behind me.
“I would’ve never thought Matt would’ve done a skit that killed off his favorite Founding Father. He’s too much of a pretentious asshole,” Natasha looks forward as she drums her fingers along the desk, “Which is why it would make sense that you would have something to do with it.”
“How’d you know?” I ask, taking the wig off my head.
“Elementary, my dear,” she grins as I laugh. “Actually, Matt told me about how you feel about me. I’m not much of a detective.” When I don’t respond, she turns her head and speaks softly. I stare at her black eyes, barely seen under her bangs. “Why didn’t you say something?”
I take a deep breath. “Because I’m a pussy.”
She laughs, “You really are.” She looks at the floor, her hands flattened beside her. Suddenly, I don’t think I need a Founding Father’s help to make a move anymore.
I grab her hand. She looks at me strangely for a second, and I begin to regret my decision. But then I feel her fingers slowly curl around mine. I smile and silently thank Matt, even if he made me wear a wig.