The Baseball Badass

Prologue: Quarter Strippers

Prologue: 

Mrs. Gremmers is a small frumpy woman with a knack for flashy earrings and strange pants. I watched as she stood on her toes, struggling to reach the top of the whiteboard. Her back to us, her pants yellow with tiny moons yet when she spun around to address the class they were suddenly blue with moons. She smiled showing the wrinkles around her eyes, "Okay summer hot girls and f-boys, y'all are gonna need partners for this next one. I need you all to separate into pairs, so just choose who you want to work with."

Despite being obviously past sixty,  she liked to eavesdrop on conversations and pick up on current teenage slang, thus resulting in her usage of the term "F-boys."   

Poor thing probably didn't even realize she called the entire male specimen in our small science classroom fuckboys.  I'm not offended, it's about time.  As a new student, I still found the matter bemusing whereas my classroom had adjusted to Mrs. Gremmers slang, and went about everyday life like it was normal.

Mrs. Gremmers plopped in her office chair, the chair sighing from her weight. "Oh and make sure you and your thots are at a desk with the supplies from that front table, thank you." the you trailed up in her southern drawl. 

I struggled to smother the smile that arose from her calling students thots but suddenly realized the shit boat I was in. 

My stomach fluttered. Now for the moment I hate. Of course she'd let us choose our partners. 

It's not that I don't have friends... I have friends. It's just- I'm new. A-and there's not many people that I talk to in this class.

Well, truthfully I haven't held a single conversation with anyone in here, but that's beside the point. I'd say I'm normal...I don't wear a fedora, a tail, and hide in a corner of the class refusing to talk to people speaking in a british voice. Trust me, I knew a kid that did that. That counts for something right? What, like 10 normal points?

Here's the thing,  I'm not a hot mess...I'm just a mess. And I've made peace with this. It takes a special kind of person to understand and tolerate me. I'm followed by a dark cloud of bad luck. I don't clumsily bump into things because I'm visually impaired. I bump into things, because I'm clumsy and constantly at war with the god of gravity. No child is safe.  

What's frustrating with having my terrible luck is I don't even fit in with the nerds, because guess what? I can't math. So please Mr. Bullyman try to punch me, hang me upside down, steal my lunch quarters and the lint of my pocket, and force me to do your homework. You might even be doing worse in the class than previously. Which is karma, for stealing my lint.    

Now what is my karma? Baby Jesus what did I ever do to you to make me so hyper aware of everything I do so that I am crushed under the weight of my social anxiety and unlucky situations. Case in point, today in a classroom of 27, I am unlucky 27. May I add that everyone in this class has an equal number of people in their clique...which if you still haven't caught on makes myself the outcast. It probably doesn't help that my shared lab table lacks a desk partner, so I really have no one to choose from.

Screaming internally.

I looked around the classroom glancing desperately for someone, anyone, who could be my partner.   

If you can imagine, I am a hit at parties. Totally make lots of friends by constantly over thinking myself and avoiding talking to people. So you see this is why completely a simple task like nonchalantly asking if you can be a plus one to a group near impossible. There's always this doubt. What if they say no? What if they say that their group has enough people and then other groups nearby overhear and don't offer to add you to their groups. Whoops. I done-done it now, I am sweating, heart pounding, can't breathe at the thought.