The Irresistible Mickey Holly

Entry 1: My Mission

The words "Ben, what's the matter with you?" should be written on my tombstone. Not only is it a frequent statement directed towards me, but it is the question that has defined my entire senior year. It was the moment that changed everything when I took off the rose-colored glasses and finally saw the world for what it was:

A lie.

This story isn't about me.

No. I'm a simple journalist with an ink pen heavy with justice. I have a responsibility to put out the truth and explain to you what's really going on at Atlas Academy.

You probably already have an educated guess to who this could be about. Everything is about him at the end of the day. He's what the whole school whispers about. He's the elephant in the room. All day, you think about him in the back of your head, daydreaming about what he's doing that very moment.

This is about the irresistible Mickey Holly.

I'll wait for you to stop rolling your eyes. Ben, you say, can't you pick a more original subject? Cindy Mallon already wrote a twelve-page essay on him last year. However, my article isn't going to be about his success on the Atlas Academy Gazette or his game-winning slide to home during last Friday's game.

This story is about what I know alone.

There is something very wrong with Mickey Holly.

I'm writing this in my dorm room under harsh lamplight. It hits my desk just like a spotlight. The shadows scaled the wall and curled around me. Typically, I avoided using the lamp, but my unfortunate roommate Jacks requested the bulb from the ceiling fan and before I could tell that psycho "no", he snatched it and scurried into the closet. Faint tribal chants swell from the silence as a strange purple smoke seeped through the cracks.

It's not weed. Oh, how I wish that crazy bastard just smoked weed. At least then, there'd be an explanation for his behavior.

I abandoned my glasses to the side to rub my tired eyes. My bags have upgraded to luggage. I glance through my notes from today, the fact that Mickey Holly drank a diet drink (a drink he had once described as a waste of carbonation and aluminum) and he used his non-dominate left hand to take a test. No detail is too small. Not even the way he sneezed into his hand, instead of his elbow. He used to always use his elbow.

But I guess the bigger details matter too.

I guess I should explain the reason for all this.

Last year, during my junior year, the Head Editor promoted me to a columnist at the Atlas Gazette. After copy editing through my sophomore year and a few trial run reviews of the school performances, I finally got to write real news. I single-handedly got the scoop on the science department vaping in the student bathrooms. I caused a splash but managed a B in my biology class by the skin of my teeth.

Last year, Mickey Holly was (still is) the most lovable guy in the world. He had the prettiest girlfriend and a whole school of friends. Even if you didn't know him, you considered him one of your best friends. He was the head of the class, a tennis champion, the best pitcher and a star quarterback. He assembled the best debate team in history while he managed to be an editor at the paper.

That's how we met.

One little meeting changed my whole life. I used to be normal. Okay. My mom used to describe me as like any other chocolate bar just with a few extra nuts, but I was stable. I only elicited mild teasing from my friends. Then Mickey Holly happened. Mickey Holly uprooted any chance I had at a normal high school life and everything about me snapped: my sanity, my patience, and my reality.