The Irresistible Mickey Holly

Entry 2: A Not-So-Subtle Warning

"Thanks, Ben," the fake Mickey Holly patted my shoulder, maybe a hair too hard. He did that. All the time. After everything I do for the paper, he comes around to my desk and pats my shoulder as if I just finished batting at my little league game.

"No problem," I forced a big grin and slammed my hand on his back.

It caught him off guard. He had to pause and gather himself again the way I have to gather a large load of laundry out of the dryer. Returning my smile, he walloped my back hard enough to knock my glasses down my nose. "Really. I meant it." He added an extra smack (must be overcompensating, I'll add it to my notes section).

He sauntered off on his merry way. While he pretended to do work, I reached for my notebook (the one I'm writing in now) and my hand merely grabbed air. I cursed. How could I forget it? Documenting the life/actions of Mickey Holly was my top priority and I was flouncing it already. Also, I had decided to continue to call this impostor Mickey just for the sake of the record. When I find out his true identity, I'll call him something like E.T, subject 145 or scum of the earth.

I pushed my glasses up and my eyes focused on him again. He looked just like the guy I remembered in the right light. Sometimes, when he looked down to study something serious, he was my Mickey for one brief moment and my chest clenched. Mickey glanced up, catching my stare. He snorted and nodded at me.

I grimaced, forcing my hand to stay on the table and not give him the finger. Too many people. I'd just hate to assault their God with my finger.

Then, something bopped off my head and fell in front of me. I looked at Cathy across the desk we shared. She leaned forward. The light from her computer washed out her dark skin. She said, eyes widening, "Oh no. Aren't you going to write that down? He flicked his head to the right." She gasped, covering her mouth and I failed to seem amused. "The real Mickey Holly would never flick his head to the right!"

Profile: Catherine Reid

• Thick black hair. Tight curls that don't pass her jaw.

• African American, wide hips and chipmunk cheeks.

• Wild, unstoppable hazel eyes and ugly neon nail polish.

• Mom friend (that I didn't ask for, thanks).

"Har, har," I frowned.

"I'm serious!" She leaned even closer, cupping her hand as if Mickey could possibly hear, "Earlier, I swear to you, he popped his knuckles." Swiftly, she dropped her body back in her chair. She shook her head, "Thought I was going crazy."

"Are you done?" I asked her, having gone through this type of abuse yesterday and the day before that. I couldn't hide my project from my friends very long. They won't let me forget they know.

"Hey Ben," Joseph cleared his throat as he wheeled the supplies' cart by, "Do you think maybe Mickey slipped through another dimension and now we have his cross-dimensional brethren?"

Profile: Joseph Troyer

• Dirty blonde. White guy with a terrible farmer's tan.

• Too tall. Track star.

• Shitty student.

• Too much. Too, too much.

Cathy stood and the two shared their laughs and their high-fives. They made me wince.

After I was sliced open in the beginning of the year at the hands of a fake Mickey Holly, after I became this massive opened wound, I had been trying to scab over. The wound throbbed and the pain would still hurt me in places I couldn't reach and couldn't protect, but no one noticed. No one saw the bleeding. Instead, I got jokes. I got shoves and I watched them peel open my scab again and again.