The Misadventures of Owen Bonner

Chapter One

I don't answer questions like I'm supposed to. And what I mean by that is the fact that I tend to elaborate or go off the topic completely, which aggravates a lot of my elders. Not all, but a lot. For instance, when I was asked to introduce myself to my freshman biology class two months ago, I stood up, said my name, and then told them my favorite color. I would have left it at that, but I didn't feel like it, so I went on a rant about how knowing my favorite color would do absolutely nothing for their lives nor did it define myself at all whatsoever. I went on, saying I didn't give a flying fuck that Carly's favorite color was fuchsia or that Gannon loved spaghetti for dinner. The teacher asked me to sit down, which I did, and stayed quiet the rest of class.

Another time would be when my modern world history teacher, Mr. Phelps, was discussing differences between gender expectations in the medieval times versus modern day. He went around the room, asking girls what they expected men to do (hold doors, be a gentleman, listen, pay their Starbucks drink, etc., etc.). Then, he turned the tables and asked boys what they expected girls to do (stop stealing my sweater, don't expect gifts, text first for once, etc., etc.). And then, he came to me.

"Owen, how would you like girls to act?"

"I hold the same standards to girls like I do with boys. I don't care what gender you are, just be a decent human being. I'm not going to hold the door for you just because you're a girl, I'll hold the door if I feel like it. Gender shouldn't matter when it comes to manners."

He looked at me awkwardly and glanced around the class. Soon enough, Mr. Phelps veered the topic and asked if the boys knew what you had to do when walking down the stairs with the lady, which Seth beside me jokingly yelled out, "Push 'em!"

Mr. Phelps continued to talk about the post-Beyoncé world we live in and some more shit about feminism, but I tuned out by then. They were all fumbling morons who held too high expectations for their arms to reach. The Post-Beyoncé era he called it, oh that killed me.

But I don't answer questions right, like I said. English teachers, mostly, say there are questions that have no wrong answers, but I'd beg to differ. There are always wrong answers, or at least ones that are really off or not at all focused. It's not that I can't give right answers; it's the fact that I hate the questions. I don't know why, don't ask me.

Despite all of that, though, my school career continues. It was a Monday morning, the grogginess and late-night regrets were poignant in the air and the slow wave of caffeine induced teenagers was making its way through those double doors. I had just hopped off my bus, a pretty empty one at that. I like empty buses, less noise and people to make your mornings shittier than they already are. I merged into the crowd of people making their way lazily to their lockers, some dragging their feet on the ground, others complaining with friends, and some so lost in deep thought you could steal their Algebra homework without them knowing.

But mostly, they were all morons. Spineless, unstimulating, uninteresting morons.

One of the biggest morons I've ever met, in fact, was coming my way. His name is Braydon Fisher, but everyone just calls him by his last name. He has this buzz-cut that makes his head look bigger than his brain can fill. He's never gone a day without a plaid shirt and khaki pants or ripped jean shorts. He has this goofy smile that screams the cliché phrase, "Ignorance is bliss." In fact, Fisher was the goddamn personification of it.

He came over with a weighted smile (the best Fisher could do on a Monday morning). As he walked beside me, I lowered the volume on my music, knowing Fisher was about to say something inexplicably idiotic.

"Hey Owen, can I borrow two bucks? The vending machines have Ranch Doritos now."

See, the motherfucker knows I'm broke as hell, yet he asks anyways. I swear, the worst kinds of questions are the stupid ones.