Planet B

You Just Got Disked

I'm not a very happy person.

You probably already guessed that, but I'm just going to put it out there that I am not a ray of absolute sunshine.

Whether it's the drugs, the professor and part-time coach of a brother on my back, the single mother of mine that I get to see once a month—that's being generous—or the world outside my window that's literally deteriorating by the second, I'm just not the most joyous guy.

It could also be I'm five feet five inches and 120 pounds of pure procrastination, but I like to think those just give me character.

Stop criticizing me. I can feel your judgement.

Don't make this depressing. I just like half-empty glasses more than what's considered normal.

Maybe it is the drugs.

Ah, well. That sucks.

"What are you still doing here?"

I turned around, spotting Henry in the doorway. He had that serious face he always had every single damned day. He was only two years older than me, but Lord knows he held it over me like it's twenty.

He could've looked it too with how much he frowned but I decided to keep that comment in my back pocket.

"Nice way to greet someone," I said, pocketing the sugar stick so he couldn't see. "I'm drinking coffee."

"What about tryouts?"

I sighed at that. It was probably stupid of me to assume he would forget. Henry never forgot anything.

Light disk tryouts were this afternoon and went until evening. The Arrow Point Hunters were recruiting two new members out of the thirty students that were going to be trying out, and if that wasn't enough pressure to crush hopes then I don't know what is.

"It's this afternoon."

"Exactly."

"Dude. It's seven AM."

"So? You should be training."

"I trained yesterday."

"Train again. At least stretch."

"Seven hours before the actual tryout?" I shook my head. "You need to get a grip."

He frowned at me. I held up my hands.

"Shitty joke. Too close to home?"

Henry held up his right hand. "Obviously."

The nearly fatal accident Henry had gone through had left his right hand unusable, forcing him to prosthetics. I said the robot hand looked cool—because it did—but Henry only saw failure in it. Athletes took everything so seriously.

"Sorry," I said.

"On a lighter note," Henry said, switching topics. "Third week of freshman year. How did it go?"

"College is way better than high school but sometimes not by much," I concluded.

"Any girls?"

I scoffed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Henry frowned. "Exactly what it's supposed to mean."

"Oh yeah, I'm banging a new one every night."

"Briar Mateo Black."

I shrank, shaking my head. So serious.

"I'm joking. Calm down. You took one too many disks to the head," I muttered.