"What do you want to major in?" It was a question commonly asked of seniors by all-too-curious students in lower grade levels and teachers. For some, it was a source of burden, and for others, it was a source of pride. Nevertheless, Donnie was one to be firm in his decisions.
"I'm going to major in economics," he said. It was a common major among seniors. He was not one-of-a-kind. He bore such a sense of pride and determination that he even went as far as to say, "Yippie!" or to allow such a word to slip one's mouth. A word like "yippie" was not a common occurrence in Donnie's limited spoken vocabulary, yet by all means, it wasn't to be unexpected.
"But why?"
He did, in fact, come to have second thoughts.
It was through his AP micro and macroeconomics class with Mr. Snider that he was brought down to earth, most notably on one of his rare homework assignments in Mankiw, their textbook.
"I chose the wrong major. What the actual fuck is this?" he said. Barnaby, being one of his rant victims, responded strategically, thinking through what he was going to say twice.
"That sounds like a you problem."
"You wouldn't understand. At least, not yet," Donnie hit back, but Barnaby had already decided that he was going to take psych.
Fuck e-con.
Donnie also believed that it was best to disseminate his gospel through email by writing to various classmates who shared the same period. Although, in this case, he was cautious about the use of swear words as he was emailing directly through his school-issued email. He felt it had a higher likelihood of being seen, even though he believed that swear words were made to better translate his feelings and emotions into tangible words previously defined.
"What the heck is this?" he wrote.
He was sure there would be consequences.
One of his email's undisclosed recipients and responders was Brad Lee, a silent but secret know-it-all who just about scored 100% on all his tests and quizzes and everything else there was to offer, except for the participation. That was arguably his only failing category. Participation. He didn't participate enough, whatever the hell that meant. He was the type to complain about being "disappointed in himself" when he scored a score resulting from getting one or two questions wrong, often in the multiple-choice section if applicable.
"A 98%. Imma die." The teacher hadn't expected anyone to get them all. The class average was often around an 80-84%, solid B range, but he still felt every need and necessity to wail and complain. "My mom's going to kill me." With the way the tests were curved on a scale, he was just about the only one to have his grade remain unchanged. He had his two cents about that too, as he felt it was just stupid for anyone to curve that way, but that argument seemed a little more justified. He responded to Donnie with the words, "Just get it done."
"What about..."
Donnie had expected him to take pity on him and send him an attachment of his answers without directly saying so, but it was just far too embarrassing. The answers needed to be handwritten, with the graphs and all their axes hand drawn, which was already bad enough. A mislabel, or the lack of a label, already resulted in a deduction of points. Although no one expected Mr. Snider to actually check and go through all the graphs for each individual, this was less than appreciated, but he couldn't complain.
Mr. Snider was practically a balding, crooked man with small, sideways ovular spectacles and hair cut low and flat with ends that hung off the sides, warming his upper ears. It appeared as if a lofty tuff of leaves had been placed on his head, but it was thin. Add on the weight and stature, and he was simply a balder Gregor Mendel with nowhere close to half as many accomplishments to his name. It was his first year teaching at their school.
"I appreciate the thought," Donnie wrote before hitting send. Whoosh.
Having attended a private high school, his teachers often joked that he didn't have enough brains to make it in the field. Others believed that anything was possible. Both ends of the spectrum brought little hope. However, as ASU had prided itself in saying, they were "ahead of the rest!" Donnie was definitely not, but at the very least it brought him some hope and inspiration, which bolstered him toward his cause.
He had his dreams of attending ASU, or, for lack of a better term, it was the only school that had accepted him, and it was already nearing the end of February.
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"Panthers on three," Coach Rob started. "One. Two. Three."
"Panthers!" And they were excused.
It was at the end of badminton practice, as the team of 30 members began to stow the nets and birdies away into the storage closet after taking them down from their respective hooks, that Donnie stumbled upon a machine that he was confident he hadn't seen before.
"Is this new?" he asked. By then, most of the members had already gone in and out of the storage room and were either heading up to the second floor up a flight of stairs, where they started packing to go home, or were either lollygagging around in groups conversing. It was worthwhile to watch as some individuals resorted to leaning up against the padded walls while others paced back and forth, oftentimes in circles. Those who went up also conversed in a similar fashion but could also be seen picking up phone calls as they put on warmer clothes like a jacket or a hoodie, if not more. Coach had always advised them to stay warm after practice. One probably got shunned for getting sick.
"I wouldn't touch it if I were you," Sam advised before heading down the short hall and up. As a second-year teammate, Donnie's inability to control himself without going wrong wasn't new to her, and it wasn't the first time she bore witness. In all likelihood, it was best believed that he was the reason why the school couldn't get anything fancy. The last time the school bought resistance bands, he almost took out someone's back before Coach Rob had finished explaining just what he wanted to do with them. Without the fancy stuff, if they weren't running, they were jumping, which was practical for most sports, except they were almost becoming the school's next track team, running miles.
Donnie's still nature captured Karson's attention.
"What's that?" he asked.
"I dunno. As you can tell, I'm just trying to figure that out as well."
Sigh. "Well, let me know once you figure it out. I'll be up on the second deck, waiting. You know where to find me. Or perhaps I'll wait for you outside. Get some fresh air, you know? Parents picking you up?"
"Mhm." He was kind of shrugging him off.
"Well, see you in a bit. I guess." Coach Rob left the storage room to collect a couple of items left behind as he made his final rounds. Being the last group to use the gym for the day, he had to be the one to close shop. They wanted it squeaky clean.
"It's an air compressor, Donnie. I saw a listing on eBay saying that it was magical. Haunted, even, so I got curious. Turns out it's a working piece of used trash. It was only a cupola bucks, though, so I brought it by. I heard someone broke the last air compressor while filling up balls during PE. This one fills them up just fine, so I thought I'd leave it." He'd stop to catch his breath. "Anyways, I digress. Don't mess with it. Heard the one who broke the last one was named Donnie, not saying that it was you."
Donnie sighed. "I won't," and Coach headed back into the storage room once more.
A second passed.
Now what if I press this?
Just
This
Once