"What is the definition of 'superlative'?" Mrs. Kellaway asked the class. English was my favorite subject, but all I could do was look out the window. I didn't have any strength to raise my hand, when I was usually the only one to do it.

Definition of a hangover: a severe headache or other after effects caused by drinking an excess of alcohol.

I. Have. A. Hangover. From Chris Dodgson's party. To be honest, I didn't even drink much. A couple of beers, and then I ate four gigantic scoops of ice cream with that girl, Emma.

Emma. Emma Sacra. Long, brown hair. Eyes as gray as a mourning dove. Her full chest (not that I was staring), her soft hands, and her fair skin. Then her legs. Her long, beautiful, no longer used legs....she was in a wheelchair. A frickin wheelchair.

"Mr. Quinn, would you like to tell us the definition of superlative?" The teacher asked again. I started, almost jumping out of my seat. My eyes darted around the room, and I began to see the shape of Mrs. Kellaway. Her plump figure and blonde hair clouded my memory, and for a moment she looked just like Mum.

Get over it, Nathan. Mum is nothing more than a speck of dust.

"Uh...superlative..." I stood up as if in a spelling bee, not aware of what I was doing. All I heard was the snickering of jocks and the scoffing of girls.

"One: Superlative, adjective. Of the highest quality or degree. Two: Grammar, of and adjective or adverb. Expressing the highest or a very high degree of a quality." Then I sat down, glancing around the room.

Everyone was staring at me. Gigi Jefferson stopped chewing her gum. Ahmed Denji dropped his textbook on the floor. Marc Antony's eyes were as wide as saucers.

I slid down in my chair, my head hitting my desk, and I hid there the rest of class like a turtle. Nobody called on me again.

________|)(|________

The bell rang, and Mrs. Kellaway dismissed us. I packed up my stuff, swinging my backpack onto one shoulder. Then I rubbed my eyes. Life is not getting better.

"Hey dude, nice to see you." A huge hand immediately patted my shoulder, and I winced. Can a hangover really affect you this much?

"Uh...nice to see you too, uh..." I searched my brain, trying to find his name among the other new people I've met so far.

"Marcus Antony. Or Marc," he flashed a toothy grin. Huh. Must be a popular jock. And I was proven right when Steve Craven, Jake Breve, and Kendall Morrison waved to him, leaving the room. All these people were wearing letterman jackets.

"Yeah. Nice to meet you." I stood there uncomfortably for a few minutes, then busied myself by bending down, tying my laces.

"So listen, are you busy tonight?" I let out a squeak of surprise. Then, composing myself, I found my voice.

"Uh...yeah, I guess..."

"Great. You know how Mrs. Kellaway always piles us with homework. Well, I have football tryouts tomorrow and I need to practice. So you're smart, right?"

Fuck. I saw where this was going. "Listen, I'm busy. I have to uh...practice for tryouts too..." Oh shit, I thought. Why did I frickin say that?

All of a sudden Marc sized me up, and looked at me in a whole new light. But...a darker light than before. "Right, right. 'Course you do. I've gotta go...I'll...I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yup. See you." He rushed out of the room, and I let out a sigh. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I heard a voice in my head, and immediately recognized it as my mum. "Nathan. What in hell have you gotten yourself into?"

I don't know, Mum. I don't know.