In The Bag

School. For many this word brought feelings of dread. For the kids in Disneyland, it was quite the opposite. School was a spotless place where the floors were so clean, one could eat their hot lunch off them. Everything was freshly painted and new. The soles of their shoes smelled like honeysuckle.

When Mike arrived each morning at DHS, his jaw muscled already ached from smiling so hard. It was never easy to chew a bagel while smiling from ear to ear, but Mike managed as his supermodel look-alike mom drove him leisurely from their mansion to the school in the brand-new beater Lexus with the leather seats and built-in warmers. His bagel would disappear bite by bite without his having to chew, without crumbs, without any mess at all.

But the fun was only just beginning. When Mike walked through the doors (without so much as a single fingerprint on the glass), the hallways burst forth in song. Cheerleaders did high kicks and launched one of their members high in the air, never to be seen again. Though Mike didn’t play sports, he was so wildly popular, the football team picked him up and carried him down the pristine halls on their sparkling shoulders. Screams of “Go, Mike, Go!” filled the school and echoed over the P.A. system in the voice of the Prom Queen.

Butterflies fluttered out of open lockers. Rainbows washed over jubilant faces of teens otherwise blinded by one another’s bleached white teeth. A figure in an adult body, nominally a school official, handed out party favors and brightly colored candy to anyone that wanted it. There was no schedule, no classes, no effort.

Mike saw his girlfriend and best friend standing near the stairway to nowhere. It was a popular place to chillax for the hero-students and share fashion tips. As the camera focused on the threesome, the other students melted away mysteriously.

“Fantabulous afternoon!” said Marcie.

“I got my apple for Mrs. Magnificent, but I forgot my homework,” said Marty.

Marcie looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “No, you didn’t!”

They all smiled creepily. “We don’t have homework!” they cried in perfect synchronization. Fist bumps were exchanged. Peels of laughter rebounded like rubber shot off the spick-and-span brick walls.

“Should we go to class?” asked Mike.

They all looked at each other momentarily off script.

“I brought something for you guys,” Mike said.



“It’s right here in my brand new Gucci backpack. My mom’s personal shopper found it.”

Marty giggled. “Found our presents?”

“No, my backpack, silly.”

“Oooooh!” Marcie cooed with perfect timing.

“Here they are!” Mike handed them each a dark blue disk about the size of a quarter.

“What are these?” Marcie batted her eyelashes.

“They’re called wake-up pills.”


Picture linked via Writing My Legacy.

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