The Curiosity of Chance

1

When I look back on my

Sophomore year in high school,

I was...well...

a uniquely tragic wreck.

In subsequent time,

there have been some,

friend and foe alike who have come

to question this claim.

But I come armed with proof.

At times like these I like to think

about the moments

before I go on a roller coaster

and feel the need

to emulate announcements one might

hear while waiting in line for such a ride.

Because what you are about to witness

is not for the weak-of-heart,

the easily offended

or those individuals who suffer

from a fragile constitution.

If you fall into any of these categories,

I would urge you:

leave now.

Pregnant women are cautioned as well.

Anyway, that's me:

right there, Chance Marquis.

A name my dear departed

mother thought

apropos for the gamble

she took on having me.

High school's a mess

for a lot of us, I realize.

But in comparison to my mess,

you might feel a twinge of guilt

for ever thinking yours was

at all challenging.

After all,

everything's about perspective,

is it not?

So, allow me to provide you

with some...

...Oh but this isn't

where my story begins.

It starts one year earlier

when I entered

Brickland International High School

as a transfer.

My fourth new school in the last four years

and my first time in Europe.

Keep in mind, this was the '80s.

Sometimes known as

the decade fashion forgot.

Like leg warmers,

always essential when getting ready

for first period Algebra.

There was also a preponderance of

thin ties and mullet haircuts.

In any case,

even then I recognized all

this conformity as tragic.

That one day we'd look back

on the parachute pants

and obsession over Smurfs

and ask ourselves...

Why?

But if the fashion was nightmare-ish

at least the music was good...

which provided a fairly accurate soundtrack

to the comic tragedy

that was my life back then.

I was assigned locker No. 13.

I was assigned locker No. 13.

It was a bad omen...and then this:

Within minutes, it was evident,

I was in hell...

literally.

We've got spirit, yes we do!

We've got spirit and how 'bout you?!

I think it's in my locker...

trying to get out, apparently.

F*ggot.

Oh really, no...

don't feel the need to announce your

your sexual-persuasion for my benefit.

Not me, man. You!

I can smell the stench all over you.

It stinks!

Which begs the question:

What were you just sniffing

to pick up the scent?

Their jock-straps?

Listen,

here's the rule, Mr. Peanut.

You do not speak to me unless

I give you permission.

You understand?

I understand.

I'm just not going to comply.

I did not give you permission to speak,

homo-breath!

He is making me crabby.

And here I thought

that was your natural state... Aahhh!

Brad, what are you doing?

And who's he?

Dead meat in about 2 seconds.

Can you like,

pull yourself away from

your senseless terrorizing?

We need to talk.

Did you 'like' get permission?

You better shut-it man!

Oh my god, is he, like, raging again?

You shut it too, Rachel!

Brad, Brad...

Come on, let's go.

I'm telling you, Willy Wonka is history.

Brad Harden...

and cronies.

I would ruminate more,

but we'll just let Brad read his own lines,

only in the more Neanderthal manner

befitting his 'character'.

Are you Chance Marquis?

The one and only.

Great!

I'm Loretta Getzick,

Devil's Advocate Senior Sports Editor...

And you're on my team.

Um, you know I don't really do sports.

I know that most baseball uniforms

are inexplicably

made of a cotton-polyester blend,

but that's about the extent of it.

Ah, you'll learn then.

We have an open slot and Ms. Utterbach

assigned you.

Well, is Ms. 'Ootle-blagh' unaware of my knack

of

covering the daily antics of Rosemary Clooney?

Or my witty commentaries

on student fashion tragedies?

It was all in my resume...

I really have no idea

what you're talking about,

nor do I care.

Joey,

five hundred words on newest

swim team member, Sara Bagshawe.

'Is that a Dolphin in our pool?'

Kimmie, in-depth interview with

Reichen Froman,

the team mascot.

Some art students made

a new devil head for the costume.

'Too Scary or Too Merry?'

And, a big Brickland Devil's Times

welcome to...Chance!

Full-feature on the varsity football team.

I know!

We're going to see what he's made of.

In-depth interviews with players,

coaches and fans.

'Is this the year we win it all?'

All what?

Hank Hudson, Staff Photographer.

Loretta Go-Get-Em assigned me to

snap some shots

for your football piece.

Where do you want to start?

Over.

Let me ask you this,

staff-photographer-Hank-Hudson:

do you have knowledge

of this football?

Football?

Footooboo...

Well, I know that

when they play it in America,

they call it soccer,

but it looks the same

and if you touch the ball with your hands,

they kick you out.

Forever.

Or do they make you a goalie...?

What's in your case?

What's in yours?

I don't have one.

One what?

Freak.

But curiously enough,

I was warming up to him.

Huh! Urgh!

Take a picture, it'll last longer.

If that was her way of making

a witty first- impression,

then my guess was that the

pulled-too-tight pony tail

was cutting-off blood flow

to her brain.

I don't 'do' tennis.

Forty-love and deuce and sh*t...

no wonder the British lost,

can't even figure out

how to score stuff.

The origin of scoring

is French actually,

bastardized into English.

Deuce for instance,

being a corruption of 'deux',

meaning two consecutive exchanges

needed to win.

Now 'love' is either a vulgarisation

of the word 'l'oeuf'...

Please, your dorkiness

was already established with

the top-hat and cane.

Look,

Heretic can't see over

to this backstop.

Which means

I don't have to hit a stupid ball

against a wall for 45 minutes.

So fascinating!

Heretic?

Coach Hera.

The troglodyte

from sex-reassignment hell.

Really?

She was a he?

In actuality,

who the hell knows?

in my made-up reality,

yes!

I'm Chance.

Your reality just might fascinate me.

Twyla.

And your pasty-white legs

definitely repulse me.

If the shorts weren't so dark,

the contrast would be lessened.

Ergo, my legs would not appear

so falsely pale.

You don't have many friends,

do you Chance?

I just moved here.

So far, I hate it.

Not likely to change.

Chance Marquis,

please report to Administration.

Now.

Admin's that way...

Chance Marquis...

Vice Principal Ophelia Smelker.

As disturbing in-person as she

appears in her photos,

and quite possibly the most odorous human

I've ever encountered...

and not in a pleasing way.

Remove the hat, please.

Looking over your file here...

Transfer records, report cards,

personal items.

Why aren't you enrolled

in our mixed choir?

Uh, polyps.

I beg your pardon.

Polyps. On my vocal cords.

I can't sing until they heal.

What about surgery?

It's against our religion.

Which is...?

Not to be discussed.

Your permanent records show,

among other things,

instances of misbehavior,

insubordination and episodes of...

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