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I used to love Mondays, the fresh start, the praise of teachers showering me like some kind of academic rockstar, and the return of structure after two blissful days of time wasted.

It was the clean slate of the week, a time to be productive without any guilt over the weekend.

But today? Oh, today, I hate this Monday with the passion normally dedicated to those people who steal your fries without asking.

Why? Well, because I had a hangover.

My head was pounding like a jackhammer on a building site, with every beat sending shock waves across my skull.

My mouth? Felt like I'd just licked a desert, not even a good one, you know, with oases and cool shade in between.

No, it was the Sahara of regret. And my stomach?

A war zone, replete with explosions and the far-off sound of enemy troops marching.

Did I eat last night, or did I just inhale mystery substances like some kind of gastronomical daredevil?

Who can tell? My memory of last night was hazy—neon lights, bad decisions, and questionable dance moves.

I swear, I must have been channeling some kind of cross between a giraffe learning to walk and an octopus on roller skates.

I stood up, and the room spun like I was on some kind of carnival ride—except it wasn't fun, and I wasn't sure if I was about to throw up or get thrown off. Either way, it was all bad.

“Ugh, I'm never drinking again," I grumbled, fighting even to form coherent words.

I made my way into the bathroom in the hope of a magical hangover cure, maybe, cold water.

But, turning on the tap, the mirror gave me one of those "who let this guy in" kind of stares like a zombie after a hangover.

I groaned at myself, half-expecting my reflection to ask for a coffee and a blanket.

My hair was a mess, as if it had been attacked by a flock of confused birds.

My face looked like it had been trampled by a herd of wild horses—and then the horses came back for round two.

And my eyes? Bloodshot in ways that screamed “someone please help me.”

I looked like the human version of regret. Or if “hold my beer” was a person.

I splashed water on my face, hoping to cool down a bit, and it confirmed one thing: all was not okay.

"Why did I think vodka was a good idea?” At this point, I'm fairly sure someone laced that stuff with something like regret-flavored Jell-O shots?

“Timothy Clark Alderman!" The sound of my full name bellowing from downstairs instantly had me regretting every life choice I'd made since, well, yesterday night. When Mom called me by all my three names, that was code for trouble. "Are you familiar with the concept of time?" she shouted.

I glanced over at the clock: 7:45 a.m. The bus leaves at 7:50, and I was, of course, already running late.

“Clark!” Dad’s voice thundered from downstairs, a little more panicked than usual. “Get up, you’re gonna miss the bus!”

This was going to be a great day.

I hastily did my best to pull myself together, but I wasn't fooling anyone.

I looked like a zombie who'd just discovered coffee but had absolutely no idea how to use it.

Coffee at this point would be the probably only thing that could save me—and not in the tiny cup of weak stuff Mom makes either, but in the kind of stuff that gives a soul a kickstart.

I hobbled downstairs, hoping for mercy from my parents.

But instead of concern or anger, they were… laughing.

"Well, well, well," Mom said, peering over her coffee mug like some sort of caffeinated detective. "Looks like someone had a bit too much fun last night."

Dad, adjusting his glasses as if he was about to say something, threw in before I could say anything, "Did you drink water in between the rounds?”

I looked at both of them, exasperation and despair twisting my face. "I still don't know what happened last night."

"You looked like you were having fun," Dad said, winking. "Maybe next time, you can teach me those moves. I'll start working on my backflip."

I gave a weak laugh, despite understanding only half of his statement, "yeah, right, Dad. You'd break something.”

"Exactly," he said, as if that made any kind of sense. "That's why I'm sticking with my day job."

"Can we not talk about it?" I grumbled, reaching for a bowl of cereal I wouldn't eat. "I have a headache that could kill a horse."

"Clark," Mom said, finally sounding serious, "I just have one question: Did you actually breakdance?”

I buried my face in my hands. “I don’t know, did I?”

“Well,” Dad said, taking a second sip of coffee like it was the best thing he’d heard all morning,

“at least you’re learning how to have a little fun. Take it slower next time, okay?”

Why did everyone think fun had to mean almost dying on the dance floor or drinking yourself to oblivion? Hadn't they ever binge-watched documentaries about alchemy and quantum physics all weekend or read books for 48 hours straight?

I could only nod in defeat. What else was I supposed to do? I wasn't exactly in a position to argue. I couldn’t even explain how I got here in the first place or the time I got here.

Forcing myself to choke down a bowl of cereal—mostly milk and regret—I gathered my stuff and trudged out the door, dreading what awaited me.

I guess the bus driver had also attended the party—he was late by a minute or two, and to my advantage I got a ride.

The ride was a blur of nausea and self-loathing. I could barely remember climbing off.

°*°

Of course, it had to be the day everybody decided to notice me.

People were staring at me, not like a casual "oh, hey, I see you" kind of glance, no; it was an intense type of staring.

You know that feeling when you walk into a room and everybody in it turns to look at you, just like you are some human car wreck? Yeah, that was me.

I couldn't tell whether they were judging me for my outfit or in awe of my genius. Whichever it was, it was uncomfortable, and I hated it.

I tried to ignore it, but it was impossible. I could practically feel their eyes on me as I walked down the hallway, and it wasn't in that "casual admiration" way. No, it was more like the "I'm gossiping about you behind your back and there's nothing you can do about it" kind of way.

Then, Shun, my partner-in-crime from the night before, appeared at my side, looking as deadpan as ever.

“Hey,” she said, glancing at me like she’d just found an unexpected new species in the wild. “You’re viral.”

I froze. “What?”

She pulled out her phone with a mischievous grin, shoving it in my face like she was presenting me with the worst thing ever.

And wouldn't you believe it, I was there, in all of my glory: me, a guy who practically trips over his feet trying to walk down the sidewalk, catapulting himself onto what looked-for all intents and purposes like some breakdancing battle but came off as something from a weird collision of human limbs and desperation.

The worst part was the backflip. Yup, you heard me right, the backflip that sent the entire crowd wild and sent me stumbling like a drunkard.

Wait…. I was drunk. How was I even still alive?

My stomach did somersaults looking at the screen. Of course, the hashtags were there everywhere, like it was supposed to be some sort of normal thing:

#TheNerdKnowsHowToBreakdance

#ClarkTheRaveKing

#WatchClarkDanceLikeANewbornCalf

#FromBooksmartToDancefloorSmart

#FromBookflipToBackflip

And the comments were worse. #WasHeMimickingAliens? was trending faster than I could blink.

"I don't even want to know where you got this," I said, trying to hide my face from the growing pool of shame.

"Oh, come on," Shun grinned. "Look at it this way: You've got fans."

"Fans? Of my terrible dancing?"

Shun just grinned harder. "Well, it's better than being a nerd, right?"

"Yeah, thanks. I love my new fame," I said in a monotone.

"Seriously, though," Shun said, scanning me like a human barcode. "You've got some respect now. The jocks—Max and Ethan included—actually gave you props."

I let out a hard sigh, one that could have blown out a lightbulb.

Max. Ethan.

Jocks. My natural-born enemies. And they were giving me respect? Because of my dancing? I didn't know whether to be appalled or grateful. But knowing Max and Ethan, this was probably some elaborate scheme to humiliate me later. But how could a cheerleader like Shun understand that?

As if my thoughts had conjured him up, Ethan showed up—of course he would: the demon jock everyone in school seemed to worship, yet I couldn't stand. He looked me up and down a second before smirking—like my pain was the best comedy he'd seen all day or something.

"Nice moves," he chuckled, clearly relishing in my discomfort. "Didn't know the nerd had it in him.".

"Don't call him a nerd," Shun warned mock-serious.

Max came up behind Ethan and walked towards Shun kissing her like it was his day job. Seriously, every time I saw it, it was grosser.

Meanwhile, I said nothing to Ethan. Instead, my face went crimson, and I couldn't think straight anymore.

His smirk only grew bigger.

Someone please kill me.

And to make matters worse, Shun and Max leaned on my locker as if that was now the most popular hangout spot in the world. I was trapped. Those next five minutes were like five years. I had only one move left: look away—not at Ethan, but at the floor, or probably the ceiling, anything but him.

Finally, after what seemed like forever and a half, they were gone.

And then, the torture of tortures came: Joy.

"Hey," she said, grinning like she'd just unlocked the secret to life, "if Ethan's picking you up tomorrow, you'll get a ride in style."

That was Joy's version of good morning: small talk.

She was right, though—he would probably show up in some ridiculously shiny car to drag me along to whatever weird ritual they had in store.

I stared at her, wide-eyed. "Tomorrow? Ethan is picking me up?"

"Yup, don't tell me you forgot that,” Joy chirped, as if I was supposed to be happy about it. "I think the demons have a special way of dealing with 'celebrities' like you."

Great, she had also seen the video.

Blood drained from my face. Tomorrow was Tuesday. And if this week could get any worse… well, I was about to find out.