Life sucks.
I'm Dylan. Korean-Mexican. Sixteen. Kinda smart, kinda sarcastic, and absolutely over this whole existence. I get straight A's without even trying, which you'd think would make me impressive—but nah, it just makes me "that nerd" no one notices. I don't get bullied or anything. I just… don't exist to most people. I'm background noise. The kid with curly black hair, a black hoodie, black pants, white shoes—basically a walking void with some rhythm.
Yeah, I've got friends. But they're mostly chaos goblins.
Take Drew, for example. Man swears he's straight, even though he's got two girlfriends and somehow still finds time to hook up with dudes for money. Like—bro. You ever look in the mirror and just stop lying? He always says stuff like, "If I don't like it, it ain't gay," and keeps joking about me paying him for... favors. I'm not making that up. Who needs enemies with friends like this?
Anyway, no, I've never had a girlfriend. Not that I could if I wanted one—my parents shut everything down. Strict as hell. They want me to be this perfect academic weapon, but the twist is... I'm already killing it in school without even studying. Joke's on them.
So one day I find out the school's starting a boys' volleyball team, and I'm like—finally. A way to actually do something. Maybe make some friends. Maybe even get noticed. Maybe... get a girl to look at me like I exist.
I walk in the house, heart pounding.
"Mom!" I call out.
"Yes, Dylan?"
"I was thinking of joining the school's volleyball team," I say, trying not to sound desperate.
Her response? Classic.
"No. Focus on school. Get a scholarship."
"Mom, colleges don't just want grades. They want people who do stuff. Sports, clubs—normal teenage things."
She looks at my dad. He doesn't say anything, but there's something in his eyes. Like he's silently rooting for me. Finally, she sighs and says, "Fine. Do what you want. But don't come crying if you fail."
That's... not exactly support, but I'll take it.
I text the boys. Drew replies:
"Can't wait to see your fine ass in those shorts "
DUDE. GET. HELP.
Nico tells Drew to shut up, which is expected—they don't like each other. I call Nico to figure out what's going on.
"You and Drew good?" I ask.
"Oh yeah, totally," he says, voice dripping in sarcasm. "Not like he cracked my girlfriend or anything."
"…Damn. I just thought it was the gay stuff bothering you."
"That too, bro. I thought she was the one."
Oof.
After that call, I eat, crash, and sleep like a rock. Tryouts tomorrow.
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEP—
God, I hate alarms.
I check the time.
Shit. I'm late.
I throw on a white hoodie and head downstairs to take the car. That's when I walk right into Mom and Dad whispering in the kitchen. Probably about me again.
I make a beeline for the garage and suddenly—smack—a crumpled paper ball hits me.
"And where do you think you're going?" Mom's voice stabs through the air.
"To school. Where else?"
She narrows her eyes. "Why do you suddenly need the car, huh? Who is she?"
"WHO IS WHO? What?!"
"I know how this goes. You're trying to sneak off with a girl."
"MOM. I told you. Volleyball tryouts. You're not gonna pick me up, so I'm driving myself."
She smirks. "Sure, sure. So how old is she?"
"BYE MOM."
I dip before she asks for my search history or something.
School's a blur. I ask my friend Jace for help with getting a girlfriend.
His response?
"Oh... yeah, nah. You're on your own, bro. Good luck."
Thanks, man. Real helpful.
Suddenly—
"Beep beep. Dylan Seong-Hernandez to the front office."
Some random dude whispers, "Wait… he's Mexican? I thought he was Asian."
"I am Asian. And Mexican. Welcome to 2025."
Then another genius chimes in:
"Does that mean he's got a small dick?"
Bro. What is WRONG with y'all?
I just walk to the office like, whatever. I see couples making out in the halls and get hit with this weird wave of envy. Could've been me. If I was, like, allowed to live.
"Oh yes, you're here for the physical," the office lady says.
Cool. Time to get poked and prodded like a science fair project.
I step on the scale.
135 lbs.
Shoes off. Stand straight.
6'1". Let's gooo—I finally grew.
They check my hearing, vision, and throw in a drug test because why not. I pass it all, easy. I walk back to class and of course that same couple is STILL making out by the lockers like it's the season finale of Euphoria.
I overhear this girl say,
"He's cute but probably got a small dick. Nerds never have time for sex."
Then Khalani—the Khalani, hot as hell—goes,
"His dick doesn't look that small."
WHAT. WHY ARE YOU LOOKING. WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE.
Anyway, the bell rings. Mr. Smith assigns homework like we're not dying inside already. Pages 47–58. Cool. Totally gonna not read that.
Time for volleyball tryouts. Maybe—just maybe—something's finally gonna change.