oh, I did this too.

That afternoon in the dining hall he had had the misfortune of actually talking to Robert Warren, which, he realized as he reflected on it, had probably aroused his current miserable state. Robert Warren had approached him at the sophomore table and clamped a hand steadily on his shoulder - Peter recoiled from the contact. There were tufts of black hair on Robert Warren’s knuckles. His nails were perfectly manicured.

“Pete,” he said gruffly. “Can I talk to you outside?”

Peter rose silently, averting his gaze, and the two headed out the swinging doors together and stood next to the trash cans.

“Look,” said Robert Warren, his voice clear and solemn. “There’s not gonna be room for you on varsity this year.”

Here is what he proceeded to say:

“You’re a good player, Pete, and I know you put your heart into it. But it’s between you and Mark, and this is Mark’s last year and you know I can’t do that to him. I’m sorry Pete. What else can I do?”

Here is what he might as well have said:

“Aren’t you a little Asian for this?”

Peter, who usually came up to Robert Warren’s shoulders at least, shrunk to half his usual size. And then he did what no one else in the whole school would dare do to Robert Warren, which was walk away without saying a word. Robert Warren did not call him back; after all, he had shrunk far below the peripheral vision of such a tall, handsome athlete.

When he got back to his room the sudden illness had come on, and he had decided against going to chemistry. It was a dumb class anyway. Junior Varsity Chem, what a joke! He ought to be able to do better than that. Shouldn’t he?

Peter heard a ping from his computer, indicating a new email, and rose from his bed to see who was contacting him. It was from Math Club, about an upcoming math competition in the next town over. Would he, or any other Math Club members be interested in competing?

Peter was surprised to see himself comprised in the list of Math Club members, as he had never signed up for it. He was thoroughly average in the field of mathematics, and held no particular enthusiasm in the subject, except maybe the time he set out counting the number of dots on the surface of his basketball. One-hundred and twenty-two per square inch. Thirty-five thousand.

“Mr. Chang,” he typed. “I would love to compete in the math tournament. Sign me up.”



....

I don't fucking know, dude!