Don't let the kids win
Just let them lose
They're not gonna learn anything
If that's the way you choose to play

—Julia Jacklin, Don’t Let The Kids Win

ACT IV, SCENE I

The phone is blaring and there is a Hello Kitty sock perched on top of the lamp.

Zuko can’t decide which to agonize over these two initial observations; the phone’s ringtone is a distinct mezzo-soprano vocal run of Mariah Carey but also, Zuko has no recollection of ever having any interest in Hello Kitty merch in his life.

A third observation; there is a leg on his leg.

“Shit” Zuko whispers. To himself really. Unless the leg belonged to an actual living person. Which is profoundly unideal for the current situation.

“Guh?” an actual living person sputters out sleepily.

Zuko’s vision unfortunately becomes clearer as Mariah miraculously hits another note. The leg is now, also unfortunately, moving. Fuck, Jesus help him; he was on a bed. He was on a bed, there is a sock on a lamp and there is a leg on him and the leg is moving which means the person theoretically isn’t dead which means Zuko isn’t dead which means he might just have to pick up his phone which doesn’t seem to be anywhere within visible sight.

Zuko’s muscles learn to do basic functions such as pulling the (Hello Kitty?) duvet cover back, glancing at the owner of the Leg. Wincing at the owner and making mental plans to step out of bed.

Zuko frantically scans the area. This might be Aang’s room. This is an unfortunate possibility given the next following observations;

1. Aang is asleep on the floor. There is a foil tiara on his bald head. In Sharpie, the tiara dons the title ‘PIZZA KING”. He is shirtless.
2. Aang has insightfully used a singular Dominos pizza box as a blanket.
3. There is a giant portrait of Katara surfing framed. Underneath written in bold, also in Sharpie, is; ‘gf so hawt xoxo’.

“Guh?” Sokka mutters again. It is slightly muffled through the pillow. There is drool present.

He is infuriatingly handsome asleep, if Zuko squinted he could scrutinize every faint freckle on his face. None of these were not helpful observations. Zuko would probably take a moment to think all of this was endearing if Mariah didn’t go out of her way to belt out the chorus.

Zuko makes an effort to step out of the bed with a singular foot. He promptly steps on a tortilla chip.

“Ow, fuck!”

A weary “Wha?” comes from the floor.

Movement via Aang occurs. His hand knocks over the (pizza box) blanket. The foil tiara devastatingly slips out of his head as he awakens.

“Shit.” Zuko scrapes tortilla chip flakes off his foot and stares at Aang. “Aang, where’d you put my phone?”

Aang doesn’t register a single syllable but somehow manages to weakly point in the direction of the kitchen outside the room. He is now muttering to himself and Zuko can’t help but pick up ‘Shawn Mendes…’ from his musings. He whips his head around.

Shawn Mendes’ cardboard cutout face beams at him. Zuko steps back in fear and proceeds to step on another tortilla chip.

“Ow!”

Zuko can’t find it himself to question. Instead of smiling back at Shawn, Zuko ignores the tortilla chip carving its way into his left foot and steadily stumbles out the room and into the kitchen.

He can hear Sokka’s voice calling out his name somehow through the peak of ‘Always Be My Baby’ and dutifully (painfully) ignores it.

Zuko enters the kitchen to a hellscape of more tortilla chips, fifty billion party cups and a conspicuously half empty bowl of fruit punch. Suki is asleep on top of the dining table. There is another foil tiara in sight.

Zuko spots his phone perched on top of the fridge and is fucking grateful for it.

This moment is instantly evaporated at the sight of a long barrage of missed calls from Azula from the past 2 hours. He winces and presses her name to call, lasting only two rings before a very passionate;

“Where the fuck are you?”

Shit. Zuko glances at the clock across the room and feels like he’s hallucinating.

“It’s already 1 pm” her voice gets sharper, higher, “I’ve already stalled Dad for 30 minutes. If you don’t get here by 1:30…”

She fades off; it occurs to Zuko she doesn’t even want to consider what the fuck could happen.

“I’m at—” Zuko glances at his surroundings; Suki is now awake and staring longingly at a tortilla chip next to her “...somewhere.”

“Shit. Zuko..”

Zuko tiptoes through the kitchen, careful to avoid another tortilla chip foot attack, reaching out for his red hoodie thrown over the dining chair.

“I’ll be there in 20.”

Azula sighs as if mourning and ends the call.

“Who was that?”

Zuko turns. Aang hobbles to the side of the doorframe, lost. There’s patches of pearlescent blue glitter to his face and body. Zuko can’t help but notice that he’s taken the effort to put the tiara back on.

Sokka follows behind Aang, a blanket draped over his shoulders. His eyes are blurry then focused as they fixate on Zuko. In the middle of the kitchen. A Moses amongst the sea of tortilla chips.

“Zuko..” he begins.

Behind him, Zuko hears Suki mutter out something like ‘what the fuck’.

Zuko doesn’t give anyone the time. “I have to go.”

Yanking the hoodie from the chair, Zuko makes good on this promise and goes.

*

IN SUDDEN DEFENSE OF THE CHILDREN

In the grand art of observation, such as the ones Zuko meticulously takes upon himself to do (albeit in amatuer fashion, given his ripe eighteen years of age), it is perhaps the distinct feature of change that triumphs above all. Such is the affair of circumstances circles of high school students (even the most elusive and reclusive of foreign exchange students, mind you) find themselves in. Amongst the ill-advised drunken stupors, endeavours, whispers and white lies. Underneath even the angsty commitments of arson, teenage acne and Instagram bio scandals, the inherent ruth of the universal highschool hallway, unfortunately, lies in the notoriety of the art of observation of one another.

It is perhaps staunchly inevitable, like the grand affair of asteroids to Mother Earth circa Dinosaur Era turned No Dinosaurs Era (as Sokka would enthusiastically learn about at the wise age of six years old), for the mechanics of highschool to be tied to this rather supernatural phenomenon of imitation contradicted by long winded desires of individuality. And it perhaps is even more a case for long suffering readers to accept the matter of inevitability in our hands. Should we ever hope to change the inevitable fortunes or misfortunes even the most unhinged of sleep deprived high school students would carry is only ever a concern of our observation.

Furthermore, perhaps in some cynically inclined readers’ defense, the attentive and narcissistic woes of highschool scrutiny only ever reflect the nature of what might come in much later adulthood (in much higher stakes, in much darker fashion). But alas, the children are the children and they can only know so much before a mental breakdown befall upon them about some vile Thursday biology quiz.

And though we’ve yet to fully dissect our observations in wearisome, missguidedly romantic or prosed extents, we are more than welcome to engage with their inevitability. The events grounded with the inevitable within our circle aligned within the circumstances of what they did (with the subject of whether they should’ve done such things still a benign mystery to us indeed) are systemized within exactly seven acts. They are, consecutively, as follows;

1. The enablement of Aang to become vegan
2. The late acquisition of 2 gallons of Arizona Peach Iced Tea
3. The closer examination of prides and prejudices
4. The act of growing endearment through musically inclined means
5. The purchase of a $4,550 jacuzzi
6. The ignition of infatuated flames
7. The hosting of the Mr. Teen Universe contest

*

ACT IV, SCENE II

“Zuko?”

Zuko pointedly and achingly ignores Sokka in the slightly fogged reflection of the rearview mirror, in his jacket and the blanket draped over his arm. He is the very terror of Zuko’s heartbroken vision, he looks lovelorn and confused. He is earth shatteringly shirtless.

Zuko feels a little like he's hallucinating just about everything. He winces at the sight of Sokka's pinched eyebrows, frantic and fazed. Aang is trailing behind, even more bewildered. It's a very, very painful sight.

In response, he faces the road ahead and drives. 

*

The conviction wears off by approximately 12 minutes by the time Zuko passed Heavenmore’s single McDonald’s to enter his side of town; pass the distinctly middle class suburbia and into the gates of what Sokka had onced nicknamed RPP (Rich People Place).

Katy Perry is singing about plastic bags on the radio. It’s killing Zuko alive.

What’s really killing Zuko alive is the torture of the image of 12 minutes ago, the scent of fruit punch on his shirt and maybe even the tortilla blisters on his foot. Maybe even Sokka’s face. But that’s really irrelevant.

Cause baby you’re a firework! Come and show em what you’re worth!

Zuko swiftly u-turns the car towards the direction of the McDonald’s parking lot. He parks outside the multi-billion dollar fast food chain, turns the radio’s volume louder than humanely necessary and, without delay, screams into the void in the Mercedes.

*

The void is screaming back in the form of Katy Perry. Zuko’s starting to think it’s somewhat fitting.

Mai. Mai could fix this.

Oh well, she couldn’t objectively. But she would be so much better at handling this than whatever the fuck Zuko’s gotten himself into so far. But Zuko hasn’t called Mai since, uhm,  the Hong Kong Starbucks Incident and he was trying to keep the streak of never calling for the rest of his life. 

Zuko stares at his phone, exhaling. The scent of McDonald’s grease was very distinct. He hurls the phone to the passenger seat and smothers his face with both hands.

“Arghhgghh!” his vocal chords produce elegantly.

Without thought, he fetches the phone, streams through the list of contacts before he reaches the one named ‘Do Not Fucking Call’ and calls.

It rings for a hesistant 14.2 seconds.

“Hello?”

Oh shit. 

“..Hello? Zuko?”

Zuko stares mournfully at the bright yellow McDonald’s arch and wistfully wishes it would topple over him, plunging him to a rather benign death if not for the questions about why he was in McDonald’s in the first place. “I—” he coughs “—hi.”

A pause. Then; “What happened?”

He supposed he should’ve expected that.

“I think—I think I’m going to get murdered.”

Mai just grunts. She’s heard, seen, witnessed far worse. “What did you do?”

Zuko can’t at all wrap his head around this query. What didn’t he do exactly? There’s a fucking tortilla chip stuck to his foot and he might’ve just ran away from the love of his proverbial life.

A beat. Then a sigh. “You’re still—you’re in that Mercedes right?”

“Yeah?”

Another long winded sigh. “Open the passenger compartment.”

Dazed, Zuko does as he’s told to be greeted with a single simple black notepad and a pencil with a rubber tip.

“I bought it and remembered I left it back in your car. Before we bro–before you left. I just decided not to take it back.”

Zuko feels the leather bound of the smaller pad, dumbfounded. “What was this for?”

Mai had never had any penchant for things like writing. She had once ripped up a love letter in seventh grade because she’d felt that anyone who didn’t speak to her outright wasn’t her match. If Zuko had any time to scrutinise this, he’d come to the conclusion that perhaps that had been a clue for both of them all along.

“I don’t know. It’s weird, I know I’d always said I hated shit like that. But there were things I wanted to say to you that never came out.”

Zuko’s eyes widen, hands and eyes now curious to find any writings as they flipped through the page.

“I didn’t actually write anything, dipshit.”

Zuko freezes, a little red. “Why?”

“Because—” she pauses, as if genuinely curious herself, “You ended up saying everything in the end.”

Zuko closes his eyes and guesses that had been true.

“Write on it.” she says.

Zuko arches an eyebrow, “God, no. Mai, this is yours.”

“I can’t exactly get it back now can I?” she replies, faintly vicious, “Just write on it, Zuko. It’s not hard. You don’t really say things so you might as well write it. And it seems there’s a lot that’s happened.”

Zuko grips the pencil and feels a little like he’s floating on nothing but space. The car was getting warmer; his head was getting chillier. It all felt so much smaller.

“Are you still mad?” he asks, because it’s only fair.

A small chuckle. One Zuko knows are the ones that don’t reach her eyes. “Not forever.”

So they say goodbyes punctually like they’ve always had and Zuko begins to write.

Lists. He’d always been better with lists than any sort of elongated delicate language, he was always better with bulletpoints rather than explanations, actions rather than words. But when it came down to it—when it came down to people like Mai—he wrote hastened apologies on paper knowing it would be burned. What had gotten him here? In his Mercedez, staring longingly at the Mcdonald’s arch like it was the cross?

Zuko’s mind whisks back to gas station regrets and the mourning of the capitalist scheme and everything—so much of everything—inbetween. There lies no structure and he is so much better at structure than whatever this is. But Zuko persists one more time and writes. He writes enough to find structure. He writes enough to form it.

*

ACT I, SCENE I

#1: THE ENABLEMENT OF AANG TO BECOME VEGAN

Looking back, for anyone who might be questioned on how it had all fallen to place like puzzle pieces (though high schoolers never anticipate such proceedings in detail in the moment), it might’ve been Aang all along.

Some might be surprised. However, for anyone who’d known Aang since him, his skateboard and his childlike demeanor of curious sorts had arrived at Heavenmore smack in the middle of 7th grade, this is anything but surprising.  For it was Aang who’d enthusiastically co-ordinate the Heavenmore High Old Hollywood Junior Prom Committee, the Video Game-Chess Alliance Club (later extending to the HHSC—Heavenmore High Skate Community), Taekwondo Club, Footballers’ Debate Team, the Rainbow Alliance and the LGBTQA+ Skate Alliance. He championed for the revival of Book Week (“No plays. I am allergic to Shakespeare.”), the student newspaper (to promote Book Week) and explicit intellectuality of jocks (the Footballers’ Debate Team).

Aang, as he were, in his affluent six years in Heavenmore, had already long established himself as a catalyst of many fruitful things. After all, the once placid Toph Beifong had shown her truer colors as a complete utter badass at the hands of the Taekwondo Club, the Video Game-Chess Alliance reunited Sokka and Suki’s friendship after the breakup, the LGBTQA+ Skate Alliance hosted weekend barbeques at the skatepark, Book Week fundraised for better library facilities and the Footballers’ Debate Team questioned the most profound of topics (“Is game performance linked to how good the cheer team is?”).

Aang, now, bundled in his bunny slippers at home during what would eventually be a historical Sunday night, thought rather happily about these proceedings. Senior Year was about to begin at last and he was giddy with the realm of possibilities. He’d invited Sokka over for one last night to watch a movie whilst Katara had apparently visited Suki’s to discuss God-knows-what. But Sokka—neighborly proximity as close as he were—would probably not arrive until an hour or more. He glances down at his friend’s text 30 minutes ago saying ‘be there in 30 mins or idk lol’.

Aang grunts, far too aware of his friend’s tardiness enough to be somewhat fond of it. He hums lazily on the couch, browsing through Netflix without much interest as he scrolled blandly through his phone. Many were posting ‘first day of school tomorrow’ crying eye tear pictures at rapid rates on Snapchat. He settles on a food documentary about vegans, entirely unconcerned about such lifestyle and presses play.

*

Aang stares a little longingly at the almond milk carton at the local supermarket aisle 45 minutes later.

He’s twitchy, dazed and confused. He’s very, very annoyed. He dumps one carton into his shopping basket suspiciously loaded with plant-based burgers anyway.

*

Aang glares resolutely at the ingredients before him laid out for approximately 1 tall glass of a (vegan) strawberry banana smoothie. He adds 1 cup of the almond milk to the blender with a huff and turns it on, the ingredients whizzing about aggressively to create a light pink coloured thick beverage.

As soon as he finishes it, he pours it out into the glass. Takes two careful sips and, ultimately, hates it.

*

Sokka materializes twenty minutes later into the house as Aang brushes his teeth in the bathroom. He peers curiously into the fridge as he has done for many years and makes heart eyes at a pink smoothie. He takes a sip then another. Then another. He feels a weird buzz offhandedly at the taste; maybe too much bananas?

“Aang!’ he calls out in the direction of the hallway, “I’m drinking whatever this is.”

Aang just hums back, saying something about how he hadn’t liked the smoothie anyway. Sokka rolls his eyes and takes a big sip.

Whatever. It tastes good.

*

They’re both seated at the couch, a few minutes into World War Z with Sokka already making digs at Brad Pitt when he asks about the smoothie he has to the side, now half finished.

Aang barely takes his eyes off the screen, oddly invested, “Oh. It’s just a new recipe. I’m trying a new thing out. Might be good for a diet.”

Sokka grunts. Feels a weird tingling itch on his toes. And in a bizarre moment of stupefaction, he brazenly attributes this to his new socks.

*

Twenty whole minutes later, Sokka leans eloquently over the toilet bowl and vomits what he wholeheartedly believes to be his guts.

Aang, distressed and disarrayed, flails his hands around uselessly to Sokka's side. He’s been in this situation before during parties when Sokka believes he can take the booze (he can’t). But Sokka’s only drank a smoothie so far and Aang doesn’t think he did any pregame to the event of visiting Aang’s house.

“Jesus, Aang!” Sokka exclaims, “What the hell did you put in that smoothie?”

Sokka is desperately itching his arms and a rash is surely developing at his collar. Aang hysterically realizes zombie movies were not the right precursor to this night because he doesn’t think he can handle people turning into zombies over smoothie—he has attachments to his morning smoothie bowl.

“I don’t understand!” Aang cries, trying not to look at the hands itching, “It’s not like you’re lactose intolerant—wait. Are you?”

“No!”

“It doesn’t make sense. It’s just a standard smoothie, you have them all the time.” he says, “Man, even if you were suddenly lactose intolerant, it wouldn’t even make sense.”

“What?” Itching.

“This doesn’t have lactose.”

“Wha—?” More itching.

“I used almond milk. I got it from the store an hour ago.”

“I—” a pause.

“Maybe it’s those strawberries...they were a few days old.” Aang muses. He peers outside the bathroom in the direction of the kitchen, as if the punnet of strawberries inside his fridge were a convicted murderer

“Aang.”

Aang grips the door handle, ready to evict the murderer via the compost bin. “Don’t worry, I’ll get rid of them no—”

“Aang!”

“Huh?”

“I have tree nut allergy.”

*

One astounding hit of an EpiPen, a hasty trip to the doctor’s and Hakoda’s ‘what the fuck’ later, Sokka lurches more of his apparent guts out in the hospital. The nurse reports that Sokka Will Live to tell the story of how a half a glass of smoothie nearly killed him. Though he has to be in the hospital for a few days to calm more severe symptoms. Katara is called and worriedly frets before later laughing at a photo of Sokka spewing with a disgruntled nurse in sight. He grimaces at her over Facetime in an attempt to look threatening which wildly fails as he vomits merely a second later.

Aang apologizes profusely to the point of Sokka telling him to shut up. As he is, Aang is hit with enormous grief with the realisation that Sokka may never be able to taste the wonders of a pecan crumble.

It is, perhaps, then, in the small left-wing of Heavenmore Central Hospital that a domino fell amidst the chaos of allergies.

On account of his bodily revulsion to almonds, Sokka is absent the first week of school and consequently misses; a seating change, The Great Foreign Exchange Fire, a rumour and the arrival.

*

THE GREAT FOREIGN EXCHANGE FIRE

An arrival in Heavenmore High is always subject to watchful eyes—as is many entrances to any form of mystery in any high school. The student body gleefully indulges in the newfound spirit of peculiarity; for Heavenmore was a milder town of sheer mundanity, derived of families and neighbors who've known each other for far too many years for anything to be particularly exhilarating lest anyone in town say something scandalous every four months. In many ways, the revival of the intensity of mystery of a newcomer was long overdue and the students—as any teenager of this age would—revelled in it. In the hallways, various offhand descriptions of a new senior boy spread fast like lightning in the form of mouths and texts. A scar, the lightning bellows, there are talks of a scar. And big money. Far too big of money for even the most well off of Heavenmore. This had been greatly attributed, mostly, to the now infamous Mercedes. Allegedly parked along the Penshurst Estate; the town's largest home property amongst the suburbia enough to be gated and enough to be completely out of anyone's income bracket.

Above all, there were raging talks of an apparently moody exterior. 

“He does seem a little scary.” On Ji confesses through a bite of Doritos. She gets lightly whacked on the arm by Jin whose defenses mostly center on how pretty the new foreign exchange student's eyes are.

“What’s his name?”

“Zuko, I think.”

“God. Even his name sounds hot.”

“Ew, Jin.” On Ji swats a chip at her friend’s face, “This is not the time for your hormones.”

Along the other side of the courtyard, an entirely different discussion is taking place amongst the Skate Alliance on how to introduce the new student to the way of the skate.

“I’m going to talk to him,” Aang announces, defiant, and is met by a round of applause by the skaters.

Suki from Taekwondo merely mentions that it’d be good to have more boys in the club and continues to land a kick to her opponent (a boy). Girls along the indoor bleachers swoon.

It is, unfortunately, quite the surprise, five minutes before the end of lunch, when smoke filters through the air outside the Science classroom and into the hallways. The fire alarm beeps insistently like a siren; amassing the raging crowd of onlookers drawn to the sound, much to the distress of the teaching staff. A crash of glass resounds throughout as teachers flock to the door and the sound of teenage curiosity increases in whispers in the hallways. Just before an evacuation is called, the Science classroom door inexplicably unlocks.

Walking through it, Zuko Zheng—alleged foreign exchange student and now suspected arsonist—appears, clutching a fire extinguisher. Long hair slightly disheveled and a scar for the hallways to scrutinize, he remains silent. Predictably, the hallway erupts into waves of excitable chatter and Principal Piandao scans the situation, unimpressed.

Throughout it all, the fire alarm continues its resounding beep, as if signaling the reality of an arrival.