The light faded, and I found myself in a high school hallway resembling a convention of teenage aliens—spiky hair defying gravity, pastel-colored shirts that hurt my eyes, neon accessories that could probably be seen from space, and hairstyles that made lion manes look tame.

  "Ashley!"

  Through the sea of 80s fashion disasters, I spotted my first target: a stunning blonde in an acid-washed jacket. She winked, and I followed. This would be easy—after all, I was quite the ladies' man in my time.

  I slipped behind her at her locker, smoothly sliding the jacket from her shoulders. "Babe... you're bodacious like a stunning sun, and I don't blame you if you want to eat my shorts."

  "EEW!" Her one-ton book bag was connected to my head before I could dodge it.

  SLAM!

  Two letterman-jacketed giants introduced my face to a locker. Through the mirror inside, I finally saw my fiancée's revenge: a buck-toothed, pimple-faced mess with thick glasses and questionable hygiene. The master of smooth-talking had become the king of the nerds.

  "ARGH!"

  "In your classroom, now, Mr. Slik!" A well-dressed, overweight woman, whom I assumed was the principal, grabbed my shoulder and dragged me toward one of the classrooms.

  I complied, but she stopped midstride.

  "UFF!" She pinched her nose. "Mr. Slik, did you shower today?"

  I grinded my teeth. My fiancée hadn't just transformed me—she'd crafted the perfect teenage nightmare. The smell of revenge was anything but sweet.

  * * *

  The principal shoved me into the classroom, keeping me at arm's length. The small room was nothing like the comfortable white pod learning stations I was used to in the future. Instead, these primitives sat in what I can only describe as crude torture devices: ancient desk-chair combinations. Each had four spindly metal legs supporting a thin wooden seat, while a P-shaped wooden surface extended from one side. I struggled to squeeze my oversized gut between the desk and chair.

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  I sat in the back of the classroom, away from any groups of students chit-chatting before class, hoping nobody noticed the horror of the body I inhabited. A voice from the front of the classroom commanded us to sit, and the subsequent revelation of my torture stood before my eyes.

  The teacher was a withering 90-year-old nun who looked like she'd been teaching since the invention of the wheel. Her black and white habit had all the warmth of a maximum-security prison uniform, and the missing front tooth only added to her intimidating presence. A triangle-shaped plaque on her plywood laminated desk read 'Ms. Rhonda Carter'.

  I wanted to die!!

  "Students!" she hit the desk with a long, thin wooden ruler as if mocking me with my prized objective. "Today is the final day of your poetry test. Mr. Slik... you're next."

  My heart sank to the deepest black hole in the outer solar system. The ruler in her wrinkled hand was my target, but how do you romance a 90-year-old nun with a missing front tooth? My future depended on whatever poetic disaster was about to unfold.

  I wobbled to the front of the class, my oversized body barely squeezing through the rows of desks. Someone snickered. Someone else made a farting noise. I cleared my throat, adjusted my thick glasses, and channeled what was left of my legendary charm.

  "You're bodacious, Sister Carter, like a... um... holy shooting star,

  Your ruler's made of awesome wood, just like my favorite peanut butter bar.

  Your habit's black and white and neat, like penguins at the zoo,

  And if you'd share your ruler now... I promise... eat my shorts...

  I mean, blessings to you? Shalom."

  The silence that followed was deafening. Sister Carter's face turned several interesting shades of red before settling on a color I can only describe as 'fury from hell.'

  What happened next was a blur of ruler slaps, detention slips, and the kind of lecture about respecting the cloth that would make even a hardened space pirate blush. As I nursed my stinging palms, I realized my smooth-talking days were over. Way behind me, like my amazing looks and dignity.

  The next hour in detention felt like an eternity, but at least it gave my hands time to stop throbbing.

  The black and white oval clock on the room's front wall hovered as a watchful overlord. The time was 4 pm or so. I think. It was hard to decipher from the two hands of that ancient artifact. I have only one hour left and no prospect of saving my life.

  Sitting on a similar plywood desk, the fellow shushed me to leave like some discarded pestilence.

  I shuffled through the dimly lit halls and outside structure. Even the afternoon shadows seemed to follow me, a reminder of my imminent doom. My plans to be the most desirable man on Earth were already disintegrated.

  But one last hope lifted my despair. The sun shone on a rectangular building in front of the school where many kids gathered. A rusty metal pole held a neon sign reading 'Skate Galaxy,' below a black-lettering subtitle reading 'Featuring Wanda Walters and her roller derby demolition team.'

  A roller derby demolition team. Great. My final hope rested on convincing a group of skating warriors to hand over a Walkman while looking like a sweaty, bespectacled mess. But hey, between facing certain death by molecular disintegration and potential death by roller skate, at least the skates would make for a more interesting story at my funeral.