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“You know, Lisa, for such a goody two-shoes, you sure get in a lot of trouble.”
“Shut up, Bart.” Lisa glared at her brother while she shrugged on her coat. “Having a moral compass isn’t the same thing as blindly obeying the arbitrary whims of authority.”
Bart shrugged and stretched out on the couch, cradling a game controller to his chest like it was a baby. “I’m just saying, I’m not the one going to detention on a Saturday.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Lisa said, rolling her eyes. “You’re the Danny Ocean of Springfield High. You’ll never be caught. Congratulations on gaming the system—you’ll go far in life.”
Bart looked faintly hurt. “There’s no need to get all sarcastic,” he said.
“Oh, I was perfectly serious,” Lisa said. “The system is bankrupt. The only way to win is not to play at all. Bart Simpson, you’re my hero.”
Lisa spun on her heel and marched out the front door. Let him chew on that last bit for a while. She wasn’t even sure if it had been sarcastic or not. One of the hazards of being an angry teen, she supposed.
Detention was detention. The Home Ec classroom smelled like cake and sadness when Lisa walked in, her Doc Martens squeaking sullenly on the dirty floor. The teacher, a youngish guy with deep bags under his eyes and a few days' worth of beard growth, introduced himself as Mr. Phinn and pointed her to a table across the room. He checked her name off the roster.
“Try not to have fun, I guess,” he said dispiritedly, and then stood up. “Well, I’m off to get blind drunk in the janitor’s closet. You don’t narc on me and I won’t narc on you.”
He picked up his briefcase, the contents of which clinked loudly, and walked out of the room. Lisa raised an eyebrow at Nelson, who, as usual, was sitting slumped over the table nearest the windows, doodling in a notebook.
“New guy?” she said.
“Teach for America,” Nelson answered. He tapped his teeth with his pencil. “I was giving him another three months before total burnout, but…”
“Doesn’t look good,” Lisa agreed. The only other person in detention was Uter, who had already fallen into a dyspeptic slumber, propped up on his overstuffed backpack and snorting in his sleep. Lisa gave his thin blond hair an affectionate ruffle as she walked by on her way to Nelson’s table. Uter had developed some kind of neurological issue where he compulsively ate flowers, and the plantings around the school building seemed to be particularly irresistible to him, which meant he was in detention all the time lately. Lisa had spent the previous Saturday’s detention with him sobbing into her jacket about azaleas, so she was sort of glad he was down for the count today.
“What are you in for this time?” Nelson asked, not looking up as Lisa sat down next to him.
“I punched Sherri in the face after she pantsed Ralph Wiggum,” Lisa said.
Nelson guffawed.
Lisa couldn't help smiling, even though she felt pretty bad about it. Not bad that Sherri was sporting a big ol’ shiner, or that she was in detention again (that happened with depressing frequency) but that she’d been weak enough to resort to violence. People like Sherri brought their own revenge on themselves; Lisa really hadn’t needed to assist in the process as vigorously as she did. Still, Ralph was sort of her special project, and Sherri was a horrible, vicious tyrant bent on destroying that poor kid’s sense of self.
They sat side by side in companionable silence for a few minutes. Lisa watched Nelson’s deft fingers as a drawing of a space ship took shape on the back of his half-completed Algebra homework.
“How about you?” Lisa asked finally. It wasn’t uncommon for Lisa and Nelson to end up in the same classroom for detention. It happened frequently enough that they were—well. Friends, Lisa guessed. Maybe.
Nelson shrugged. “The usual,” he said. Lisa nodded. That definitely meant graffiti. It was hard for the school janitors to keep up with Nelson’s vandalism, which had become significantly more sophisticated and also, if possible, even ruder, since he’d discovered the work of Banksy. The only problem was that Nelson was terrible at not getting caught. He designed these wildly funny and profoundly insulting images, and he'd gotten pretty good with large-scale stenciling. But he got caught every single time, usually red-handed.
“You should sign up for track,” Lisa said, “and work on your speed. Maybe you can outrun them next time.”
Nelson shook his head. “Wouldn’t do me any good,” he said. “Security cameras.”
“Wait, why are you doing this stuff where you know you’ll be visible on camera?” Lisa asked, incredulous. “Do you want to be caught?”
“I dunno,” Nelson shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Why?”
“Well,” he said quietly, “it isn’t so bad. Spending time with you.”
“You’re getting caught so we can hang out at detention?” Lisa didn’t know whether to be outraged or flattered.
“Maybe,” Nelson said, looking at her through his bangs. His eyes were very brown. Lisa swallowed, suddenly nervous.
“That’s—“ she didn’t know what it was. Stupid, sweet, weird, presumptuous, cowardly, hilarious. Something. Luckily, Nelson spared her the effort of finishing the sentence by tilting in and pressing his mouth against hers.
His lips were soft, and he smelled like spray paint, and somehow Nelson Muntz had gone from being a weirdly attractive asshole to someone Lisa could see herself with, could see herself liking just as he was. Someone she did like just as he was.
She smiled, and went in for another kiss.
“What did I say,” a voice said from the door, “about trying not to have fun?” Mr. Phinn wove into the room, obviously well into his day’s drinking. He waved at Lisa and Nelson, grimacing. “That looks entirely too fun for detention. Go do that somewhere else.”
Lisa and Nelson stared. Mr. Phinn pointed at the door. “Go on, get,” he said. “Go away. Be young and full of hope where I don’t have to look at you.”
Nelson shrugged. Lisa grabbed her backpack, and they left Uter and Mr. Phinn to their respective sad fates and went off to stick it to the man.
And also to make out.
Obviously.