Chapter 7: The Spectacle, Sudden Interest

Here’s a valuable life lesson for any fellow nerds out there: never, under any circumstances, announce to your entire school that you’re packing heat downstairs. Because apparently, once you plant that image in the collective teenage brain, everyone becomes a fucking private investigator specializing in dick detection.

The moment I rolled up to Lincoln High on my ancient bike this morning—because yes, I’m still riding the same Trek I got for my thirteenth birthday while Jack Morrison drives a Tesla—every single person in the parking lot transformed into CSI: Crotch Division.

Eyes went straight to ground zero like they were expecting some kind of bulge-shaped confirmation of yesterday’s legendary meltdown.

Here’s where my morning went from embarrassing to apocalyptic: remember how my system "enhancement" took me from well-endowed to requiring a fucking architectural permit? Yeah, well, my existing wardrobe didn’t receive the upgrade memo. And I’m walking around with a situation that would make airport security uncomfortable, and my genius solution was strategic backpack placement.

Specifically, clutching my bag over my crotch like it weighed forty pounds and pretending this was totally normal human behavior.

This might have been the single dumbest idea in the history of terrible ideas, and I once thought it was smart to debate dick physics in public.

"Oh my GOD, he’s totally hiding it!"

"Bro, why is he carrying his bag like he’s smuggling contraband?"

"Is he seriously trying to stealth-mode his junk right now?"

"PETER’S PROTECTING THE NATIONAL TREASURE!"

And naturally, every phone in a fifty-foot radius is out, documenting my walk of shame like it’s breaking news on CNN. Because nothing screams "quality American education" like turning someone’s wardrobe crisis into TikTok gold.

"Yo, Carter! Stop being a pussy and show us the goods!"

"Don’t be shy, man! You already gave us the sales pitch!"

"Prove it or admit you’re full of shit!"

"We want evidence, not promises!"

Fantastic. Just absolutely fucking fantastic. Now I’m not just the smart nerd who got his brain rearranged by the quarterback—I’m the kid who claims to be packing and won’t provide photographic evidence. Which somehow makes me look even more pathetic than my baseline level of pathetic, and that’s saying something.

But here’s the weird plot twist that made this social crucifixion slightly less soul-destroying: people are definitely looking at me differently now.

It started at home during what I like to call "The Great Carter Family Stare-Down of Wednesday Morning." Mom kept glancing at me like I was some random guy who’d broken into her house and was cosplaying as her son. She’d look, do this confused double-take, then return to her coffee with the expression of someone trying to solve advanced calculus.

"Peter, did you... do something different? New haircut?"

"Nope."

"Contact lenses?"

"Mom, I don’t like to wear glasses anymore."

"You just look... I don’t know. Better?"

Thanks for that confidence boost, Mother. Really cementing that baseline attractiveness we’ve established over the years.

My twin sisters were exponentially worse. Sarah and Emma kept stealing glances across the breakfast table like I was some kind of science experiment that had achieved sentience overnight. Finally, Emma—who has the subtlety of a brick through a window—couldn’t contain herself anymore.

"Okay, what the actual hell happened to you? You look like... human."

"Wow. Your capacity for flattery knows no bounds."

"No, for real though. Did you discover skincare? Hit puberty again? Make a deal with the devil?"

"I got punched in the face and passed out in the nurse’s office. That’s literally my entire character development arc."

They shared one of those creepy twin telepathy moments that always reminded me I’m the adopted outsider in this family dynamic.

And it’s the exact same energy here at school. I can feel the shift in the atmosphere—like someone adjusted the lighting and suddenly I’m visible to an entirely new demographic. Girls are actually making eye contact instead of practicing their "please don’t talk to me" expressions that I’ve become intimately familiar with over the years.

I catch fragments of a conversation between the girls I know as Madison Torres and Ashley near the lockers, and it’s like listening to a nature documentary about teenage mating rituals:

"I mean, maybe it’s because we know he’s... you know, properly equipped now? But he actually looks kind of cute today."

"Right? Like, I never noticed he had decent bone structure before."

"Honestly, I’d rather hook up with a guy who’s not conventionally gorgeous but knows how to use what he’s got than some pretty boy who’s all Instagram and no performance."

What in the actual fuck. These are the same hot girls who’ve spent four years treating me like I have an infectious disease, and now they’re discussing my sexual potential like I’m a fucking Amazon product with five-star reviews. Part of me wants to march over there and remind them that Jack Morrison is literally twenty feet away if they want to test their theory about dysfunctional pretty boys.

But another part of me—the part that’s been rejected, ignored, and treated like social radioactive waste for years—is practically glowing with validation.

Because here’s some real talk: there’s one thing women want more than money, more than perfect Instagram boyfriends, more than designer bullshit. They want mind-blowing sex. The kind that ruins them for everyone else, the kind that makes them forget their own names. And despite what romance novels might suggest, that starts with being properly equipped for the job.

No wonder they’re suddenly seeing me in HD instead of standard definition. I’m not just the nerdy kid anymore—I’m the nerdy kid with premium hardware and the potential to actually know how to use it.

But that doesn’t mean they’re about to start sliding into my DMs or anything. What do you think I am, some kind of incubus who radiates "come fuck me" energy just by existing?

As I navigate toward my locker through the hallway chaos, I hear the commotion before I see the source. The area around my locker is absolutely packed with students, and they’re all chanting in perfect rhythm like some kind of tribal ritual celebrating my genital mythology.

"HUGE DICK! HUGE DICK! HUGE DICK!"