Sponge by Patrick Henehan

In this clever fictional character study, Patrick Henehan’s protagonist, Sponge, looks back at his adolescence to tell the following story from the vantage point of his 33-year-old self.

Sponge

An Excerpt by Patrick Henehan

I really like sponges.

This may seem like an odd way to begin, but sponges practically sum up my life. They're just sort of there; no one really notices them, but they soak it all in and absorb everything around them. Just replace water with social interactions and conversation, and you have my life right there. I soak it all in, and never let it out.

Until now.

I am writing this in order to get out the emotions I have kept bottled up inside me for all these years of my life. If you don't like it, you don't have to stay. It will be disturbing at times, funny at others, and heartbreaking, too. I guarantee that it will be one hell of a ride—or a train wreck—depending on how you look at it. 

      I'm Mitch. Or at least that's my given name. My mother, who I never really knew, gave it to me. I have been known by a lot of names, one of them being jerk head—and another, of course, being Sponge.

      This brings me back to the beginning. I hated sponges throughout my 10th grade year, and wouldn't even say the word. I had to say "washing device." The word sponge dropped out of my vocabulary, as I was painfully reminded of it every time I walked the halls in school. After that year, I got used to it, though. I mean, now I'm 33 and work at a video store. (Yes, I know that video stores hardly exist anymore and most people use On Demand, but that's probably why I make so little money.) At work, I am still known as Sponge. At some point, you just have to say screw it, and wear it as a badge of honor.

      This is the story of how I overcame hated insults and my oppressive father, and learned to love my life, even if it cost me an education, my grades, and the respect of many.

      So it was my first day in 10th grade, and I was prepared. I didn't know a single person, but I had a good plan to get people to know me. The previous night, I had made 50 identical index cards for every student in my homeroom. On the cards it said something about me, such as I like music, or I hate swimming or I sucked my thumb until I was 13. All useful things to know. It also had my name, Mitch Parker.

      I know I could have just told it to everyone, but I figured that might be awkward, saying random things about myself in front of the whole class, so I decided to be more subtle. Besides, handing them out would be quicker than telling 50 individual people something about myself. Pretty soon, I figured, people would read the cards and get to know me. I'd be popular in no time.

You see, my new school was much larger than my old one. My old town had a population of 1,000 people, and the public high school only had about 100 students. Here in my new town there were five times that many in each grade. You really have to sort people into different categories, and filter out a lot of things that don't apply to you. I began to filter out some of the kids as they walked into homeroom. Some looked like jerks. Some looked like bigger jerks. And finally, there were some attractive girls. (Of course, I wasn't exactly Taylor Lautner myself.) Then some more people I couldn't exactly sort into a category. I handed each one an index card, and waited to become the most popular kid in school in a matter of minutes. The whole homeroom would know me.

      Unfortunately, there were a couple factors I didn't consider. Everyone left the cards at their desks when homeroom was over, which I didn't mind, since the people in the next class might read them as well. However, pretty soon, the cards were scattered all over the school. I even found one in a bathroom stall. I don't much like the idea of people reading about my life as they use the toilet.

Chapter 2

My first month of sophomore year sucked. I was called Sponge wherever I went. Even the gym teacher was in on it. I figured if I pretended I was okay with it, it would eventually stop, but it didn't.

      In October, I discovered that there would be a sophomore dance. There was this one girl, Kate, that I really liked. She was hot, and seemed really nice, too. I had never actually talked to her, though.

      I hate it when people in advice columns and magazines say, "Just talk to her," when there's a girl you like. It's not that simple. I would have to do something to get noticed.

      I wasn't really good at anything, so I realized I would have to get creative. I needed to do something to get her to notice me, without her being able to tell I was a loser. It would be difficult.

      I had my first opportunity when I saw her in the hallway with two foolish looking jocks from the football team. Or the basketball team. I couldn't tell. I never knew much about sports. In the hallway, there were lots of people, since it was in between classes. Kate’s long, black hair, combined with the fact that she was a head taller than anyone else, including the jocks, made her the center of attention. I decided to just walk up to her, and I stood there for a few seconds.

      "Hey. You."

      It was one of the muscular athletes. I had to act fast, or the janitor would have to scrape me off the floor like a piece of gum by the time those jocks got done with me. 

      I didn't really know what to do, but she was staring at me, which I thought meant I was probably off to a good start. Finally, I began to dance, since I wanted to hint at the whole sophomore dance idea.

      At this point, those two football players began to shake their heads, almost simultaneously. Then, both of them walked away. One murmured, "Retard," just loudly enough for me to hear.

      Well, my dance completely backfired. I began to sort of shake my body around. I thought I was doing a pretty good job. I didn't want it to be too sexual, but I didn't want to be awkward either, so I started shaking my hips a little, slowly increasing how much I was doing it. Pretty soon, I was shaking like a Hawaiian palm shivering in a blizzard. Kate must not have liked to dance, though, because she made a face at me, and walked away. It showed that I, the peasant lowlife, was not even worthy of her grand high snobbishness. I don't know what I had been thinking.

      The only people that ever seem to be nice to me are drunk people. Once, I was at a convenience store buying some snack cakes and a soda, when an old lady walked up to me. She started telling me I would go really far in life. Then, she started to touch me, not in a weird way, at first, but then she started to feel my body in an odd way. It was a good thing I noticed she was going blind, by her walking stick and dark glasses, or I would have been really creeped out. She kept raving about how she thought I would be famous.

      Then, she staggered off and I realized she was carrying several empty beer cans . . .

      It's a terrible idea to get drunk if you can't see in the first place, but at the same time, I felt sympathy for her. In fact, to this day, whenever I think of her, I cry. She told me I would go far in life. She was wrong, but that's part of the reason why I cry. She was nice to me. Yes, she was drunk, but you get my point. Not even my father is nice to me. Yet a drunk old woman in the street was. It really meant a lot to me at the time, and still does.

About the Author

Sixteen-year-old Patrick Henehan is a high school junior, who enjoys art, making music, and reading. Two of Patrick’s favorite authors are the novelists Edgar Allen Poe and Charles Dickens.