[ WP ] You live in a world where every conversation is a cliche . You are the only one that notices this .

`` Like, oh my god, he was so *totally* hot. Do you wan na go the mall for some shopping?'' 
 
 I snuck out downstairs, confident I was the only one who could see just how stupid my sister sounded. It was n't just her, too. Every single person in this world sounded and talked stupid. *I know*, I'm not old enough for this yet, blah, blah, blah, and nobody understands me, blah, blah - but stupid was like a light switch. It was n't a matter of opinion. The lights were either on or off, and you did n't need to be a goddam genius to know the world was a crumby place. It really was. But anyway- 
 
 I walked out the door that Dad used a lot when he was my age. As I climb on my bike, it's almost like I can hear him: `` Son, when I was your age, I made the twenty-minute cycle in ten minutes. You kids just need a bit more exercise, y'know? Get that ol' heart pumping.'' I ca n't actually hear him - he's dead now - but it's good to have him going on in the background. His voice is the one cliche I do n't mind at all. Sometimes I'd close my eyes and pretend to be him and stick motivational post-it notes everywhere. But I ca n't be him. So it goes. 
 
 Cycling to school, I pass by a bunch of senior citizens. Now, you do n't want to ride on their lawns, but every once in a while you can do so. People like old Frank who lived round the corner are cool. Those are a different cliche instead: the'cool old guy' cliche. But Frank's biggest problem was that he was always trying to be *too cool, * if y'know what I mean. Gah, I sound just like Dad now - down goes the'sounds like dad cliche', I guess. Anyway, I came up on the corner, and Frank waved at me as I flew past. I'd see him after school, I suppose. 
 
 I've made up my mind last night. I would tell the world about their cliches and overused ideas as soon as I got to school. Well, that was n't *all* true - I needed to do some math first. So anyway, I got to class, and when I sat through there was this whole script about how the equation of a straight line was y=mx+c and how to find something called an intercept and what *coordinates* were. It killed me. And not in the good kind of way, too. It killed me with'boredom', which I learned in English. Anyway when math class was over I went to see old Jerome David, also known to the cool kids as J.D, and he was the principal and all. I figured if anyone knew, it would be him. 
 
 -- - 
 
 `` So what brings you here, young man?'' J.D. asked me as I walked in. 
 
 `` *That*,'' I said. `` Y'all are all talking in cliches and overused tropes and stereotypes. Why do n't y'all cut it out and tell me what's going on?'' 
 
 `` We're not talking in stereotypes,'' J.D. said. He walked up to the carefully-framed picture of himself on the wall. Adjusting it, he said, `` We're just *talking. * Now, if you'll excuse me-'' 
 
 `` Do n't'*you'll excuse me*' me, Mr. J.D.,'' I said. `` That cliche is so overused it makes you look like such a fake.'' 
 
 J.D. walked back over to his seat, stared at me through his wireframe glasses, and asked me gently, `` Alright, so what do you want to know?'' 
 
 `` I want to know-'' But even when J.D. did n't look at me I did n't know. What, *exactly* was so wrong with these stereotypes? I mean, I had no reference. I did n't know where to put my goddam feet. I'm not joking. But I knew something was up. So I tried again. 
 
 `` I want to know,'' I said, taking a deep breath, `` just why everyone is speaking in stereotypes.'' 
 
 J.D. did n't answer immediately. Off to his left he picked up a small, finely printed book. *The Catcher in the Rye, * it was called. `` Do you recognise this?'' 
 
 `` I do n't know,'' I said, which was classic teen-speak for'screw off.' 
 
 `` Shame. You think I did n't recognise the cliches too? You think you're so special, being'the chosen one' and all, picked to point out the cliches of the world? You're just as much a cliche as the others, Holden - and what I would n't do to see you gain just a little bit of introspection.'' 
 
 I looked, and inside the cover of *The Catcher in the Rye* old J.D. had been left a tiny, post-it note: Take care of my boy when he grows up. 
 
 J.D. saw that I saw. I stood up. 
 
 `` Are you leaving?'' he asked. 
 
 `` I am,'' I said. 
 
 At the entrance, over the portrait of J.D, I stopped. It was n't that I liked J.D. any more now. It really was n't. It was just that leaving seemed such a crummy thing to do that I could n't do it completely. 
 
 `` *Fine, Dad, I'll read it, *'' I finally said. `` Give me the book, Mr. Principal.'' 
 

