The Rizzler’s Revenge

A Stuyvesant high school student, fed up with love, tries to cause magical hatred, only to have his plan backfire horribly.

Reading Time: 4 minutes

Cover Image
By Rhea Malhotra

Romeo. That’s what they decided to name me. Nine months and that’s the best they could come up with. Plus, guess what day I was born? February 14. That wasn’t even the worst part; my nickname was:

“Hola, Cupid,” sings my Little Sib. 

“I am a senior and you will respect me-” I bark, desperately trying to get this freshman punk to remember his place. “And could you please call me anything but Cupid? ‘Romeo.’ ‘The Rizzler.’ Anything else. ”  

“It’s just too perfect. You hate love, and my chihuahua is taller than you. Face it, you’re him, Cupie.”  Ugh. The freshmen this year were the absolute worst. 

“Get your freshmen freshness away from me!” I snap, stalking to my next class. 

As I walk down the halls, I’m graced with the sight of not one, not two, but three couples making out on the benches. 

“Stick your tongue any farther down his throat and he’ll choke on it,” I mutter. With the wretched holiday I was born on fast approaching, the PDA in Stuyvesant was getting out of control. This was supposed to be a nerd school, for Harvard’s sake! Everybody was supposed to be too busy crying in bathroom stalls over college apps to be feeling each other up. It just wasn’t fair. Year after year I have worked, but still my crush remained indifferent to my existence (except for the time I stole her homework so I could look like the hero when I “found” it). Why should they enjoy life together when I’m suffering alone? 

Later, at home, an evil plan began to come together. 

“I can return this school to its former glory,” I mutter with a malicious smirk as I hold the beaker containing my life’s greatest work up to the light. 

“They’ll never even see me coming! MWAHAHAHAHA-”

“Romeo, that doesn’t sound like studying! Don’t make me come down there!” a voice calls from upstairs. 

“Sorry, mommy,” I say meekly. 

Valentine’s Day

It was done. Monday’s lunch of puny pizza slices had been spiked with the ultimate hate potion. If all went according to plan, everyone who ate cafeteria food would turn into hate zombies. No PDA in sight. I stroll through the halls, whistling. 

“Yo, Cupie!” calls a familiar voice. I cringe. My Little Sib. But I knew for a fact he eats school lunch, so the hate potion should have kicked in by now. But instead of hate brimming in his eyes, I see him holding a guitar, which he (poorly) begins to play right there in the cafeteria, thus beginning the most excruciating 30 seconds of my life. The sounds of guitar strings being yanked around and mutilated under his bony fingers fill my ears. Suddenly, he bursts into song, the guitar screeching to match his voice. 

“O Romeo, O Romeo, 

Oh Romeo, how I love you so,

Sure, you’re super tiny,

And also kinda whiny

But it’s cool, it's whateva,

I know we’re still perfect togetheeeeeer-”

I scream. What’s going on?! Could it be that I mixed up bat poop with unicorn poop and created a super love potion instead?!  And now they were all obsessed with me?!

“I love you, Romy! My ickle baby boo bear! MARRY ME!” my Little Sib cried. 

“Uh, no thanks-”


“No, it's just that I think it’s kinda illegalsies? You’re a little too young for me,” I remark before I turn and sprint away.

Everywhere in the halls, people scream and claw at me. 




A cold bony hand wraps around my ankle. I scream again. Even the zombies want me! No, not zombies. No, far worse: my Little Sib. 

“NOT THE CUSTOM AIR FORCES! MY BABIES!” I shriek, trying to kick him off. Another two students grab me and one sniffs my hair. 


“HELP MEEEEEE!” I’m drowning in a pile of manic students. I’m going to be put in the Hall of Fame for the most ridiculous death ever

“GRAB THAT KID!” I blink. Well, somebody had a weird love language. Wait, no, two school security guards were running toward me and my magically induced fancult. 

“You’re to be escorted out of the school at once,” states a guard as they grab me. 

“HAHAHAHA! SO LONG, SUCKERS! SEE YOU NEVER, MOTHER HUGGERS!” I crow. “By the way, where are the police? I’d like to be escorted to a premium detention center, but anywhere away from this pit of despairing, hormonal adolescents is also fine.” 

“They’re not coming,” the guard says. “This situation doesn’t call for the police. Obviously, you can’t stick around because the entire student body is creepily thirsting after you, but like… you don’t need to go to jail for this. It’s not that deep, jeez.”

What?! So I was escaping Stuy and I didn’t have to go to jail? Win-win for me! 

“Yeah, so anyway, you still have to like, graduate or whatever, so you’ll be attending summer school by yourself instead. Hope you didn’t have any plans,” the guard finishes.