How can I help it if I think you're funny when you're mad
Tryin' hard not to smile though I feel bad
I'm the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral
Can't understand what I mean?
Well, you soon will… ~BNL

It didn’t take long to realize that someone in Whitman had a vendetta against someone in Basco. While dorm life equipped its veterans with a strong cynicism for peculiarity, it also made them particularly sensitive to potential entertainment.

Besides it would take a lot more than a jaded appetite to ignore the wall of superglued Cheerios cartons barricading Zuko’s door. QUARANTINED said the black shoe polish across the stacked cardboard.

That was Monday.

Tuesday he found the drier open and half of his socks nowhere in the sight (Zuko didn’t know how to go about telling a left sock from a right one, but he was betting Katara found a way: age seemed to have turned her madness methodical. Also, where were his track pants?)

Wednesday, there was a chalk outline beneath his window…addressed to “Zuzu, with love.”

Thursday found his bike hauled up the nearest picturesque oak tree, secured to the branches with duct tape and a very familiar pair—well, at least he had the pants back.

Friday was all about Icy Hot and theories on who the hell she bribed to sneak into locker room.

Saturday he met Jin outside the movie theatre, arriving fifteen minutes late due to having to scrape the charred Twinkie mush off his doorknob. She gave him a puzzled glance. “Someone looks happy. Good week?”

“Amazing,” Zuko assured her, wondering about tomorrow.