Outside the school, Ty "He's Kissing Christian" Hicks, unfortunately clad in a v-neck sweater with nothing on underneath, is annoyingly narrating his own actions: "Across the crowded green, he spots her. Stealthily, the lion crosses and settles in beside his prey, the helpless llama." Llama? Jen "Other" Lindley looks up briefly, and then down again, greeting him stiffly and without any apparent interest in him. Ty is undaunted by her "go away" body language, and says, "Well, as far as I know, there have been three phone messages to you in this last week -- adorable phone messages with my number included. So I was just wondering why you haven't returned any of them." Jen smiles dismissively and says he's on her "to call" list and that she's just working her way around. Ty says, "Not to toot my own horn, but I could swear you were into me that night that we went out." Jen replies, "Not to toot your own horn, or anything." Ty astutely concludes, "It was the party, wasn't it. All that Bible-speak, it freaked you out." Jen agrees that it did. Ty says, "Jen, that's not all that I am, all right? For your information, I'm not some Bible-banging Dorkus McWarkus here." Uh, I believe the term is "Dorkus Malorkus," or, alternatively, "Dorkus Maximus." Jen giggles and says that she's sure he's not: "It's just, okay, obviously your religion is something that's very important to you. I just see it as an inevitable obstacle in our relationship." Ty says, "Don't you think that we should go out on our first date before you map out our entire future?" Jen says he's sweet and funny, but that since he goes to Bible study three times a week -- about as often as she's been to church in the past ten years -- he should see why the two of them probably won't ever be more than friends. At that, she gets up to leave. Ty says that Jen's speech proves how little she knows him: "I'm not funny at all." Hey, he's right! Ty adds that he isn't giving up. Jen says that's a shame. Ty says he thought most women admired persistence. Jen says, "That just goes to show how little you know about me: I'm not most women." Woo. These two have all the chemistry of runny oatmeal.
Inside, Mr. Peterson is collecting everyone's poetry assignments. He stops at Pacey, who is fumbling with his books looking for it. Mr. Peterson says, "Mr. Witter. Empty-handed, I presume?" Pacey frantically says, "No, it was in here. I mean, I had it at the locker. I must have... left it right here in my binder!" Way to confound expectations, Pacey. Mr. Peterson regards the assignment, which Pacey has apparently entitled: "Ode to the Sports Car." Mr. Peterson casts aspersions on the quality of Pacey's penmanship. Pacey says, by way of defense, that he worked hard on the poem. Mr. Peterson says, "I'm sure. However, you neglected penmanship, and presentation is half the grade." Half? Is the other half what a student gets just for showing up? What kind of crappy school is this? Mr. Peterson continues: "So, as I see it, you have two choices. You can bring the poem in tomorrow, written legibly, and lose points for handing it in late, or you can hand it in as it is, and the highest grade you'll see will be your old friend, the letter D." Pacey says that isn't fair, and Mr. Peterson says, "Fairness is overrated." Pacey turns to Jack and mutters, "Is it just me, or does that man get meaner every day?" Jack says, "It's not just you." Mr. Peterson hears this and asks Jack what he said. Jack says, "Nothing." Mr. Peterson says, "I trust that your poetry assignment went well, Mr. McPhee. We're all aware of how critical it is to your deficient grade in this class." Jack says that it went fine. Mr. Peterson says, "Good! Then perhaps you would like to read your poem for the class." Jack nervously says, "Uh, you said that these poems were just for you." Mr. Peterson says, "I changed my mind. These things happen." Jack and Mr. Peterson go back and forth a few times over this, until Jack finally capitulates. It's never explained why Mr. Peterson has everyone else's poem, but Jack held onto his. Anyway, Jack gets up and, broadcasting abject terror from every pore, reads: