Admittedly, I spend my weekends in a long, fitful fugue of phone browsing and lying on my back, watching the light filter through my windows. The days are shorter than you'd imagine, punctuated by more vivid memories of either my daily trips through the forest (I wore something besides a trenchcoat, I swear, but none of my other clothes fit right) and the occasional, erratic meal. On Sunday I leave at 8 and don't come back into 4, when I was so hungry that I almost ate a rabbit. I've managed not to kill anything yet--not that I'm counting this as an accomplishment.

All this passes through my mind idly with the trees on Monday morning. I have my shoulder against the window and the sun warms my hair, triggering that ancient, sacred feeling of wow, it is way too nice to get up right now.

I catch a few trees on the way there that I think I passed over the weekend. My heart quickens, thinking about something just out of the grip of my memory, but depressingly omnipresent (like peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth... okay, bad analogy, but now I'm hungry), and the feeling passes just as quickly. The clouds are settling back in overhead, after a surprisingly clear weekend, so we're picking up just where we left off. The sky, which is a patchwork of colors, glistens as sunlight reflects off every cloud. Meanwhile, down with the rest of the mortals, I enter the school and shut nature outside.

I can almost see your face in the glass, set apart from me by the barrier of the sky.

It hurts.

Class opens to an undercurrent of gossip, with everyone holed up back in their corners, snidely glancing at each other or leaning over desks to talk about-- yeah, we're still on the game. Owen is barely talking, only occasionally sniffing or muttering under his breath, and the Portal class kids are clustered around him. Hoshi, like the other ground classers, is on the edge of this, humming to herself (damn, her voice is good, even from over here. I lean in. Damn). Alya is conspicuously absent, which means that the classroom is 20% darker than usual owing to a lack of glowsticks. Sitting where Alien Rave usually would is Maris, arms folded. Sarah, too, is right up against the others.

"I can't believe I missed it! I was sooooo excited, too." Sarah says. "Sometime we have to make up for this with a party, or something. We should do something big! I could host."

"Make up for what?" asks Owen, but Sarah is already railing off plans for a get together.

"I guess it would be nice to get out of the house," sighs Brittany. "Arthur?"

"Hm?" Arthur looks up. "Oh. Yes. Definitely."

Brittany rolls her eyes. She puts her hand gently on his. "So, anyways, as I was saying about my old school..."

The conversations trail off before halting entirely as Ms. Shinke shuffles to the board. "We have an important matter of business to attend to today." The room goes cold. Owen rubs his face where it's been bruised. "In past years, we've elected student government representatives from our classroom based on popular consensus, but this year administration has specially appointed students for the purpose of..." Ms. Shinke narrows her eyes, squinting to read a paper that isn't there. "...building trust between communities, exemplifying values such as scholarship and leadership, and exceptional behavior."

The energy in the room seems to deflate. I can hear the chuckling radiator choke on its own metal breath.

"Arthur Spienwell and Brittany Dyad, you will be our representatives. I'd ask you if you accept, but to be quite frank, for your own well-being, I suggest that you do."

"Thank you," Arthur says, curtly, raising a hand to cut her off. "I'll do my best."

Brittany only raises a hand to her piercings in silence, lips pursed. .

Ms. Shinke nods to the two of them, her glare shrewd from behind her glasses. She turns back to the board, marker in hand. "We will begin with--"

"Wait, wait." says Mikayla, standing up. "Wait. Did you hear a word of that?"

"I believe all of our ears are still functional, yes. Is there a problem?" Arthur asks. He does not leave his desk, his hands folded with professional, easy tact, but I can sense the whole room about to jump to their feet. The instinct that still thrives in us, that urge to be part of the scene, courses right below our veins.

"They've handpicked the poster boy of Extras and the only approachable female in our class because the rest of us might be a problem." I think this is unfair, to be frank, seeing as Sarah wants nothing better than to be approached.

"They don't want problems. I hardly think that's unfair." Arthur offers.

"You want a problem? None of us can join sports teams, we're cut off from the rest of the school and thusly most academic opportunities, and any 'integration' is done begrudgingly from both sides. Owen was beat up in a hallway on Friday night. We threaten people, and from what I've heard from older classes, it doesn't magically go away when you get back into the school proper. In fact, if anyone's previous experience means anything--Owen and Lilith can attest to this--there's a good chance that it'll be like this forever. So they decide to pick the two most benign kids they can manage, pat themselves on the back, and they don't have to worry about dissent for another year."

"Hey, now. It's not always like that." he insists.

"Is it? Not all of us are golden good old American boys who came back with a sword and renewed confidence. Some of us came back with anger issues, nightmares, bruises, or hospital bills..."

"This isn't about your vendetta with the hospital." Arthur says, finally rising to his feet. His pearl-white teeth are clenched, making his perfect dimpled jaw stick out.

"No. It isn't. It's about how they don't know how to accommodate us." says Maris, quietly.

Brittany's eyebrow raises. She looks to Arthur, who looks back to her, his expression easing up. The two of them are bordered by a wall of noise as all around him, nearly two dozen voices mutter amongst themselves. I'm right next to Mikayla, and though my vision has worsened since experimentation, I have twice the eye for movement. I can see her shaking, and heck, I can practically smell the tension in the room. I only realize now that my mouth is hanging open.

Arthur turns from Mikayla to the teacher. There's an unexpected amount of concern in his own voice when he croaks, "Well?"

Ms. Shinke takes her thermos from the table and takes a liberal swig of what I'm certain isn't water. She places it down, arms half folded, and her cracked lips purse. Slowly, she says, "I was wondering who would be the first to point out that 'student government' should be governed by the students."

"If you think it's best, ma'am," Arthur says, nodding. He sits back down, resuming perfect posture. Mikayla follows, but she eases into the desk, glaring at him all the while. Her chest collapses when she's finally down, and I try to get her attention, but she, too, is focused straight ahead.

"Traditionally, classes do speeches, but..." Ms. Shinke says, pausing when she gets several animated groans, most of which are from people who aren't paying attention in class anyways (looking at you, Lilith, your notes are empty and your face is full of your girlfriend's tongue). "Who'd actually like to be part of the student council?" Arthur hesitantly raises his hand again, then Maris raises hers as well. Brittany has her hands over her face as she tentatively puts hers up. Ms. Shinke narrows her eyes, "Is that all?"

"Alya's not here," says Maris. "Do you think she'd be interested?"

"Yeah, but do you think Alya might actually deck someone if we let her go?" Lilith asks.

"Who in this room wouldn't deck someone?" I fire back.

"Maris had that run-in over the weekend..." notes Brittany.

Maris's cheeks flush red. "That's gotten out already?"

"Oh!" Sarah practically dances on her chair. "You know, if we just want stable candidates, I guess Arthur and Brittany would be the best candidates."

No one is in agreement with this line of logic, obviously, but no one sure as hell says anything to contradict it.

Ms. Shinke grimly leans into her pole. "Thank you all for your dedication to democracy. Now that we've gone in a full circle, may we please return to the lesson plan?"

It's history, of course, and while I didn't learn anything (also unfortunately a statement that might necessitate an "of course"), I'm sure from the intonations of Ms. Shinke's voice at various points that we were all supposed to have learned a valuable lesson from this. I manage to jot a few notes down, but early American history has never been my topic. In fact, if we ever find "my topic", we can all go for a happy jaunt in the park together. It'll be just our happy ending and the theoretical school topic I don't suck at--two things that don't exist.

I spend most of the lesson when I'm more blatantly not paying attention trying to signal Mikayla with my eyes. She finally notices me and her eyes immediately go straight back to her paper, as if nothing occurred.

"Mikayla?" I finally venture.

"Stop looking at me," she says beneath her breath.

I really can't sit here for two hours straight, but bouncing my foot up and down isn't cutting it today. Sometimes I fake conversations with you in my head when I'm really... what's a word for homesick, but it's for a time, instead? Nostalgic comes to mind, but just saying I'm nostalgic for everything we went through makes me sick. I still remember the nauseating scent of the rooms where they made us into monsters, the tests, every single time I was suspended over the edge of death to test my endurance...

I've owned this pencil for three years, actually, Amy. Isn't it weird how many small items have outlived the people we used to be?

I have a whole bunch of... I don't know what she'd say. This isn't working. What are you doing, Derrick?

I'm avoiding taking history notes. It's too early for early America.

What are you doing, Derrick?

Maybe Mikayla was right to send me to a counselor. I just wish she'd talk to me. Mikaaaaaaaayla. I think I'm staring through the back of her head, but she doesn't look up again. There are so many bags at the edge of her eyes, and for the first time, I think I notice something long and sharp cutting its way across her arm, the thinnest of ridges almost perfectly tucked away by how she folds her arms to the desk.

When the bell finally rings, I'm overcome with relief. This is quickly drained from my body when I realize lunch is going to be just as if not more awkward. Most of the portal-classes still cluster at the center of the table, but none of them are talking to each other. By the time I'm situated and I've resuciated myself from the drab hell of last period by way of a ham sandwich, Arthur is talking to the others with that same snotty, authoritative tone you hear adults using when they think they know exactly what's best for you: "I understand the concern, and she's not wrong. It's just that I know these kids, they know me and starting something here isn't going to fix anything. Anyways, there was no need for her to start pushing a political agenda on us."

Brittany nods, but she looks more invested in her sandwich than the conversation. The others are eating as well, so I can't tell if they're reacting to him or the food, but regardless, there's a notable shift.

"To be frank I'm not entirely sure what she was going for." Arthur doesn't quite laugh, per say, but he has this very punchable expression going right now that just screams agree with me, peasants.

Meanwhile, Mikayla, who is on my right and down some, stares over her protein bars. Her dark circles seem to be rapidly intensifying. I scoot down her way, and she looks up at me haggardly, with an expression that screams I would kill you if I weren't too tired to move. I flash a winning smile, although in this case winning probably means I'm doing an Arthur face (yikes). "Hey. What was that?" I ask.

Mikayla puts her head into a hand. "Derrick..."

"I mean, it was... definitely something." I say. "I appreciate you trying to stand up for us, okay? Not all of us are that brave."

Mikayla mutters, "I appreciate it, but could you please leave me be right now? I'm too tired to deal with you right now."

"That's fine," I say, scooting my stuff back so I'm between both groups, sitting in no man's land in the middle-right area between the outcasts and the coolkids. "I guess I'll just sit here alone and talk to myself." I announce. Heck.

Olive lifts her ears, but it's Sarah who dives over first. She clutches a hand to her chest.

"Actually, I just wanted to say that you look just like a Beastkin."
"What," I say.

"Back in my otherworld, there were these people... I mean, we had like, twenty races, all of which had their own unique strengths, religions, powers, you name it, but honestly the Beastkin were some of my favorites. They're shifters but most of them were actually kind of proficient in elemental magic, and so you'd get these cool combinations. I can write out the Dodecahedron of Elements if you'd like, and how they correspond with animal alignments, it's really not that complicated..."

"That's nice, Sarah." I say, trying to break eye contact and... contact.

"Isn't it?" she says, with far too large a smile. "Woah, what if everything was connected somehow? All the worlds could actually be part of one big world we're supposed to figure out how to save. I've got to write this down." She goes for her backpack and begins scribbling furiously.

I get the feeling I just became an enabler. I bend back and look down the rest of the table while Sarah continues to rail out conspiracy theories. The portal-class huddle are all on their phones, although, honestly, a lot of the ground-class kids are there too, including Hoshi and Owen. Further down the table are more girls, Finch (who is trying to sell what looks like a phone to some normal kid), and then there's quite a few people just eyeing our table.

"You know, if we really want Extra solidarity, we should do something sometime." Maris suggests.

"I don't know," I say, with a laugh that tapers off into a nervous whine of desperation (yikes). "I have no idea how long I'm grounded for."

"No one was asking you," Brittany says, coolly.

"You're free to come though," Maris says. "Not that I can host, but I'm just saying..."

"I'm not saying I don't want to come. I want to come," I say, and the two of us stare at each other for a long, awkward second. Looking into Maris's eyes is like staring directly into an eclipse, and eventually, despite my incredible willpower (allegedly, according to an unbiased panel of me, myself, and I) I look away.

"Okay," Maris says.

Lunch ends with the disinterested toll of the bell. I'm not sure if today is another step up the social ladder or if I just banged my head on the next rung and fell off, but there's no way I'm going to miss a social endeavor. The portal-classes spend the rest of class talking to each other in that low, gossipy portal-class voice, because of course they do, and I swing my feet in the back until it's time to go. I've taken to sketching your face in the pages, but I'm not an artist. Really. I reference Maris's face, because she looks the most like you, but that's like comparing cafeteria deli meat to a freshly murdered cow. Not that Maris looks unpleasant, because she's really something (I don't know what that something is but she's it), and I'm definitely not trying to compare women to meat... fuck. I really want to rip something apart with my bare hands.

Not anything living, though. I think I'm hungry. This is the worst. I couldn't care less about history if I tried. I can't even force myself to feel guilty about not caring as we hear about the first battles of the revolutionary war.

How long ago was it that Arthur's great-great-great-grandfather (probably a great-great-great jackass, too) returned back from another world with a largeass sword and cleaved open reality as we know it? Can we learn about that?

When the bell rings again, I have the world's most half-assed page of notes and ten sketches of your face that would improve the self-esteem of the people who still draw the human face as a circle with two lines on it for the eyes. I crumple the page up, notes and all, and toss it back in my bag. I lean over my desk towards Mikayla, my big, sad fox eyes praying for some kind of answer.

Mikayla slings her bag over her back, plucking a hair from beneath her backpack. "Have a nice day, Derrick," she says, and I follow in her shadow as she picks up speed into the parking lot and turns out of my way. She looks even skinnier now, in the increasingly frigid air, like a twig someone clipped from a tree. My mind flashes back to those few lines and a deep, throbbing vein of intermingling emotions stewing into a pit of ambivalence in my stomach.

The limo is waiting for me, anyways. Can't wait to get interrogated by the MIBs.

"How was your day?" asks Matrix Man--now known as Frederick-- but his voice is hoarse, and from the second I step in the back I can scent that something is off.

"Good." I say, putting my face back against the mirror. It's unchanged from this morning, but all my goodwill towards the world has run off to live in the woods. "School is hard."

"Put your back into it." Glasses Lady says.

Time to go for it. Do or die, Renard. "Hey, uh, I'm going to get grilled for this, but... can I ask your name?"

"Mr. Renard," Frederick says, audibly concerned.

"It's Ms. Haven to you." Glasses Lady says with a sing-song voice laden with a sharp edge. "Don't stress it, Frederick, I have my eyes on the road, you have your eyes on the road, we're home after this."

"We spend a lot of our day carting you back and forth. I should hope you at least bothered to remember our names at some point." Frederick says. I'm wedged up against the back of my seat like we've kicked the car into third drive, even if we're still cruising at a mean thirty miles per hour.

"I was in grief counselling. I don't remember anything from any of it." I growl.

"It's completely fine, Derrick. Have I made that clear?" Glasses Lady puts her foot on the accelerator.

The only sound is the car's wheels against the bridge, making a loud, hollow wail as we cross out of the city and out into the woods, past the graveyard where they put you down.

"Did something happen today?" I pry.

"We had several agents around the town working on a mission. One of them didn't come back." Frederick admits. "We're only telling you this because it will hit the news by tomorrow. The chances are strong that it has something to do with the recent abduction, and people are going to be even more uneasy than usual. Don't do anything stupid, don't try anything 'smart', and please, please take care of yourself, because if we come after you, we will be forced to persecute you to the fullest extent of the law.

"What do you think I'm going to do? I'm a good boy. Plus, I'm sixteen, I don't own a car, and I have no access to recreational substances. I'm not sure what I could even attempt to do."

"You're a fox mutant."

"It's like three percent! I have pointy ears and a good metabolism." I object.

"First of all, it's not what you can do, it's about what you might do. The kid who set off this whole mess, years ago? He wasn't particularly dangerous either."

"Didn't you get into anything when you were younger?" I prod.

Glasses Lady--no, Ana, I'm going to get this one-- adjusts her shades. "That's classified."

"That's code for 'yes'," I say as we roll back into the woods.

"Look. We'll ease up on you best we can, but a lot of this requires your trust, Mr. Renard, and so far you've only proven more volatile as this has gone on."

The window feels colder against my face. "Doing my best," I mutter.

Yeah. Sure.