On the first day of my high school career, I let my alarm go for a few seconds longer than it needs to, letting the incessant screeching burn my inner eardrums until I'm awake enough for it to aggravate me, whereupon I slam my entire hand into the snooze button.

Adam groans across the room. I shift my gaze from the alarm clock to his bed, where he lies swaddled in an array of messy blankets, spread out in a frankly uncomfortable looking position with one hand dangling over the near edge of his bed. "I told you not to put the alarm on early."

"We're going to be so late," I respond, springing off the bed.

"We've gotten ready in fifteen minutes before." Adam says, shuffling himself into a sitting position.

Slipping on a t-shirt and stuffing my new school supplies into my backpack, I respond, "First of all, the high school is ten more minutes away from our house, and second, you know something's going to come up. Murphy's law applies doubly to important dates, that's just how things work." I slide in a sketchbook and one of my favorite graphic novels, just in case, and close the backpack up, enjoying the crisp sound of a zipper that hasn't endured six-plus years of wear.

Adam gives up and slings his already-packed backpack over his back. "Doesn't mean you can put the alarm on for six-fifteen like some kind of animal. Wake up at six-thirty like a normal person."

"Normal is overrated." I chime in.

Adam shoots back, "So are hipsters."

"What? I'm not a hipster," I protest, but Adam is already stomping down the stairs with all the quiet grace of a small elephant. He eats his cereal with similar tact, although I'm not much better, and true to form our mom is already standing in the doorway, ready to see us off.

"First day of high school!" she says, embracing us both in a double hug. "You two have everything?"

"Yup," Adam says.

"You two have your schedules on your phones?"
"Yup."

"Ready to make a good first impression on your teachers?"

"Yup."

"Will, you're going to pay attention in all your classes?"

"Yup," Adam says.

"Are you two even listening to me?" Our mom asks, overcome all at once with the frustration of raising two collaborating teenage boys.

"Oh- uh, yeah!" I say, even though I'm only half sure of what she just asked.

She laughs, "Alright. You two will be fine."

"Of course we will. It's just high school." Adam says, "Don't worry about us. See you at three-thirty."

She hugs us again and waves to us all the way down the street. I turn back once and notice Dad is there with coffee, which is about as close as he gets to 'overparenting' us. Adam appreciates that. Adam is a bit of a solo operator, or he would be, if he wasn't dragging me around like a lost puppy every day.

"I'm so not a hipster." I scoff once we're out of earshot.

"Whatever you say, nerd." Adam doesn't even look up from his phone. "Mom's right, though."

"About what? You weren't paying attention." I ask, offended.
"About the books in class."

I let out a sharp laugh, forced and awkward, and reply, "It's not affecting my grades. Remember when I went a quarter without taking out the sketchbook once? My grades didn't come up at all, therefore, my art is clearly not the problem."

"Funny, I remember that as the quarter you doodled over the margins of every paper the teachers gave you."

I fold my arms. "Well, maybe that's the fault of the educational system as a whole for not supporting my interests and unique abilities."

"Will, do you want to go into art as an adult?"

"Not really."

"Alright, then they 'don't really' have to support you." he replies. "Or at least, they have to pretend to care a little less than they do for everyone else."

"Thanks, Adam. Really digging the enthusiasm this morning." I reply, before taking out my phone to go over my schedule a few more times. The bold lettering spells out six classes I don't share with my brother, the highest number we've had in our lives, primarily because my seven classes feature only one advanced course and we've chosen radically different electives. "Block scheduling. So we'll have four classes one day and four classes another, with one repeat." I say out loud, "On the downside, longer classes. On the bright side, if I end up in a class I can't tolerate, I only have to deal with it two or three times a week- oh, and two days to do homework. Not that you'll need them."

"Mmmmhm." Adam says, clicking his phone off. The school looms overhead, far more menacing than it ever appeared on a casual drive-by. I've gone inside on a few occasions, once for some award ceremony for Adam, and then again for the yearly holiday bazaar, but going to school in the massive building is a different matter altogether. This side of the school is practically a perfect rectangle that goes about three stories up, with windows that seem to leer down at us. The scarce bushes and half-dead trees rustle in the wind, muttering to themselves.

Adam jokes, "Looks like we're here. Hey, it even looks like a prison."

"That's my line," I smile as I push open the door.

For whatever it looks like on the outside, once we've opened the door, the school is a sprawling empire. Larger windows line the left walls, which extend out onto a well-gardened courtyard. Student art projects cover the right, which goes out to the cafeteria, publication labs, and art hallway, and down the middle is a swarm of freshmen. A sea of bright clothes, bags, and conversation swells through the room, rippling down the hallways as upperclassmen wearing Student Council t-shirts give directions and explain 'block scheduling' for what I wager, from their expression, must be at least the twentieth time.

Adam pats my back, "I'm on the second floor- guess this is where we part ways. See you at lunch."

"Oh. Good luck?" I wave to him through the growing clamor.
He gives me a thumbs up before clicking his phone back open. I take a deep breath and start down the art hallway, which displays mainly senior work from last year. Most of the drawings are portraits, all of which are done in stunning detail- if I can learn to shade like that by my senior year, I don't care how the rest of my high school career goes. The eyes, too, are done with not only detail but a lifelike intensity, so that it appears all the departed seniors down the hall are staring at me from every angle.

Neat.

I almost miss my turn into the art room and step over the threshold just as the bell rings. The whole class turns my way, and I freeze for a good second before snagging a seat at the nearest table.

Of course, it's full of people, which is just my luck. The rest of the class is back to chatting amongst themselves, but the three girls at my table are still watching me.

"Hey," says one of the girls. She's blonde, with huge arms that look more adept for bench pressing someone than for drawing. She's smiling, and her almond eyes shine with a sincere kindness. "Nice of you to drop in."

"Oh- um, you weren't reserving this, were you?"

She waves me away. "Nah. I'm Amanda."

The dark-haired girl with glasses by her side adds, "Sally."

Amanda finishes, "And that's Rebekka, she doesn't talk much, but she's really good at art. She's my goals." Amanda places one elbow on the table, "So, what's your name?"

"Will?"

"Awesome. So, are you a casual artist, or do you want to do it when you grow up, or... what's your deal?"

Do I ever love being interrogated early in the morning. "Uh..."

I'm sure I could've given a more eloquent answer but the teacher, a grizzled man in his fifties, gets up and introduces himself as Mr. Sullivan before passing out the syllabus. He continues to explain, with no lack of detail, the artists we'll be studying and the units we'll be pursuing this year. He finishes, "Now, while we don't have enough time to start the lesson today, I would like to learn more about each of you. On the back of the syllabus, draw a landscape of significance to you and write under it why you've chosen to pursue art. Be prepared to share the latter with the class."

"This again." Amanda says, "Isn't this the same assignment Ms. Clark had us do last year?"

"Yep." Rebekka says, but she's already started sketching.
I stare at the paper for a while, so it at least looks like I tried, but 'be prepared to share' seems to imply a graded assignment. So much for an unstressful first day- I have to know why I draw and tell a whole class of strangers about it.

"What am I even supposed to say?" I ask.

"You could make something sappy up, but you might as well be honest about it. Why do you draw?" Amanda slides her elbow against the table, fixing me with an inquisitive smile.

"I can't keep my hand still for long periods of time?" I offer.

"Okay. You're going to have to give him a little more to work with than that." laughs Sally.

I continue giving the paper a death glare, but it's not long after that the teacher announces, "I hope you've all made significant progress on your art, because we'll be sharing now."

Amanda pats me on the back. "Fib something."
"I can't improvise-"

"I hear a lot of chatting over there. Perhaps you'd like to go first, then, Will?"

There's a second of blank dread before I scoot the chair out of the way, listening in agony as it grinds against the floor. Mr. Sullivan raises a single eyebrow. I can't look him right in the eyes, so I stare over the classroom, and announce, "I- I'm Will Rosenbloom, and I draw because-" I swallow, and continue, "I read a lot of graphic novels, and I'd like to be able to do that myself?"

Is that generic enough? Is it true?

"Interesting. Thank you, you can sit back down."

They're still staring at me. I don't think I could sink any further into my desk if I tried, so I keep my hand clenched around the pencil and sit there, waiting for it to end.

"Okay. Thomas, in the corner, please stand."

The sea of eyes turns to the next victim. I'm good.

Amanda is still watching me, with a pensive pity in her gaze. At least, that's what I think she's thinking. When she sees me staring back, she smiles and gives me a thumbs up.

The bell rings and the three of them depart in one of those claustrophobic looking girl huddles. She's off on a tangent about a movie she watched in seconds, and my still-pulsing heart twists a little before I walk off to find my next class.

I decide to contact Adam: One down, three to go. Art was kind of a nightmare. U?

Adam's reply, prompt and short as ever: Chem was boring.

Thanks, Adam.

History of any kind has always been my least favorite topic, and no matter how much this year's teacher hypes it up with her high-pitched voice and eager smile, I still end up doodling by the time she cracks open the syllabus. I manage to stave off the whole class without having to talk to anyone, which I consider a personal victory.

Keep it together.

The cafeteria explodes from every corner with noise and heat, with the scents of mediocre, musty food lingering over it all. Adam's already sitting with his posse when I enter. I wave to him before grabbing a cheeseburger from the lunch line.  Adam casts a dismissive glance my way as I pull up a chair next to his at the end of the table.

"So, what have you had so far?" I ask.

"Math. Science." Adam says, with a noncommittal shrug. "Nothing that interesting, I guess."

"Same." I lie.

After a primarily uneventful Chemistry class, I end up in the back of English, where the first thing out of the teacher's mouth is "I hope you like these seats, because they're permanent." I've nabbed myself a seat in the far back, between an empty chair and a dark-skinned teen with earbuds in. He has a gray shirt on and coal black hair that's so poorly tended to it makes me long for Adam's over-gelled friends.

"Now, on your desk is a syllabus discussing our class: in this course, we'll be exploring identity and how this theme pertains to all of you, seeing as you've now reached a critical point in your lives as young adults. Turn the syllabus over and you'll find not a signature page but several questions I'd like to ask all of you about yourselves. You have the whole class to fill out this survey."

I look down at the paper, the blank, photocopied page still thick with the scent of ink.

It remains blank for the rest of class, save for some margin doodles and a few of the less abstract answers, for instance, Your Name.

(See, that I can handle.)

I throw it in the bag and approach Mr. Lewis after class. "Can I finish this for homework?" He gives me a stern look of teacherly disapproval but eventually relents and nods.

One of the many applications of block scheduling- it gives me two days to figure out what I want out of life instead of one.

Hey. We're still meeting by the tree, right?

Yeah. Give me ten.

(Thanks, Adam.)

I sit down on the ledge between the park and the road. The bushes rustle in one of those soft, post-summer breezes, like the world is sighing. The air is temperate, though on the warm side, with bright blue skies that seem largely indifferent to the advent of school. My hand goes at once for my sketchbook, to finish that picture we started in Art, but something else catches my eye.

The wind has stopped, but the bushes are still moving. I get the uneasy sensation that someone- or something- is watching me. Whatever it is, it can't be much larger than a cat, and when I look through the tangled branches, I see nothing there.

When I tear my gaze away, there's a blue stone sitting besides my bag, resting inches from my leg. My heart skips a beat, knowing it couldn't have been there earlier. I run a finger down the stone, which has a single white line through the sea of dull azure. It's perfectly round, and where I touched it, it vibrates a mysterious heat. I can almost feel something reaching out to me.

Though I should be panicking, my heart rate has slowed significantly, and the world has almost stopped around me. The sunlight overhead has gone pale, and I can hardly feel it on my back. My hearing has picked up as well- I can hear a distant thumping that might be my own heart, but then, I realize they're footsteps, far louder than they should be.

I steal the stone in my backpack, a quick, instinctive motion, and look up to see Adam standing there, looking vaguely disinterested.

"Hey, I wasn't gone that long. You don't need to hide your sketchbook from me."

"Y-yeah, I was just unwinding. It's been a pretty eventful day." When he looks unconvinced, or maybe concerned (I can't tell), I add, "Anything interesting happen?"

"Sort of. Met some interesting kids, I guess. Think I might have had a conversation that went a little longer then, 'Hey, did you catch the game last night?' I don't know. You?"

Nothing.

"Nothing," I say before I can even process what it was I just heard in my head.

Adam puts one hand on his hip,  "Alright."

A cold presence rests over me, settling uncomfortably on my shoulders and down my back. "Let's go home," I insist.