Psychosis - (noun) : A psychological condition where a person's thoughts and emotions are disconnected from the external reality.

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The last thing I saw before I ducked behind Jeanette's mountain sized back was Mrs. Morales. She uttered the sentence, "Now, we'll start of from where we left off of the 'To Kill a Mockingbird.'"

Her terrible pink cardigan threatened to pang me with a headache.

It's a good feature of Jeanette's that, even though she has a body of a woman wrestler, she's still interested in literature.

I took the perfect advantage of the ecosystem, letting my eyes droop at first, then blur and then a big black poof of nothing.

In my dream, I am just about to solve the mystery of the classroom murder which included a bloody baseball bat and Mrs. Morales, still stuck in her horrendous pink cardigan with extra ketchup. Then the pencil makes its entrance as a savior for the demon.

The murderer was just there, in the dream, obscured by a thin line of stereotypical dark hoodie, ready to reveal its identity. 

I feel the edge of a Number 1 pencil, extra sharp with the promise of finer handwriting.

The assassin's face muddles along with Melanie, who's currently listing all the usable instruments of her annoyance.

"Hey. Psst, hey, Frey."

The top of the list has always belonged to her mouth.

The first blink is equal to the inside of an unwashed fish tank.

The second clears onto long strands of brown hair that is disappearing around her back.

Third time's charm lets in the view of inquisitive eyes, behind telescopic lenses with plain glass frames.

The pair of words, 'Boo Radley' and 'Character's play' are enough to make me regret Mondays and literature.

"Hey, you okay?"

"I was. A second ago."

Jeanette cannot swivel her head because the bundle of her rolled neck does not let her be that flexible. She executes her best performance at a hidden hiss, which awakes my own bowel movements.

"Umh. . ugh. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"So . . . you woke me up . . because?"

My mind's still stuck in daydream shrubbery. A loose line of drool threatens to become a bridge string which I follow to the stick puddle on the novel.

My saliva has somehow, subconsciously created a continent, or a country on the back cover. Drowning the book reviews and the polite picture of Harper Lee.

I try to tag an identity on the world map. Then I recall the 'C' in Geography.

"I dunno, Frey. I just . . . wanted to talk to you. Have a chat."

Mimicking body language is a key sign of attraction manipulation which tricks the victim's subconscious to give out more points to the other, for effort and observation.

Currently, Melanie is also ruffling the front of her hair, with her head lowered to a downed pose.

"Where's . . . where's Harvey?" I let a croak leave me without moderation since everyone at class treats the ' Literature and Story ' period as a break, where you have to be cautious enough to get away with anything you want to do.

"Oh, he's in the back." Her head prods in to closer view, revealing the pair of chapped lips. Especially the bottom which looks pale with associated, violent blots of red.

"Oh."

"So, how's it going? How's everything with you, Frey?"

I cannot keep on with her strong eye contact because I am still jaded by the dream's aftertaste, wondering how it would end.

"Fine . . . uh. Good. The usual."

"Baseball's still fun?"

"Got a final this Friday."

"Good luck!"

Her flanges curl, tightly just enough to produce a new tear on the edge of her lips.

"Thanks, Mel."

I leave her dry at the bank of exchanged well wishes and gratitude; which is an understandable exit to anyone. More for Melanie who's favorite pastime of psychology and human mind will help her understand her loss of preference over sleep.

On cue, Neal from the first desk row stands up to continue as the teacher's pet clears his throat with a full hearted phlegm cough.

"Shoot all the blue jays you want, if you can hit 'em, but remember it's a sin to kill a mockingbird."

Just in time, Mrs. Morsel steps in to ask for an explanation.

These are the Universe's strong signs to go back to bed.

"Pixie's not eating again." She pauses as our elbows knock. "Did you notice?"

I grunt unintelligibly. The full hour in P.E was in running bases whilst the Junies threw around dodge balls with vindictive intentions.

It's an invitation to an analysis.

A psychosis.

"Not really, Mel. Someone probably just called her fat again."

"Sounds like he needs to go see an eye doctor."

I can tell that I walked into it because Melanie smiles with full teeth, following my trail to the other side of the desks.

The thin, yard stick behind Rommery is Pixie, even though she fills the name gaps in forms with Priscilla Montgomery. Her skinny biological frame can act like a surrogate example to understand the state of a human body during a famine.

Her back shoulder blades are even visible, poking out like fully formed cactus.

"He?" I ask, squinting with confused attention.

"Alright, it was Conar." She confesses the information without pressure.

"Well, he's always been a jerk."

"Now more because of the--" 

She mimics a long whiff of her Number 1 pencil, which looks nothing like a spliff or a fag, laced with cheap gateway drugs and pesticides.

"He's a punk. Pixie should know better." The words are audible, in the midst of my unintelligible grunt.

"He's . . . just misunderstood, maybe. Like, Javier."

Anxiety attacks are Javier's kryptonite and the best show was on the school's inter class debate. He, Clay and I on the side of Televisions; Trevor, Noah and Mills of Sec A were against and after Clay's opening, when it was time for Javier to retort, he panicked.

Javier should invest himself in baseball because no one can cover the long distance of seven rows of seats of the stage's podium to the gym hall doors so rapidly.

"Brian's a complete dullard."

"Hey!" She snaps at my rolled up shirt sleeve, set to protest and not to hurt as her nails don't even leave any evidence. 

"He's just . . . simple minded, okay?"

"What? Like Rommery?"

"Rommery isn't simple. She's introverted."

"Is that an acceptable term for being bad at communicating?" 

Slagging off classmates should be included in favorite child hobbies, taking the place of pot planting which leaves you with dirt caked nails and maybe a carrot after a good season.

"No, she's just selective with her talks. It's very understandable."

"Okay, Mel. Tell me what you think of Mrs. Morsel."

"Oh, she's . . . alright. I guess. For a teacher."

"Oh, come on! I thought we were having a fun game."

"Frey, she's a teacher. It's different!"

"I thought human psychology applied to everyone."

We both share a moment of mildly embarrassed laughter. It's the most efficient way to let her know that, whatever she's up to hide, is already seen by me.

"Okay, fair enough. No teach. Let's just do close friends." I chip the idea in, getting interested in the duel.

Mrs. Morsel must have heard the barrel of whispers and snickers as her voice croaks an attentive warning out in different tunes.

"Ok. Um . . . tell me how's Neal." Her head tilts with a giddy smile, suppressed and failed.

"Um . . . Neal the teacher's pet?" I inquire to make sure.

"Does our . . . class have any other Neal?"

"Neal is . . . a middle child. And since his parents don't give him enough love, he goes out to teachers . . . because for him it's easier to get good grades than be something remotely and humanly loveable."

Our joint crack up ticks off Mrs. Morsel once more as she stops halfway of an Atticus's line.

"Nice. But, you got one thing wrong. He's not the middle child. I'll go now."

"Alright." I rub my invisible chin hair, nonexistent and smooth. "Do Kenny."

"Kenny. Humph. Hmm. Kenny. He's actually very innocent and not like Harvey. Ken doesn't jump on anyone without any reason. So, he has a good moral? A soft side?"

I poise my lips in an understanding opposite 'U' to display impression.

"Alright, alright. Um . . . who else? Who else?"

Truth be told, Melanie is a type of person who is not blessed with adorned friendship. You can find her in the midst of full cafeteria tables and messy group studies but she's passive.

Taking inventory, all the while. Rather than engaging. So in conclusion, no one sits close in her psychological circle to be considered a 'friend'.

"How about Ellis? And by that I mean the attention wh--I mean, miser." Her lips pause, stuttering before glancing away for the embarrassment. 

My expectation of 'no name calling' protest is correct since Melanie dislikes her on a similar level.

"And by Ellis, I mean, lonely teen girl. No talent. Always tries too much to be the center of attention?"

"Alright, then. You had your fun. Give me a hard one this time. And, Frey?"

My words are unborn as she stops it.

"And, by hard I don't mean Harvey, rich hooligan and Juny menace."

"Okay. Okay, Mel.How about---"

"Clay's too easy. Besides, we talked during lunch."

"Then. How about Jackie?"