He turned the keys in the lock. The sound of the tumbler confirmed the door was locked. He paused for moment, then stepped back to look over his car. Subconsciously his right hand brushed his long blond hair out of his face. With his eyes still focused on his car, he began his way towards the doors to his school.

A screeching sound tickled his ears. With a slow turn of his head, he saw a small yellow car sitting to his right, engine humming, the driver's head out the window. "What the hell's wrong with you?" the driver shouted in amazement, "Didn't your parents ever teach you to look both ways before crossing the street?"

He shook his head and continued his walk.

"Hey punk! I'm talking to you!" the driver yelled, continuing his verbal onslaught and waving his hand in the air. After a few seconds of futile shouting, the man decided he would get no reaction, and sat back down in his seat.

Walking toward the building, he continued to look around. He reached out with a thin but muscular arm to pull the door open. The metal and glass slab swung out of his way, followed by a gust of cool, refreshing air. The artificial light stung his eyes.

He peered down the hall in front of him, and then turned his attention to the hallway on his right. Students of every size, shape, volume, and intelligence lined both sides of the hallway. He turned to his right and approached a water fountain mounted on the left wall. With his right hand, he pushed the button to start the flow of water. With his left hand, he held his hair out of his face. The cool water refreshed him and moistened his dry lips. With his thirst quenched, he turned around and stepped forward. The man from the yellow car brushed against his shoulder.

"What are you kid, blind?" the man said in frustration.

He shook his head at the man once more. He continued his walk until he reached the door of his homeroom. In a swift movement he opened the door no farther than to let his own body through, and slipped into the classroom. He focused his attention on the glowing red lines that formed the numbers on the clock. It read 7:58. He turned his eyes from the clock and turned his attention to a desk in the back corner of the room, next to a window. As he was about to sit down, a nagging voice called from the front of the classroom.

"Mitch…" said a slightly young man, no younger than thirty, at the front of the room.

He snapped his attention away from the desk and the window, and glanced at his homeroom teacher.

"Mitchell Ross, what is it with you?" the man hissed, "You left your laptop in the courtyard again. I don't want this to show up on my desk again, or you'll just have to go without it."

"Yes… yessir…" Mitch replied, feeling beaten. "I'll try to remember it." He approached the man with his arm out. He clenched the computer in his hand, and slid it under his arm. Returning to his seat, he placed it on the desktop. Instead of sitting in the seat, he sat on the desktop of the seat behind him, resting his feet on the seat of the desk in front of him.

Mitch rested his elbows on his knees, his head rested in his hands. He slid his head to the left and fixed his gaze on the sky out the window. He sighed. His left arm fell to his side, and he rose to his feet. He reached out to release the latches on the window. His left hand followed up by sliding the window open.

The teacher looked up and shook his head, incapable of comprehending what Mitch's reasoning was.

Mitch crossed his arms and leaned against the desk. He closed his eyes as a cool but humid breeze caressed his skin. As he stood there, his mind sunk into deep thought. Ideas, thoughts, and memories circled his conscious. The days behind him, the day at hand, and the days ahead.

Before he could collect himself, the beeping sound that signaled the end of homeroom shot through the intercom and into his eardrums. He slowly made his way out the door, and into the hallway. His movements slow, his walk somber. He slid down the hall as quietly as the sun sets; his mind swimming in thought.

While his conscious focused on algebraic equations and foreign languages, his subconscious was lost in the thought of family, friends, and past experiences. The unique workings of his mind were considered by many to be a disadvantage, while a few considered it a virtue. His academic performance, on the other hand, reflected both opinions. While he failed in the more scholarly classes, he excelled in the more artistic and creative classes.

Mitch arrived at the main stairwell. He shuffled around in his pocket and pulled out a small scrap of paper. He stared at it with a feeling of hopelessness.

"Wednesday…" he muttered, turning to his left.

Down the hall lay his first period geometry class. Despite only approaching the class, he was already stressed by what was about to flow through his ears and into an already full memory. He opened the door with the same motion he entered his homeroom.

He sat at his desk as the teacher spewed forth numbers and equations. Mitch's mind was full of the words thrown at him the day before. His subconscious dissected each word and their meaning.

Suddenly the tone sounded once more as he snapped to attention. He looked at the clock to confirm the sound. The period has passed only in time, but not in mind. He arose from his desk unaware of the test he would be subjected to the following day, and exited the room.