Cooper.

Five.

Two thousand sets of eyes set their sights on the indoor track above the gym, where a tall, lean, panther of a woman is looming near an upended basketball hoop. Her platinum blonde hair is cropped into a sleek, angular bob, framing her thin face. Her icy green gaze is directed at Mr. McGreyson, who stares at her, microphone in hand, flabbergasted.

"We wouldn't want anyone to tell the Director that you think his plans are 'poppycock,' would we?" Her voice is sharp and cold, the kind of cold that isnt measured by temperature.

The principal straightens himself out, holding his shoulders back. "I am merely trying to connect with a gymnasium full of antsy high school students," the tone of his response us littered with daggers, "if you would like to speak to me about the way that I address my students, then you may visit me privately."

A collective murmur of elementary grade "Oooh snap" raced throughout the student body as Miss Pasty and Prude turned her nose upward at our principal. "Very well. I suppose I'll see you in your office, McGreyson." The woman spits out his name as if it was poison, turning on her heel and walking towards the upper level track exit.

After the click-clacking of her shoes subsides, we are dismissed to go to our regular classes. Words start flowing from Addie's mouth almost as quickly as her eyes start to brim with tears. "No more theater? No more art? What's next? Band?" Her impassioned and increasingly loud - albeit distressed - commentary elicits a few fearful glances from some nearby band kids. "This isn't fair! It isn't right!" She wails, throwing her head back.

"Addie, shut the hell up!" Gwen hisses through clenched teeth, slapping her arm. She points a finger quickly to my immediate left. "Blonde Bitch is right there. Don't let her hear you. Bad vibes, man. Don't instigate." Gwen's voice is impossibly quiet. I can just barely hear her.

Somehow, though, the woman must hear us. She comes striding over to us, her gait oddly determined. "Good morning, ladies." Her now forcibly sugar-sweet voice hits my eardrums like the vocal equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. "How does it feel to be citizens underneath-"

She's cut off by Gwen.

"GlobalInc?" Gwen hisses, much to my shock and horror. "So far not too great, seeing as you're cutting my art programs."

The woman only breaks her sweet composure for a moment, agitation and hate fleeting across her face. "It is a necessary step in order to create a better tomorrow. The Director, as you will soon hopefully get to meet for yourselves, or see in a televized program, believes that the root of many of today's evils lies inside creative endeavors."

"I'm sorry, what?" My mouth forms and ejects the words before I even realize that I'm speaking.

Blondie takes a deep breath, flashing us a false, practiced smile. "GlobalInc and its leaders believe that encouraging creative thought promotes ideas and a tolerance for disobedience amongst-"

"Goodbye." Addie grabs our elbows and turns us around, walking quickly towards the main building's stairwell. She grinds her teeth together, her jaw grinding back and forth as we walk up the stairs.

"I don't like this. I don't like this one bit." Addie grumbles as we stop by her locker on the third floor of the main building. "I want things back to normal, and nothing's even happened yet."

I lean against the locker to the left of hers. "No one likes this," I say coolly, "you've got to be some kind of evil to piss off Mr. McGreyson enough to put you on blast in front of everyone."

Addie slams her locker shut, and I jump. "I'm going to go enjoy my theater period before it's ripped away from me." Her voice is anger and sadness all in one, a tidal wave of emotion. "I'll see you two later. Good day." And with this, she storms off.

Gwen rolls her eyes as I begin to walk her to Greco-Roman History. "Thespians." She laughs dryly, shaking her head a little bit. "Everything has to be a production with her."

"I get where she's coming from though." I keep my gaze down, fearful that at any moment a Gwen-esque meltdown is going to occur. "I'm not too thrilled about my art classes being taken away."

"I got you." We get to the doorway of her class, and she offers me a fist pound. "Look, I'll catch you later, alright? And keep ya head up." A cacaphony of students calling her name from inside the class elicits a mischievous smile from her. "Later, geek."

"Later, dweeb."

My backpack feels suddenly heavier as I climb down four flights of stairs in order to get to my basement English class. The halls down here are empty and the power save lights are on, making the hallway look strangely cold and unwelcoming. Papers stapled to bulletin boards outside of classrooms flutter gently as a breeze from the central air blows softly down the hallway.

Mr. Jackson's class is at the end of this hall, right before it enters the right wing of the school. His door is propped open with a stool, the whiteboard marked in Jackson's messy scrawl with the morning warm up.

On Mondays, Jackson gives us riddles as a sort of semi-easy warm up. He doesn't expect much on a Monday morning either.

I slide into my seat by the door and take out my A Brave New World essay and my lime English notebook. I look to the board for the warm up, pen in hand.

WHY IS A RAVEN LIKE A WRITING DESK?

I'm sorry, what?

I stare at the board, trying to think. It's certainly not color. Only one of them is made of wood. They don't both have four legs.

What the hell, Mr. Jackson?

"Its from Alice in Wonderland." A deep, throaty voice says from my left.

I look up into the crystalline eyes of Lucas Thorne. My heart jumps nearly out of my chest, Jesus Christ.

"Huh?"

A honey smile spreads across his face, the corners of his light pink lips turning upwards as he speaks. "Well," he says, his expression smug, "the Mad Hatter - or, really, Hatta, as he's referred to in the books - asks this riddle of Alice right before the Hare comes barging into the Unbirthday Party."

"Oh," I say, feigning interest as my eyes wander up to his unkempt black mess of hair, "I've never read Alice in Wonderland, so I wouldn't have known that."

He awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks reddening. "Not many kids our age have. Its sad, really." We lock eyes and he laughs uncomfortably. "That sounded like some uppity hipster bullshit. I'm sorry about the way that came out."

"No no, you're good." I laugh. He laughs. We fall silent. It's awkward.

The bell rings loudly, and the hall outside suddenly comes to life with the sound of students racing to class. Trevor Wendell, a member of the varsity soccer team with mousy brown hair and anxious hazel eyes, comes into class, offering Lucas a soft grin and a pat on the shoulder as he passes by.

"So what's the answer?" I ask, looking down at my paper.

It takes Lucas a second to register that I've said something. Boys, I swear. "I'm sorry, what?"

"What's the answer to the riddle?"

"Well, originally, Carroll didn't have an answer. But later on, he told everyone that it was that both can carry a note, although its rather flat, and that neither is put with with wrong end facing forward."

"Huh?" I say, scrawling down what he said.

I look up, expecting to see him smiling at me, but instead he's turned around, mouthing some weird boy language to Trevor. Ugh, boys.

"Hey, I'm going to go sit down, aight?"

"Yeah, sure." I can't help the defeated tone that creeps into my voice.