Commonality is Comfort (right?)

Chapter 一

Denver was honestly amazed at how long his humanities teacher could ramble about the German government. It wasn't him criticizing Mr. Catalano, it was just an observation. Denver always felt that some of those that joined educational institutions were not necessarily bad people, but rather just not equipped for their jobs. He'd prefer to have a nice casual conversation with them than be shushed during study hall, shall we say.
He hunched over in his chair, while he desperately tried to entangle his legs in a way so that they are not as contorted under his desk. Being tall was... less than convenient at times.  Eventually, he found a relatively comfortable position to let his legs sit in, before falling into his usual 'bored in humanities' routine. He rested his head in the palm of his hand. He sighed (quietly.) He averted his gaze from that one attractive guy who sits in the front of the room (Jisu, who's friends sometimes jokingly call 'Jesus') to the window.
Despite the inconveniences of having most of his classes on the third floor, there is one good thing: He can see the tops of the trees outside. And with trees come birds and squirrels. Denver usually saw the same squirrel everyday between 11:20 and 11:37. It was a fluffy, chubby grey squirrel with a dusting of white on it's back; that's how he knew who it was. He didn't give her a name, and it was almost like he would feel rude doing so. So instead of naming her something dumb that many pet owners do, like calling their animals "whiskers," or "fluffy," he chose to just call her The Squirrel.  It didn't matter how broad of a label that was, for it was only for him to refer to her as in his mind.
The clouds were moving quickly that day; what does that mean? Does that mean a storm is coming? He could have sworn he'd read that somewhere. Eh, whatever, it's not important now. He'll find out sooner or later if there's a storm or not.
"All right class," Mr. Catalano says, projecting his voice a bit more, which grabbed the attention of those spacing out, including Denver. "The bell is in one minute, so if you could please pack up your stuff..." he trailed off, as the students began to snatch up all their belongings. Denver slammed his notebook, shutting away all of his doodles on page 69 which only saw the light of day when his usual plans for entertainment were not available (Jisu was sick last week.)
The bell droned and the day continued as usual.

~

The last bell of the day brings a sense of relief. This still remains true for Denver. He once again let the cover of his notebook cover his writing on page 45 (being smart now are we? drawing wastes time.) and shoved his pencil into his pencil case. He unzipped his backpack, which his teacher let all the students bring, as it was their last class of the day. He threw in all of his things and yanked on the zipper. He slung it over one shoulder, and left the classroom, then soon left the school. He felt his backpack digging into his shoulder, and so he swung it around so that it could hang on both. He reached his bike, bending over to reach the lock, putting in his code (694523.) He pulled on either side, and felt rather satisfied as it yanked apart a bit smoother than usual. He unraveled its cord from around his bike frame and put it in the compartment normally used for water bottles on his backpack. {as usual} He could never actually put his water bottle in there and keep it from falling out, anyway.
Slinging his leg over his bike seat, one could sense he was set in a sort of odd rhythm that had clearly been perfected over a couple years or so.  {as usual} He turned on the corner and waited for the light to say 'walk', took Ridgeland for a block, took a sharp right into the alley, took a right, and continued straight. In this fashion, he could ride parallel to the crowd of students, therefore avoiding being stuck behind a cluster of short girls who wouldn't get out of his way for 5 blocks (he'd learned this the hard way, like with a lot of things.) He rode for three blocks, before turning onto the street. He kept riding for 5 minutes, before turning onto the street with the green house on the corner (his block) and riding into his driveway. He lept off his bike before making it come to a complete stop, and he couldn't help but be a bit proud of his little performance. His bike was carelessly (yet lovingly) propped up against the side of the garage, and Denver strolled into his house. He threw his backpack onto his couch {as usual.} He trudged up the stairs, the drowsiness from a long day hanging around him. {as usual}
If one was to take out a camera and film a shot of Denver, the best approach would have been to have him in the center of the frame, walking up those stairs, and have the green walls on either side of the shot. You see, the stair hallway twists a bit, but remains mostly smooth travels.
He only heard his footsteps padding up the stairs, now along the hall, now into his room. His eyes scanned over his walls; his project. The slightly ajar window let the wind waft through the papers that had been taped lazily on his walls. His eyes followed along the lines and paths (not important now) but then he quickly snapped out of what onlookers could only assume was deep thought and scooped up his notebook and a pencil from his desk. A window, which took up a good portion of his wall was the only space not covered in drawings. It stood on the other side of the room. He walked over, before unlocking it and pushing it open all the way. He crouched down to fit through. He stepped out onto the roof. He sat down (careful, don't fall) and opened his sketchbook.