Author's Note: This story is my attempt to be creepy, symbolic, and write about things that make even me uncomfortable. Please send lots of critique and please enjoy!

Chapter One: Heat

The clock's minute hand moved slowly around its round face: a black against a white, black numbers and a black rim. The red line that indicated seconds moved fast, not jerking or stopping it swept around the face. The boy sat in the middle row, middle seat. His dark hair fell over his eyes, shielding him from the unwanted gazes he so often received. A dusting of freckles crossed his nose and fell onto his cheeks, contrasting sharply with his pale skin. Simon never had much use for the outdoors; the sun always seemed too bright for his eyes, which, unlike the rest of his nature, were a light blue.

His frame was thin, almost unhealthy. One could see every knob, every ligament. Every so often he shifted in his seat, the uncomfortable wood irritating his lower back. His legs reached under the lab bench then spread beyond it. It was too often for him that his knees hit the bottom of the desks and tables throughout the school. Absently, he reached a hand down and scratched his knee.

Shoulder hunched, he was looking not at the teacher nor at his desk, but at his lap, where a calculus book lay open, a piece of paper angled slightly to the right as he wrote slowly and neatly, each number and letter filling the entire line of the college-ruled paper. Bringing his hand up he ran it through his hair, which resulted in it falling more securely around his face. Picking up his pencil once more he itched the crook of his right arm before continuing to write.

The weather was unusually hot for April. Simon had shed his usual sweatshirt and now sat in a large T-shirt. He could feel the sweat dripping down his sides, making the underarms of his shirt feel more uncomfortable than ever. Slightly embarrassed he wished he had thought to use some of his brother's deodorant before getting to school. Simon never made any effort when getting up in the morning – no one ever looked at him in that way. Once more shifting he shifted his eyes upward to look at the teacher.

Mr. Erin was the AP Physics teacher at Rendall Regional High School. Despite having to deal with a bunch of students who were now experiencing a great case of senioritis because of the foreshadowing warm weather, he usually managed to get them all through their exams. Today he was lecturing about the path of an object, drawing a neat parabola on the blackboard followed by the formula. Simon glanced over at his neighbor, Brendan, who was busy drawing pictures of half-naked women in the margins of his two-column notes. His pen lazily danced as he traced the outline of a woman's bosom.

Moving his eyes once more he turned toward the window. Outside the trees seemed almost fuzzy. The sprouts of leaves created a haze around the tips of the branches, even more so now that the sun had reached its peak in the sky and was now shining horizontally through them as the minute hand on the clock neared three o'clock. Three black crows fluttered around the trunk.

Determined to finish his calculus homework, Simon turned back to the book on his lap.

"...and can anyone tell me the solutions?" Simon caught the end of the teacher's question. He took his eyes off his book to make it seem as though he was thinking as he placed his eraser in his mouth.

"Mr. Smith," Mr. Erin said. Simon started. He had not expected to get called on. "And what is your answer?"

"I don't know, sir," he said.

"Ah, well, Mr. Smith. Perhaps you'll know once you finish whatever it is you're doing underneath the desk?" Mr. Erin's large expanse of skin near the crown of his head shone against the fluorescent lighting of the classroom. Simon imagined he had used it as a spotlight as the entire class turned to look at him, laughing quietly.

Scowling, he brought his book and his paper up from his lap and onto the top of the counter. Mr. Erin walked around the first row and gazed down at the book.

"Since you are so interested in math, Mr. Smith, perhaps you should stay after school and solve some more problems concerning the path of an object?" There was a smile on his face but Simon could see by the look in his eyes that he was angry he had been doing another teacher's work during his class.

"Whatever," Simon said as he let his hair fall even further over his face.

"Very good, now why don't you pay attention to what's on the board rather than what underneath the bench."

Mr. Erin walked back around to the front. Simon chanced a glance through his hair at the smiling faces around him. Brendan pushed him lightly in the shoulder before returning to the drawing he had concealed when Mr. Erin had walked over.

"Twenty minutes, dude," he said.

Mr. Erin continued his lecture, drawing more lines on the board before the bell finally rang. It echoed through the room barely two seconds before the sound of chairs scraping the floor and the clatter of books completely drowned it out… as well as whatever it was Mr. Erin was directing the class to do over the weekend.

Rising last, Simon nodded at Brendan before heading to the front to talk to Mr. Erin. A girl was already there. Simon knew her name: it was Annabelle. She had dirty blonde hair; the kind that you could catch streaks in if it was the right kind of light. She pushed it back over her shoulder, drawing his attention to the very small shirt she was wearing. It did not quite reach the waist of her jeans and Simon found his eyes darting to it as he stood behind her, his gaze the falling to a certain, and albeit purposefully, accented part of her figure.

"So is it all right if I hand it in Wednesday?" He heard her say as she once more touched her hair. He found she did that often, adjusting at slight angles.

"Yes, of course," Mr. Erin said, nodding as he adjusted his glasses

"Thanks so much," she answered turning to go, almost running into Simon.

"Sorry, Simon," she said, "I didn't see you there." She waved goodbye as she headed out the door, Simon following her movements with his eyes before turning back to Mr. Erin.

"So, Mr. Smith, as much as I disliked your behavior in class today, I dislike even more the thought of staying after school on a Friday with weather like this." Simon finally raised his eyes hopefully.

"Monday, though. Detention, and we'll see about that math." Mr. Erin winked at Simon before beginning to pack his briefcase. Turning to go, Simon stopped when Mr. Erin called out to him, "Try to participate more in class, Simon. You're a smart kid, I'm sure the rest of the class would like to hear what you have to say." Simon didn't answer as he quickened his pace and fled out the door.

Making his way to the student parking lot, he wove his way through the crowds of students in the courtyard. Most did not look at him, which truthfully made him the most happy. It was only the stray one who bumped his shoulder. He had taken to wearing a backpack at all times to avoid carrying his books in his arm for that reason. The sunlight hit him at just the wrong angle, resulting in him squinting. The people passed him as shadows rather than beings; as insubstantial as he believed this moment.

He reached his car and threw his backpack into the back seat before climbing into the front. The frayed leather seats of his car felt cool against his arms. That was when he remembered he had left his sweatshirt in the classroom. Taking a deep breath, he leaned back against the seat before getting out of the car once more, being sure to lock the doors. He checked the handle three times before heading back into school. Gazing around him through the curtains of his hair he watched the girl's track team emerge from the gym in front of him to go to the field.

Annabelle was the last to come out, after which she quickly ran to catch up with her friends. Simon's gaze once more fell to look at the movements of her body. He couldn't remember when it was during high school that she had started to look like that. Simon let his shoulders fall more as he turned the right and headed back to the classroom.

Looking in through the thin pane of glass, he saw that the room was completely dark. Mr. Erin had left already. There, draped over the stool of the middle row, middle seat, was his prized sweatshirt. It looked like a dead bird, lying over the sides like a creature too worn out to continue. Cursing, he jiggled the handle, which moved teasingly though the lock held. Kicking the door in frustration, Simon exited through a side door and went around to the window. Thankfully, it was still open. Pushing the window as far open as he could, (which was not very far because of the age of the school), he stuck a leg though. Almost instantly, he heard a cackle from behind him.

"Only you, Simon, would attempt to actually break in to school." Simon swiftly pulled his leg out of the window and spun around to face his brother. Though a year younger than him, Jared Smith had managed to bypass him in size, weight, and hair. Simon cringed as he saw Jared rub the stubble along his chin as he continued to laugh at him. His dark brown locks hung stylishly around his face, framing his high cheekbones. He smiled with perfect teeth. The only thing Simon had over him was height.

Behind Jared stood five members of the lacrosse team, which Jared had become Junior Captain of. They all had lacrosse sticks over their shoulders, one was throwing the ball up and down. Simon watched its movements in somewhat of a fascination.

Jared laughed again at Simon's silence.

"I forgot my sweatshirt," Simon snapped, his eyes finally meeting Jared's.

"Oh, of course," Jared said. "God you never take that thing off. Though it is a bit hot today." Simon could tell he was just doing this to irritate him. "Feel free to borrow mom's deodorant – I'm sure she won't mind." Scowling once more, Simon turned and walked away.

"Simon!" Jared yelled after him. "What about your precious sweatshirt?" Simon could hear the laughter of the others behind him, his shoulders tensed but that was the only sign of his discomfort as he sped up his pace back to his car. He'd just get it on Monday, though he did feel a small tug of displeasure of not having it all weekend. It was large and comfortable, with a hood that could often completely obscure his face.

Sliding into his car, he reached around the back of his seat to make sure that his backpack was still there before driving off. He consciously but his hands at three and nine o'clock on the steering wheel, it felt comfortable to him, he did it everyday.

Simon pulled up to a set of stoplights and gazed toward the trees that lined the streets evenly. Around each and every one of them was a fence. They rose high enough that little kids could not reach the branches to climb, and they kept trees sick enough that the branches would not support the weight of anyone older that tried. Beneath them, black crows sauntered across the sidewalk – they seemed abnormally large this year, menacing with their dark eyes and shiny feathers. Simon wished he had eyes like theirs – completely obscure and unreadable.

Pulling over to the side of the road, he turned off his car and stepped out. The birds did not move much. In fact, they seemed completely unafraid of him. Opening the door to the back seat Simon took his camera out of his bag. Holding it up he angled it slightly to the right, before snapping a picture of the birds. He used long exposure, he'd hoped it would produce to effect of blurred wings as they took flight. They landed once more further down the street. He got back into his car and drove home.

His house, as he pulled into the driveway, looked as pristine as ever. Far past welcoming, it possessed instead a prissy air; one that should you forget to take your shoes off at the front door, you'd be forever denied access to the house. After locking his car and checking the handle three times, he strode into the house. It was open, as his mom usually was home when he got there.

Upon hearing him come in she appeared around the corner, she wore an apron and had a wooden spoon in her hand. A red substance was dripping down the bowl of the spoon but did not drip onto the white carpet. He watched as the drop hovered menacingly at the edge of the spoon before it was absorbed back up.

"Hey, sweetie, how was school?" she asked him.

"Fine," he said before taking the stairs two at a time.

"I'm making spaghetti and meatballs!" she called up after him. "You know how your father loves this dinner!"

Simon didn't answer as he slammed the door to his room. Yes, his father did love spaghetti. He finally pushed his hair completely out of his face as he bent to turn on his computer. Turning to his closet, he pulled out a new shirt. Pulling the old one over his head he gazed at himself momentarily in the mirror. He searched his stomach for any sight of a line indicating that of the kind of stomach his brother had. Sighing he turned away and dried the residue of sweat before putting on the new shirt. Adjusting it over his shoulders he turned back to the computer and entered his password.

The browser opened automatically to a forum. He watched as the page automatically updated itself with new posts. When he felt like it, he would participate.

His dad came home at seven oh-seven that evening. Simon paused, his pencil hovering over his almost-finished calculus homework. The door slammed and he faintly heard the sound of keys dropping into the bowl with a hollow clang. He then heard his mother's slippered feet move across the tile floor of the kitchen only to become silent on the carpet.

"I made your favorite," Simon heard her say, followed with the sound of quick lip contact. Rising from his bed, he made his way to the door, knowing the call would come any second.

"Simon!" his mother called up the stairs. "Dinner's ready!" Simon did not leave right away. Instead he stood at the door, once more staring at himself in the mirror. Absently he brought his hand up, index finger extended and thumb up, and pushed it into his head.

"Bang," he mumbled, before opening the door and heading downstairs for dinner.

Inside the kitchen his mother was straightening the place mats on the table that was already covered in a tablecloth. Vaguely, he could hear his father moving around in their bedroom. Jared sat at the table, his eyes trained on his lap. He was in his football jersey from last season. His mother set the pasta on the table with a jar of sauce before going into the bedroom to chauffeur his father to the table. Moving his chair out, Simon sat down before helping himself to pasta.

"Simon, wait until your father has sat down," his mother scolded as she came out of the room, her hands running over his father's shoulders. His eyebrows were sagging; his mouth set in a grim line as he sat down.

"Sit closer to the table, Simon," his mother scolded again. Simon dragged the legs of his chair across the Oriental rug. His knees hit the underside of the table. He felt like a giant.

The sound of utensils hitting plates filled the air for a few moments.

"So how was your day at the office, honey?" His mother said, turning to his father. Absently she fingered the diamond necklace she had on. It was from Simon's parent's twentieth anniversary, six months ago.

"Quite long," he stated. His comb-over was not doing its job anymore. Small wisps of hair lay the wrong way, white feathers that blew in the wind of the overhead fan turned on as a result of the surprise heat wave.

"Did you get much work done?"

"No."

"Really? Well, you should see how clean this place is! I spent all day –"

"I'm pretty tired, Sarah, I think I'll just go eat this in the chair." He got up and left the table, turning the corner into the living room. His mother looked after him only until she heard the gentle squeak of leather as her husband sank into it.

"Jared, sweetie," she said, turning back, "tuck a napkin into the top of your jersey so you don't get sauce on it."

But Jared wasn't listening. Beneath the table, on his lap, he was texting: there was a big party tonight.