My attorney has abandoned me; we parted ways upon the stairwell, after lunch. Confound the fool! My close companion has also seemed to left me for dead, away upon his own fairy games. Blast him. Everyone, it seems has taken up their own concerns leaving me to the sharks.

I walk through the congested hallways and shudder. Who are these people? Why are they here? But, I have no time to ponder, and I am pummeled by some brute, a barbarian of his people. "Sorry," I say, not really meaning it. I get no reply. I begin thinking about my turncoat attorney again, and my opinion changes.

No, it's not his fault; he's merely the victims of shifting schedule in this labyrinth of the school. He is just as trapped and confused in the system as I am, and I am just as trapped as he is.

There seems to be no visible escape. There doesn't seem to be anyway out, only more cryptic, misleading problems to solve and burdens to bear. I must forgive him, and everyone else; we are, after all, in this together, forced to wait it out. I look up from my revery and cringe.

These same unknown occurrences have landed me in an alien realm: Mr. Kim's math class. I take my seat in the furnace of a room. Already the antics begin. That swine Elliot places some piece of trash in my desk, an article of scummy, scribbled paper. He then proceeds with impertinent questions, foolish phrases, and outlandish predictions.

"Your going to be a pimp when you get older," he says with his characteristic snicker—an alteration of breathing. He continues. "You'll just have to lose those glasses."

"Yes," I reply, you're probably right."

This interim of chaos—the opening prayer—continues. Throughout this provisional state, my associate begins telling me about his pants, a hole in his pocket and the misfortunes that have followed him throughout its occurrence. I listen, but all I can think about is Darby O'Gil and the little people.

"I just got to be more careful. I lost my pen, and my money today, but it's still better than my other pants where the fly can't close," he says.

"Yes," I reply with a small laugh, "it is."

A quiz closely dovetails after this daily occurrence of anarchy. It is a very easy quiz, and my associate concurs with conviction. It will always be a mystery to me how people can fail such a pathetically easy exam. It will also be a mystery to me how one class, namely Math, can be so slow. We creep through a worksheet at a snail's pace; Helen Keller, despite her disabilities, could have easily finished it in half of the time. Time passes faster while watching paint peeling with a curling, sickly crawl.

But there is always time to think while in math; to pass the time, I draw a quick picture on my yellow dividers. My pencil is dull and my eraser smudges everything like a black fog, but with minimal concentration and non-existent effort, I look down at my simple doodle of entangled snakes. In the middle is a gold doubloon with a small, simple ship detailed on it.

The phone rings and breaks the monotony. Someone somewhere cheers, I think that it's Tyrone. Mr. Kim answers the phone, and talks briefly. What could it be? The teacher hangs-up, and speaks. "Tyrone, you can go home now."

"Yes!!" Tyrone cheers with unfeigned joy.

"Homework is this worksheet."

Mr. Kim hands him the sheet. Tyrone, the lucky fellow, leaves; the rest of us must remain here, in this inferno, for another ten minutes. Eventually, the bell rings. We all struggle off to final period—I have study hall. This passes swimmingly, and I depart for home, ending day one.