Sports, religion, orchestra, and band were all extra programs provided by the school. I participate in band, where individuals were taught in a group to play instruments, such as saxophone, clarinet, drums, french horn, oboe, flute, and others. I am a flautist, meaning I play flute.

A flute was a woodwind, with a long, silver rod with hand-bored holes. "A flute produces a sound when a stream of air directed across a hole. The instrument creates a vibration in the air at the indentation. The air stream across this hole creates a bernoulli, or siphon. This electrifies the air contained within the usually cylindrical, enclosed space of the inside of a flute" My band teacher, Stacie, explains to me, even though his words came in one ear; out the next. His language was totally not fool-proof.

Stacie was a muscular man, with broad shoulders, and an athletic abdominal structure. His skull was defined and tough, with high, sharp cheek bones and he wore a serious demeanor. His skin was as dark as his mahogany eyes, which were kind, but strict. He wore a shirt with a collar and three buttons. In his breast pocket was a pen and something that appeared to be a reed. His hair was sleek and black, and was in a long braid behind him, which hung to his waist. He greeted us with the wave of his large, pink hand. "Welcome. If you would take a seat, and keep your instruments out of your mouths." He said to no one in particular, but there was a shuffling of kids putting down the mouthpieces, as if he had said it specifically to them.

"Today, we will discuss the proper way to blow into the instrument, and we might talk about the different notes--" he checked his watch. "If we have time. Everybody, sit up straight, and I'll go around and help position your instruments. I would ask for silence while we take this first step."

He went around to each student, and helped as he had promised. Very few of us were able to make a noise from our corresponding instruments. I was one of the individuals that were capable of making a sound, as my instrument wasn't particularly difficult in comparison to some of the other's saxophones, clarinets, et cedra.

After class, I, as well as my classmates, walked in a straight, single-file line, each holding our trays in both hands. All was silent as we walked down the long, narrow hallway leading down to the cafeteria. The double doors automatically opened as we approached it, each putting our finger-print before the scanner, and each of us were approved access. We walked through the line of food, watching patients of all ages gather their meals around the kitchen, without saying a single word to us. It was a strictly enforced rule that no patients from different units exchanged any words, and we stay firmly within our own age group.

When I had selected my meal, I followed my fellow unit-members into a separate room, the one that was meant for eating. The room was huge, with a high ceiling that dangled chandeliers, glittering as the light hit the crystals just right. There were tables of all sizes, some long, and some tall, with stools for chairs. Some had booths, and some were on the patio, with umbrellas overhead.

I sat in one of the booths, watching my other unit members gather around a long, narrow table. They each sat in one of the chairs, and began eating in silence, as it was considered rude to speak while eating. I was sitting apart from them, because my mother was coming to visit me today. Knowing so, I scanned the cafeteria for my mother. Finally, I saw her walking toward me.

The woman in question had a long, curly mane of black curls framing her pale face. She had a stout, flat nose and brown eyes. She grinned at me, and sat down so that she would be facing me. She put down her tray, and began eating. I followed.

"So, how has your first day been?" She asked before taking a bite of pork.

I thought for a moment, and then shrugged. "I mean, it was okay for a first day... It was boring. Brooks hasn't been talking much to me ever since we got here. I think something's up that he's not telling me about."

My mother nodded. "He's like that. His mom was the same way; bless her soul."

"Of course. She was a great woman. His grandparents joined her recently, Brooks attended their funeral while we were in California."

"Really?" Mom was shocked. "That is terrible to hear! I hope he's okay."

"Yeah. I hope he's okay too. Hey! That's him over there!" I pointed to a small figure in the distance, who was walking into the cafeteria late today. I waved to him, and he sat on my mom's side.

"Hey guys." Brooks greeted. "How are you today?"

"I'm fine, thanks." My mom said, and I nodded.

"That's good to hear. I'm doing great, actually."

"I'm glad." My mom told him. "Did you have a good first day?"

"It's fine. I like my roommate. He's cool."

"Really? Mine is as dumb as a post!" I complained, finishing off my potatoes, and moving onto my fruit salad.

"She's Reagan, right? She seems pretty funny, actually. Very attractive as well."

"Eww!" I whined, dropping my fork.

My mom looked up from her pork. "Is she pretty?"

"Quite. She's beautiful, actually. I don't understand why Paris doesn't think so."

"Maybe because I'm not lesbian?"

He didn't react physically, but he must've noticed that I was annoyed. "What's wrong with being lesbian?"

"I don't know." I demanded. "Because it's gross. I mean, it's just wrong."

"Yeah." He agreed, but I wasn't sure that he was convinced. "It's not exactly commonplace."

"Commonplace? Let's hope it'll never be. I don't want children to be raised with that kind of stuff."

"Why? Because those children might grow up gay?"

"Well, yeah. I don't want them to grow up influence by that kind of behavior." Mom argued. "Children will imitate their parents, or people that they look up to, or think are cool. What if they went down that road? Became little monsters."

Brooks shrugged. "So, nice weather, huh?"