The music department at Heller was tucked away next to the locker rooms and down yet another level of steps. In the morning especially, arpeggios echoed through the halls before suddenly stopping, as if the students practicing knew others were listening. The more experienced students mentored the younger ones in the idiosyncrasies of the discipline, warning them of silly superstitions that by now they had internalized as fact. One must never walk through the door, they said, that led outside directly from the practice rooms; if they did so, their next concert was destined to be a failure. This custom only reinforced the geographic isolation of the area; as students practiced, they could forget they were at high school. Even the music teachers believed this, and they marked the door with caution tape.

Alan held his violin case hesitantly as he crept through the path of bamboo, past the locker rooms where some seniors in shorts eyed him warily, and down into the dungeon. He had played for a fairly long time, but he was rapidly beginning to believe he was underqualified compared to the rest of his ensemble. Alan felt shame when the teacher walked over to adjust his hand position, even though the teacher made adjustments to everyone's playing, no matter how good, and was too professional to display any signs of animus or exasperation. In fact, the more experienced students bristled most, believing they were worthy by now to play with the upperclassmen. There was a peculiar hierarchy within the music department with no special significance to anyone outside of it: the elders got to sit on the couch and ride shotgun on field trips.

Behrooz arrived at school precisely five minutes before classes began. When he had first came to Heller, he needed extra buffer time to find all his friends and greet them appropriately, but he began to realize that conversations were best enjoyed without the threat of their abrupt end. After slightly less than two weeks, Behrooz had finally learned all his classmates' names. He knew which ones to smile at, which ones were satisfied with a quick flash of a handwave, and which wanted him to ignore them.

"Hey, Tim!"

Tom grimaced, and was tempted to correct Behrooz, but it was early in the morning—perhaps he was sleep-deprived, and thus forgot basic phonics? Tom considered himself a nice guy with no need for petty conflicts.

"Hey, Behrooz, what's up?"

"Just hanging in there, just hanging in there." Behrooz moved speedily toward his first class and the other people he needed to greet, and Tom walked with carefully cultivated leisure around the corner to where Juliet was writing in her journal. Juliet used her journal as a diary and planner combined, using a wide variety of bullet points and arrows to organize her thoughts. If she did not use a variety of colors and possess neat handwriting, her intent would be completely illegible, not as if she let others look inside.

"I love the color scheme," Tom remarked from a safe distance at such an angle that he had no way of looking inside. Nevertheless, it was an educated guess, and by Juliet's warm smile Tom concluded he had started the conversation off on the right foot.

"I appreciate that. It's nothing much, really—I find it helps me keep track of life."

"What do you write inside?" Tom asked, moving closer to Juliet as she moved closer to him.

"My schedule, my diary, dreams, anything that catches my eye." Tom smiled and nodded as if he had an intimate familiarity with everything she mentioned, and Juliet took this as a sign to continue: "Do you keep a journal?"

Tom didn't keep a journal, but he wasn't sure if that was the right answer. After all, Juliet seemed to look favorably upon journals and those who wrote them, if she had any level of self-esteem; a harmless white lie could not possibly do any harm. Maybe it would soften his exterior a little in a way she would like. Perhaps an approach halfway would be best, allowing him the option of a tactical exit should he prove to be in over his head with journal-related jargon.

"Sometimes," Tom offered, rapidly clarifying when he thought Juliet was confused by this answer that he really needed to get back into it.

"Journaling is fun, I promise. I can help you if you want. We should totally spend a lunch period getting a new journal set up for high school, and you can get in touch with your inner self. Wouldn't that be great?"

Tom forced himself to smile and nod, and he was thankful the bell rang before he would have to continue the deception. That went well, he thought. Juliet was always warm and friendly, but this time she seemed exceptionally so, and most importantly, this attention was directed toward him alone. In his mind, Juliet's habit of being friendly to everyone she met, even going as far as to frequently utilize the casual hug maneuver, made her quite attractive. Cheerleader, intelligent, nice, not unattractive—Tom was happy his first attempt at making a move went so well. She clearly found him charming, handsome, or otherwise awesome too, otherwise she would not have entertained his inquiry so appropriately.

Juliet walked away thinking only of what color scheme she thought would suit Tom best. This was something that he really should decide himself, but as Tom was only an amateur at journaling, it was her duty to help the less-fortunate by offering recommendations. The purple of the balloons scattered through the hallway outside Ms. Bracknell's classroom seemed appropriate; she had heard somewhere that purple was a regal color that conferred great status on its users. Her last thoughts before she had to switch her focus entirely to geometry were that Tom was not only a friend, but also a cool guy.

"Hey, Frank."

"Yes?" he responded crisply while carefully measuring water into a graduated cylinder.

"Could you help me with this geometry packet? I'm not really understanding how you solve for the angles." Frank looked over and saw that while he was hard at work jumping into their first lab, one of his lab partners was trying and failing to multitask on both math and biology. Frank wasn't extraordinarily enthused by their first exercise, measuring the quantities of different materials in their household soil (he did not see himself changing his life nor gaining a better appreciation for the universe through the resolution of this activity), but it was good practice and he was being graded on how well he did it.

"If you need help with that geometry worksheet, let's get those soil samples measured out quickly then."

Mr. Reinhardt smiled and nodded when he passed by their lab table during their conversation. Frank had answered correctly—in his classroom, biology came first. He made a mental note of their competence.

The four of them proceeded to finish quickly, and as soon as they returned to their seats, Frank began a miniature lecture on the nuances of geometry fundamentals, everyone nearby listening carefully. When he couldn't immediately think of the term "transversal lines," Mr. Reinhardt, who somehow was listening from his desk despite appearing occupied in grading tests, filled in the blank. Frank spoke slowly and carefully, insistent that all listening understood each concept in sequence and could independently draw their own conclusions. He did not consider himself a natural teacher, but he accepted the title with dignity when Mr. Reinhardt complimented him after class. It seemed like the others took note, and Frank felt punished; he worried that in the future, he would have to divide his attention between too many and thus not give each the assistance they truly needed. On the positive side, he earned respect even from those who did not identify as academics, many of whom were glad to be able to ask questions without shame.

Alan found John in the hallway between periods seemingly lost in an interesting daydream (Alan, who had watched a YouTube video on how to read lips once, thought he was mouthing something about a shrine) and asked him, without waiting sufficiently for him to come back to reality, if he wanted to tour clubs during lunch that day. The club fair was a semi-annual tradition intended to proudly display all that Heller had to offer beyond the classroom. Students set up booths at tables and handed out free food and flyers, telling other students who were only there for the free food what fun they were missing out on. The newer students and those with some inkling of moral character pondered every club extensively, particularly if they had not found their appropriate social circle yet. Clubs were an expedient way to find new friends quickly; some did not even choose clubs based on their subject matter, but by if the people looked cool.

This was one of those days when the full force of the student body was apparent as they perambulated, and Alan and John once again found themselves apologizing for their mere presence as they wandered through the crowd. All the students manning the booths were upperclassmen, and after Alan overheard one of them joke condescendingly about the cute little freshmen, he resolved to show them who was boss someday. He was a high school student, and by now he had earned some privilege. It was time they respected it. The sun beat down on all of them relentlessly, and he resisted the urge to sweat.

Despite Alan's urging to hurry up and get free bubble tea before it ran out, John engaged with most clubs he visited, curious to know exactly what they did and how they did it. John had always found the idea of joining a club of like-minded people enthralling, even if he struggled to find one. Community service seemed appealing, and any club with humanitarian goals—bring menstrual products to all high school restrooms, ensure no child ever goes hungry again—stood out in his mind. He found it easy to sympathize with all their goals. Bright kitsch of sequins and colors repelled him equally, and John interpreted these superficial appearances as important as their professed missions. Some clubs unashamedly lied about how active their meetings were or how much fun they actually had, the savviest gauging based on their conversations which lies would be most effective and the others presenting a marketing spiel that was clearly memorized. John was an easy mark, and he walked away with a few colors of fliers and a wake of promises. He could not find Alan immediately, and quickly forgot that they had been walking together at all.

Just a few minutes after the lunch bell rang, the veterans had staked their claims on prime real estate, the wood chips under the massive oak tree and the one shaded table by the library, leaving Alan to fight for second place with the others who had not yet figured out the rules of territory. He perched on the end of one of the occupied tables, a safe few feet away from a group of juniors who seemed surprised to see him, but did not really care. He avoided talking for a few minutes until they had finished eating and one of them initiated what was ostensibly a welcoming conversation, but came off to Alan as a needless grilling about his classes, his favorite teacher, and whether he needed any advice. Had Alan known, as he would come to realize over the next few months, that these students were relatively delinquent, perhaps he would have avoided their open mirth, but for that lunch period he felt he had no choice but to play Go Fish with them and politely decline their offered junk food. Alan sipped his sugary bubble tea without a hint of hypocrisy (the club handing it out had used their AP Psychology knowledge to connect this excessive sweetness with happy hormones and thus easy retention of new members).

Regina came to English class exactly on time and immediately began telling John about her latest problem.

"Hey, John, you're smart. What do I do if I spilled bubble tea inside my bag?" Regina asked, pushing the bag in his direction so he could see her binders, luckily insulated by the plastic from much direct damage, and her phone and notebook, which were less fortunate. John stared intently at the conundrum, a touch of saliva forming due to the sugary fumes.

"Try using rice," Juliet suggested. Regina immediately turned to John and asked him to verify this solution, and he thought for another moment. Juliet smiled at John too to see if he would pass Regina's test. This was an entirely accidental spill, of course, and Beth and Juliet both doubted Regina's decision to use this as an opportunity for experiment.

"That sounds like it would work, yes," John responded, avoiding eye contact and focusing on his work. Ms. Baldwin was tempted to roll her eyes, but as this spectacle was playing out quietly, she continued as if they weren't there.

"Thank you John. You're so helpful." He was about to appropriately direct credit to Juliet when she shook her head, anticipating what he was going to say. John and Regina were certainly becoming good friends, Juliet thought. Regina shared her woes with John, and he responded with appropriate sympathy. Sometimes, he would respond with his own opinions, and Regina would give them careful consideration with an easy-going geniality. In fact, both she and Regina suspected that John would make the first move and save Regina some exertion. When that happened, it would be a glorious day.

John, of course, had little awareness of their stratagems that were carefully honed over texts throughout the day. Regina had instructed Beth and Juliet to take notes on how John acted during class; when did he show signs of emotional vulnerability that she could exploit? One time, she had tried the classic "bend and snap" maneuver from Legally Blonde, dropping her biology binder with a coquettish "Oops" and picking it up slowly while John watched for a moment and then walked right by her. The second time she tried this, John did not anticipate her sudden stop and walked directly into her, a fumble which he copiously apologized for and Regina endeavored to engineer again. When Beth did the same during Chinese class as a control, John bent down to pick up her binder with a gracious smile, which she accepted with a muttered thanks.

Ernest watched their table with barely concealed disdain, remarking to Tom how childish it all seemed.

"Yeah, I know. They're behaving just like kids," Tom responded, emboldened by Ted rolling his eyes and Ernest shaking his head in agreement to do the same. Maybe Tom had the wrong idea in being subtle with his machinations. He had already forgotten what he told Juliet he would do, but it seemed too early to do anything more drastic. Tom wanted to see the latest Avengers movie, but Juliet couldn't possibly be into anything that intense. And Tom was certain he did not want to see any chick flick, no matter who was sitting next to him and eating popcorn from the same giant bucket. Tom turned back to his group and tried to think of something suitably intelligent to say about the paragraph they had just read. At the end of class, John took a minute to fumble with the Chromebook cart and transform the spider web of cables into a neat array, prompting an immediate thank you from Ms. Baldwin and later gossip in the faculty room; John was unique in that he stopped to tidy up even when he was not the last to leave.

After school, Ernest took a pair of safety goggles from the plastic bin and entered the massive supply closet that served as the robotics base of operations. For lack of any better space, the robotics team did most of their engineering work in the same wood shop the engineering class used, an arrangement the teacher only tolerated because they kept their space clean and came with a peace offering of a set of power tools when they began. Ernest had joined the robotics team because his parents insisted he do some sort of activity. He ruled out performing in the musical, as an actor and not part of the orchestra, with a sharp intake of breath and an exasperated sigh of defeat, suggesting robotics instead, which his parents accepted. They weren't picky—as long as he enjoyed whatever he was doing and it built good character, they could not complain.

Pranav directed Ernest to help move some boxes of scrap parts out to a parent volunteer's car, which would take the parts to a storage unit they had rented a few miles away. Due to their perpetual worry that the budget would be cut, the robotics team was hesitant to dispose of anything that theoretically could be salvaged and worked into something new. It was cheaper to rent storage space than to purchase new parts, and this meant that one team member, namely Pranav, had the dubious honor of being in charge of cataloging all supplies the team possessed. He was never seen without his clipboard when he was on duty, where he logged everything that passed his eyes with utmost detail. He had developed a talent for being able to estimate the size of something to the millimeter, although he carried a tape measure for when those estimates were insufficient.

Frank walked past them just as they walked out of the building clearly overburdened by what they were carrying. "Let me help you with those," he insisted, and Frank took a surprisingly heavy box and let out a mild groan.

"How many more of these do you have?" Frank asked after following them back to the room; Pranav did not verbally answer, but instead gestured to a pile that had formed in the span of the first weeks of school. Frank shook his head and picked up another one, and they walked back and forth until their arms were sore and the room was cleaned up.

"You didn't have to help, you know," Ernest replied, somewhat out of breath. Frank, seemingly not any worse for wear, shook his head.

"I have time, don't worry. I always have time."

"Speaking of that, could you take a look at my Chinese presentation tomorrow?"

"If you trust me to help, as long as you look at mine too, sure." Frank looked behind him and saw the student parking lot largely empty, and knew that it must be late. He waved goodbye and kept walking home.

Meanwhile, John watched the street signs as he rode the bus. All of them were named after presidents, and he spotted familiar names—Washington and Lincoln—and those that if he did not identify the pattern, he would not recognize at all—who were Buchanan and Harding? Some on the bus did their homework as it crested peaks and went down hills, but John found his already not-great handwriting to deteriorate into cryptic cursive when he wrote while moving, so instead he closed his eyes and tried to meditate. John always sat near the front of the bus. He had read once that it was the safest place to be, and he never doubted this fact's veracity. He thus imagined the bus tipping over, and him heroically turning the bus upright with sheer force of will or a sudden surge of adrenaline. If this did not happen, though, would the windows break and shower him with broken glass? Would the engine explode, hurtling him out of the bus and onto the then-cracked pavement? Would he be smothered under someone else's body, their folds of skin and fat choking his breath? He felt no concern at any of these macabre thoughts, as they passed the time.

Beth sat in the back of the bus, happy to have an unoccupied seat next to her, and thought of happier things. Once, she had heard John tell someone sitting next to him, whose face quickly turned to horror, what he thought about to pass the time during bus rides; now she couldn't help but think occasionally if John's prognostications would ever hold true, and if they revealed a troubled mind. Logically, she believed the safest seat ought to be in the middle, safe from a collision in the front or in the back. If the bus were in a collision, would she be launched forward until her head met the metal bar in front of her? Or would she merely be shaken up and mildly perturbed, that is until she realized how narrowly she escaped with her life? She chose instead to browse her Instagram feed, which fortunately was free from anything resembling vehicular manslaughter.

John disembarked the bus at the stop before Beth's, being sure to thank the bus driver appropriately before he strolled carefree back home. He wondered how far Beth rode the bus, as she always was there when he got on and always there when he left. If he were not intently focused on getting home safely, he would have noticed she got off at the stop immediately after his.

Discussion Questions:

How do different characters behave especially maturely and immaturely?

As a follow-up to the above, which characters conform most to high school stereotypes, and how are these stereotypes violated?

Would you consider the novel to be cheerful so far?