A/N: I know that Emily's birthday was in October, meaning that right now that if she was a starting junior in high school, she'd be fifteen. For the sake of how this story plays out, her birthday is early in the year so she'd be sixteen before she started.

Wow! I didn't expect to get feedback for this! Thank you so, so much for your reviews, follows, and favorites!

This series will be split into parts. It won't go under a new story, it'll be stated here.

Disclaimer: Jeff Davis owns Criminal Minds, not a girl who's in her last year of high school.

PART I: CHAPTERS 2-18

Chapter Two: A Soap Opera Awaits

Eight Months Earlier...

Her grave was filled with lilies; delicate white lilies that allegedly symbolized restored innocence, and majesty and purity of the deceased.

Hotch stared at the grave and clenched his fists. He was the only one he knew that Haley Brooks hated white lilies. Haley lived wildly and loved it, their passionate yet rocky romance was always so dramatic, much like her. That was how she liked it, daring and witty. Always so sophisticated and clever, he could never figure her out. Sadly, as he got closer to her, she had driven her car into a tree in mid August, fatally ending her short termed life. Hotch could pinpoint the date of this, unlike the others in time: August 15.

If she could see this and had one thing to say, Haley would say that she lived her life to the fullest. One time, she made a horrible joke that because she was so wild and unpredictable that she wouldn't live past thirty. God was laughing at him now, if there really was one. Thinking back, Aaron wondered if she hadn't made that comment about not living past thirty, if she'd still be alive. Maybe she would. Maybe fate would say otherwise. Maybe she wouldn't have been texting while driving to Hotch's for "Make-Out Movie Night," as she liked to call it.

He saw a few of his classmates at the service. He couldn't help but be angry at them. They didn't know Haley, they knew her for who she was at school. To them, she was the head cheerleader—a peppy blonde who'd bat her eyes and beam at anyone who walked by. And to some other people, quoting a rising junior in his year, "A blonde prep alpha bitch." Well, Hotch would just call her moody, at worst. They didn't know the real Haley Brooks.

He spots three faces he recognized—two rising seniors named David Rossi and Jason Gideon. Another face he recognized was Haley's best friend—another rising senior named Alex Miller. They look so sad, huddled together, and they were. Hotch realized that out of all the classmates that were there, that those three were allowed to be upset like him. Alex was the level-headed and calm one of the two, and always tried to tell Haley to do the right thing. David and Jason were the ones that convinced him to go out with her, and that they both talked to her and knew she had feelings for him.

They were trusted friends—all of them. They basically "adopted" him when he was a freshman and they were sophomores. They took him under their wings, and guided them through the hell of freshman year, to avoid the freshman hazing and other horrific things usually done. Eventually when Hotch met Haley, she made her way into their group through Alex. The five of them were inseparable. Well, now it's four.

Hotch blinked back the tears. He was not looking forward to school in a few weeks. He could hear the abysmal rumors of those who didn't come to the service, the ones that didn't know Haley.

Did she snort too much coke?

Did she do the 21 shots challenge?

Did she take E and try to fly by jumping off her roof?

Did she do the tide pod challenge?

Either way—everything was different than before. Aaron's views have changed dramatically to pessimism, and little did he know that everyone would feel the same, and that this year was going to be one giant soap opera...

The rumors did fly around, much like Hotch thought. To his relief along with his friends, none of the rumors were downright awful. Or maybe it was because everyone knew the truth, or because he and his friends were within earshot and didn't want to offend them. It was most likely the latter. Hotch didn't know what theory was the most popular, but he knew what was the least popular —the truth. In Quantico High, whenever the new buzz came out about someone or about anything, the least popular would always be the truth.

Hotch hated the silliness that he was surrounded by; which was, in fact, his fellow peers. He drummed his fingers on his desk quietly, but with no patience. His other hand was holding his head up, but barely. His lips were pressed together, trying to suppress the sighs that wished to escape.

This was supposed to be honors junior english, the exact opposite of the immature students that he's seen and heard, who'd shout random curses and trade drugs out in the open, not to mention the stupid jokes he's overheard people say. People was just so immature. Right now, the same thing was happening when their teacher hasn't even arrived yet. The stupid jokes, the cursing, and the loudness.

The jokes weren't even funny, really.

Or maybe he was humorless.

He'll settle with both.

Ugh, what's that smell?

Oh, someone opened a bag of marijuana.

Great.

The stench filled their classroom, not exactly Hotch's cup of tea at eight-thirty in the morning, to be truthful, it made his skin crawl. Maybe some other time, of course. He should really text David, Jason, and Alex for a toking session. Ever since Haley's funeral, he was getting high all the time, drunk all the time, reckless all the time. His parents were clueless, and his friends didn't know how to help.

He can feel the worried stares coming from one Derek Morgan, one of the few juniors he was friends with. He was not someone that was cold and serious, but one that was down-to-earth yet harbored many secrets that he'd never give away while he was within an unwanted presence. Hotch was annoyed at him for pretending to care. He didn't even come to the funeral.

But what really annoyed him was this girl, the reason he was annoyed in the first place. This one girl, who looked very new. Hotch knew this since he never saw her at her Quantico High. Anyway, this girl in particular, who was surrounded by a group of class clowns, was speaking annoyingly loud to a degree where someone from another classroom could've heard it.

Her perfect mouth was moving at a rapid pace, Hotch couldn't help but notice, as she beamed and told stories about her trips around the world with her family. Her glossy black ink hair reached down to her lower back, every small movement makes her hair move with her, and with such grace. It brushed against her flawless skin perfectly. Not to mention those dark brown eyes...

So yes, Hotch would say she was pretty. Beautiful, even.

Still, it didn't make her any less annoying.

Worse, it reminded him of her. The only thing that was different was her hair.

"Hotch," that was Derek, who was met with a glare from him, he waited for the other boy to continue, "What are you thinking about?"

Pfft. If Derek wants to know, he has to keep digging. Hotch would never give away his emotions, that lead to trouble. Not even to the shitty therapist his parents made him see because they couldn't help their own son. He openly ignored his question and retreated back into his mind, with his thoughts running all over the place. He went back to see what she was doing now, who was laughing with such an uproar that her delicate hands were going up to her mouth to suppress them. Then, something unusual happened as he watched her movements with his fixed gaze.

Her exquisite chocolate-filled eyes had been shifting back in forth to the group of friends she'd made, until they went straight onto Hotch's, she immediately froze for only a second, as did he, before the former turned away and went back to her previous conversation. The latter turned away as well, relieved since her eyes basically bore into his soul.

But those eyes...

...Those were Haley's eyes.

Hotch later found out after a week of school that her name was Emily Prentiss.

Prentiss, he thought, even her name sounded so annoying.

Emily later found that week that his name was Aaron Hotchner, though he was called Hotch.

Hotch, she thought, what a stupid nickname.

Both of them immediately perfected the example of "Hate at first sight."

He thought that she was insanely wild, as if she was an untamed wolf that needed to be free and escape the world. As if she had something to prove, as if she had to fit in out of fear that she couldn't.

She thought he had a stick up his ass.

He thought she was bossy, with her nose held up all high and mighty, as if she ruled the school. Her flashing eyes gazing down at you, with the intentions of tearing anyone down that stood in her way, her posture was straight, confident, with her movements precise and firm, yet so overwhelmingly gorgeous.

She felt he needed loosen up one hundred and twenty percent.

He felt that she had too many screws loose.

She liked pineapples on pizza.

Hotch snorted at the thought.

Pineapples on pizza.

Who the hell likes pineapples on pizza?

Was she a typical mean girl? Like those made up, fake plastic dolls you'd see in the movies? He didn't think so, he would just see the fire in her eyes that would tell him a story of triumph, as well as her depths of ambition. Although he had learned that this would get her into trouble, seeing her drag her feet down to the dean's every single day, it didn't seem to stop her from speaking up for what she believed in. She believed what she believed, and she had no problem showing it. To others, she'd look mean. Not to Hotch, she just was so annoying.

Still, he considers himself to be a chicken shit more so than ever.

She refused to be acknowledged anything less than courageously confident.

He saw her as reckless, and she saw him as cowardly.

Emily felt without a doubt that Hotch should be less of a mouse. He was too scrawny, and unusually quiet. Not to mention he reeks of coldness, it makes her skin crawl. She had seen the darkness behind his eyes, only if it was for a brief second, she hadn't missed the glares, the ones that seemed to be crying for help.

She knew his misery was different from hers—she was pretty sure he didn't have an abortion like she—but it was still there. She wouldn't drag everyone down in her misery, she'd cover it up, and try to make others happy.

She'd fake it with a flashy smile, he'd remain stoic and stiff.

Hotch said that he rejected his heart this summer. Emily said that he was rejecting his soul. Either way, he wished his heart and soul would no longer be in tact, because of his fear of being hurt. If you could not feel, then you could not be hurt. If he had to take away his ability to feel to avoid any source of negativity, he would in a second. And what about not being able to feel the happy moments? Hotch would just have a sour expression on his face and say with much venom, "What happy moments?" The only time he was happy was when he was with Haley, and now she's dead.

Sometimes, he wondered if he was a sociopath.

...She wondered that about him, too.

They both had thought many things about each other, the good and the bad, though they both would find out very soon that one would outweigh the other. Maybe not now, but very, very soon.

Spencer Reid found out quickly that he did not like high school.

The cafeteria wasn't a suitable place to read, and it seemed like it was a terrible place to eat in as well, ironically. Being an eleven year old soon-to-be twelve in a public high school was very daunting, and with his height and his weight, it wasn't going to get any easier. He inhaled and exhaled, his hand brushing trying to feel the smooth cover of the literature his mother let him borrow. Sometimes it wasn't about the literature, but it was a way for him to feel close to his mother, as he felt it was symbolic to her being a former literature professor.

He was bored, yes, but it'd help if he was able to put his energy into something that didn't have to do with caring for his schizophrenic mother. Spencer loved her with all of his heart, but truthfully, he was glad that he'd be able to escape that for at least seven hours at school, even if he found out rather fast that he'd be a prime target for bullies. His large frames, His unkempt hair up to his shoulders, as well as his scrawny features. It was practically asking for bullies to pick on him.

His mother's episodes were more and more frequent, his classes were still easy, and he'd finish the classwork in less than five minutes. He knew he'd end up reading the entire library by the end of the week. Everything was moving too slow, even when his teachers had told him he was on a fast track in all honors classes. Spencer's brain was like a brain on crack, it would never ever stop. As of recent, the last time Spencer had gotten a proper amount of sleep was right before the first day of school. This is the second week, and he would be plagued with layers and layers of stress.

It'd never be about school, it'd be about the people. The people, he believed, we're too immature for their own good, and although he didn't mean to come off as condescending, it's what kept him on the list of the top three bullied students of the school. It's not like he meant it, it was his way of trying to be sociable–it didn't mean that he was very good at it, as no one had wanted to hear memorized speeches of past Presidents, nor did they want to listen about statistics on smoking, since they'd go ahead and do it anyway...

It wouldn't help that Spencer always had his hand up, not to mention adding more information to what the teacher had said, rambling for a good ten minutes before some kid or teacher got fed up and sent him to the library, which everyone knew was his secondary home. Though no one knew it–and he wished to keep it that way–it was a way to stay after school to avoid his mother's delusions of the world that was distorted and irrational, that was too long gone from reality. It was a huge guilt weighing on his conscience, times like this made him wish he didn't have one. The guilt was of his inability to help, no matter how many books he has read on paranoid schizophrenia.

As sad as it sounded, books were Spencer's true friends. He liked books, books never changed. You could read a story over and over again, and the ending and the words he had memorized would stay the same; only your perception of it would change, and since Spencer had control over that and had awareness of it, he was okay with it. He loved it–the sounds of a paper turning–which was scratching roughly against the hardly smooth cover of the literature book he'd obsess with for amount of weeks until another book took its place. When asked what his favorite book was by past teachers, it would be the one he had last read–or one that he was currently reading–though give or take five minutes, he'd be finished with that current book from beginning to end.

Oh, what's this?

Some senior rips the book out of his hands and tears some pages out in the middle of the hallway. He tosses it back to Spencer which didn't catch–thanks to poor motor skills–and gloated to his fellow friends; with high-fives and shouts of glee. Another senior takes his large hand, the size of Spencer's head, no doubt, and pushed the nine year old into the wall, his back cracking as he slid down the wall clutching his stomach in pain, or possibly, to protect himself.

Now he was on the floor, as well as the pages of his beloved novel; he tried to crawl and reach over to pick them up, nobody even bothering to help him. If anything, people kicked the papers away from him, in order to give him a hard time. Once he gathered everything in one place, he rushed out of school and didn't look back, out of fear.

Now, after a long day of not maintaining eye contact with anyone; he greets his mother–who was lying in her bed–no doubt, she has been there all day. Part of him wanted to tell her what happened to him today with the bullies; but he couldn't. It was selfish, his mother was suffering more than he was.

Too tired to tell her to get out of bed, and it wasn't like she was going to listen anyway, he sat down in his room–finally in the comfort of his own little library–and began to do his homework. Easy as usual, he'd be able to use his own mind as a calculator, that is if his teachers would let him. He's always been given a limit of what he could do by past teachers. This includes word limit on his essay's, which was helpful, it presented him with the challenge of prioritizing on what was important and what wasn't; it certainly did spark his interest, which kept him stimulated.

When he was done–which was probably done in record time, too–he pulled out his copy of The Catcher in the Rye to re-read it for the two hundred and seventeenth time. He had heard somewhere that this book was listed as a Junior Honors English book. Whatever level books were, it didn't matter to him. It was all the same. His fingers were scanning the pages at a quick pace, as usual.

"Spies! Spies! Spies!" a shrill coming from his mother's bedroom, her erratic speech that could be heard through the walls, sounding muffled and disoriented. After all these years, Spencer could at least make out what she was saying. He tried to focus more intensely on the novel, hoping to tune out her rants and delusions. However, it became increasingly difficult concentrate; as she had managed to get louder and spoke faster, spitting out words at a speed that was hard to keep up with,

"Spies are everywhere! They're coming! Close the windows lock all the doors! Double check to lock them! He'll find me I knew it I knew it I knew it! The government's microchip in my leg is activating I can feel it! Get it out, get it out, get it out!"

Then, he heard a crash coming from his mother's bedroom. Although not uncommon, the sudden noise still made the eleven year old jump up in surprise. He has always been skittish; a habit that he could not seem to break. Spencer Reid dropped his book and ran to his mother's room as her aide at top speed. Her clothes were crooked, her hair was wild and frizzy, and her eyes were darting around wildly.

"Mom," Spencer started off slowly, with caution, "Did you take your medication?"

...That was the wrong thing to ask.

His mother let out a strangled moan, and began to rant about conspiracies about the government, and then proceeded to let out a string of curses that was, unfortunately, directed at him. Spencer blocked out her insults to the best of his ability; even when some of the words stung. He took this time to search her room for her medication she may have left lying around. She had always been disorganized. He threw the things that were in his way of what he was looking for; surprised he didn't break anything in the process.

Finally.

Spencer caught a glimpse of it; an orange prescription bottle that was labeled; Diana Reid- Zyprexa.

Damn it, he thought, because he knew this was the hardest part.

"Mom," Spencer repeats, trying to remain calm. He swallowed, showing her the pill bottle before saying, "You need to take this." His mother's eyes, which had been darting before madly, was now focused intently on her son. As soon as he met his mother's eyes, he knew he made a fatal mistake. She was not there. She was not there at all. Swallowing nervously, he tried to bolt, but it was too late. She was faster and yanked his arm and dragged him. She had slapped him, over and over and over again,

"My–"

SLAP!

"Own–"

SLAP!

"Son!" She barked, each slap coming with a new word next to it, she had become accusing towards him, but he had never expected something like this, "My own son is a spy! They recruited you! You, you...You TRAITOR!" Everything went still now; the room was in complete silence, apart from Spencer's mother's heavy breathing. She had exhausted herself from putting so much energy into her slaps; it hurt.

Spencer felt the tears threatening to spill over, and as childish he felt this sounded, he wanted his mommy to hug him and hold him and tell him everything would be okay. He knew that it was her schizophrenia talking; her illness that made her say those hurtful words, but that didn't mean it hurt him any less. If anything, each time she'd accuse him, it broke his heart. He found his heart breaking everyday for as long as he could remember, which by the way, he could.

Her words would echo in his head, "My. Own. Son!"

Spencer sighed; he wasn't going to get any sleep again, right?

What's sleep?

Take out your Catcher in the Rye copies, please," ordered the honors English teacher, who waved a hand dismissively.

Emily didn't dislike books; she just preferred screenplays. What she disliked was the fact that their lovely English teacher insisted on having someone new read everyday. It sounded so monotonous, so depressingly dull. With screenplays, you could act things out; she always had a flair for drama.

Hotch didn't give a shit. As long as his grade was above a B, he was fine.

"Aaron," the teacher starts, with a grin, "Why don't you start on chapter three?" He felt Emily's eyes on him, without even having to turn around. She was observing him, she was watching him, like some goddamn experiment. Reluctantly, he took out his copy of the book and began to read aloud,

"I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful—" Well, how true was that... His brow was furrowed, realizing that her gaze was still on him, nevertheless, he continued reading.

"If I'm on the way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera–"

"Can you read it better?" Hotch turned around fully now, to come face-to-face with a moody Emily Prentiss. This time, their eyes met, and it was like a staring contest.

Their first spoken words together, however, was not what either of them had expected. Hotch believed it would be in a private place, as did she, as well as believing they'd definitely speak quite soon. They both knew positively that they didn't expect it to be in front of their peers.

Emily knew she'd start it.

Hotch would have to make sure he finished it.

It was very unusual, considering the situation of theirs over this past week and a half of knowing each other.

He knew that she stared, and she knew that he stared.

It was a game; whether one can catch the other's exquisite features, and when they did, they'd turn away, blushing into the rosiest of all reds.

This has been going on everywhere they've seen each other. In the halls, during classes, during lunch...anywhere. For that made Emily sick, and Aaron annoyed–when wasn't he annoyed–but it made both of them curious. Both would agree that if there was one person they ran into the most accidentally, they would say each other.

Without a doubt.

They both hope it's a coincidence.

Maybe fate will say otherwise.

In this very moment, for sure, they were both pissed.

"It's a narration," Hotch explained, still maintaining eye contact with her easily, "Stop being so dramatic."

To Hotch's surprise, as well as everyone else's, she kept her mouth shut. It didn't mean she wasn't fuming, however. What she did do next, though, was interesting. She stood up from her desk, with an icy glare towards Hotch as she stormed out of the room with the door slamming behind her. Hotch could feel the angry stares coming from her stupid little friends, but he rolled his eyes and blew it over. He tried to cover up the guilt that had suddenly started eating at him, why the hell should he care?

...She was such a fucking drama queen, right?

...Unbearable and annoying, too.

...He couldn't stand her.