A/N: I borrowed the title for this chapter from a Monkees song. Once again, I would appreciate it if you didn't sue me.

Also, for all of those who have decided that pre-detention fics are your cup of tea, I wanted to let you know that I have another story in this fandom called 'Eyes and Ears of This Institution', which is also set the week before detention. It's already finished and it isn't very long. I'd love to hear your thoughts on that one as well, if you're interested.

Anyway, thanks for all of the great reviews. I'm glad you're enjoying the story.

Chapter Three: Daydream Believer and a Homecoming Queen

8:51 A.M.

Brian arrived to his second period class a few minutes early since the room was right down the hall from his first period class. He took a seat in the first row and pulled out a notebook and pen, setting everything up on his desk so that he would be ready to start taking notes as soon as class started.

When he was through, he paused, staring at the pen in his hand. He didn't really care about taking notes. He hadn't care about it last period either, but he'd done it anyway, mostly to keep from thinking about that little metal box he'd stuffed in his locker right before the first bell rang. What was he thinking? He wasn't, and that was the problem. He'd ripped open that camping bag and taken out that box without even thinking about what he was doing or why he was doing it and now he was paying the price. Today's lesson? Think before you act.

Brian leaned back in his seat and sighed. That was a lie. He had known what he was doing when he took the flare gun; he remembered the chain of events very clearly and he knew what had motivated him to open that closet door in the first place. It was the F. He was thinking about the F and about what it would be like to tell his parents about it and how he would feel when they started yelling and then he just wanted to be somewhere else where he didn't have to deal with it anymore. Mexico? Fiji? No, the flare gun.

So, what did that mean? Why the flare gun? The answer was sitting patiently in the shadows of his mind, waiting to be discovered, but Brian was too afraid look, too afraid to step into the shadows and acknowledge the reality of what was thinking. I do not want to k… He tightened his grip on the pen, focusing his energy. I do not want to commit… He took a few shallow breaths. I… I want to kill myself.

The pen fell out of Brian's hand and bounced off the edge of his desk, landing on the floor. He didn't notice. His hands were shaking violently and his heart was beating so loudly that he could hear the rhythm in his head. Bump, bump, bump, bump…

Brian didn't take any notes that period.

8:57 A.M.

Allison sat in the back row of her second period Health class and played with a piece of string dangling from the end of her coat. The class bored her to tears, but it wasn't so much the subject as the man who taught it. Mr. Wilbur looked like he belonged on an episode of Little House on the Prairie, mostly because of the way he dressed. He always wore twill suits in earthy tones with stupid little bowties and vests. He even wore those glasses that sat directly on your nose without hooking around your ears, so Allison was constantly watching to see if they would fall off when he bent over or leaned across his desk. In fact, she spent more time watching her bumbling, stuttering teacher than she did learning about exercise or mental disorders or whatever else they were studying. He would have been a doctor, she decided. One of those nice country doctors that showed up in a little wagon with his black bag whenever Laura Ingalls Wilder went into labor or whenever Pa got sick. She could see him mopping his brow with a rumpled handkerchief, beaming with pride when the new baby was brought into the world. She wondered if he had really wanted to be a doctor, but had gotten sucked into teaching somewhere along the way.

"Alright, alright. Everyone quiet down now, please." Mr. Wilbur stood at the front of the classroom, raising his hands in the air to get everyone's attention. It didn't work very well since nearly everyone, except Allison, kept talking. He sighed and tried once more. "Please, now. We're going to start class."

After a moment, the noise died down and almost everyone was at least facing the front of the classroom. Mr. Wilbur gave them a nervous smile. "Thank you. Now, today we're not going to be reading from the text as we normally do. We're going to be watching a video."

One of the jocks on the far side of the room hooted loudly and the classroom erupted with laughter. Mr. Wilbur frowned. Allison imagined that if he had a handkerchief that this would be the point when he would start wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead.

"Now, this is not an excuse to talk or sleep or play games with your neighbor. I expect you to pay very careful attention to the content of the film."

Allison fought the urge to scoff, but the boy in front of her did not. Few people around her tittered, but Mr. Wilbur didn't seem to notice.

"The subject is suicide and depression." He paused, letting this sink in. "This is very serious and I expect you to show the film the respect it deserves."

Allison didn't see the point in respecting a film since it was an inanimate object, but she didn't argue with him about it. Besides, she had more respect for her cat Harold than she did any of the humans in her house, so she supposed that it was possible to feel the same about a movie.

Mr. Wilbur pushed play and the opening credits started rolling. When the first scene began, Allison cringed. From the looks of things, the movie had been sitting around in the Shermer High School film library for at least ten years, probably more. The teenagers in the film were all wearing bellbottoms and the hairstyles were all from the early seventies. The acting was horrible as well. The lines were awkward and stilted and the delivery was poor at best. Allison rolled her eyes, but kept watching, though more than two thirds of the other students were slumped over their desks or propped up on their hands, asleep.

Allison had considered suicide before. Never seriously, of course. Never seriously enough to start planning or setting things in motion, but it did seem like a viable option at times when it appeared that all of her other options had run dry. There were days when her mother wouldn't say a single word to her because she was off showing houses or talking to Tom on the phone or helping the twins practice their Latin vocabulary. There were times when she knew she would do anything for her parents to notice her, to really step back and look at the person she had become. Sometimes she wondered idly what they would do if she really did kill herself, if they would be torn up with guilt or if it would just be further proof to them that she never really fit in with their family to begin with. Allison wanted to believe they cared and, though she knew it was probably wrong, she wanted them to feel guilty, really guilty, for letting her believe that they didn't.

"Sometimes I just feel like I'm not good enough."

Allison glanced up at the television, where a pretty teenage girl with long blonde hair and clear, rosy skin was wiping a tear from her cheek. Allison narrowed her eyes at the screen.

"I feel like a loser," the girl continued dramatically. "Like I can't do anything right."

Allison clenched her jaw, but kept watching the video. A few minutes after the girl's tearful confession, Allison watched her smile as she listened to music on a record player with her friend, bobbing her head and snapping her fingers. In the next scene, she was shaking hands with what Allison presumed to be a psychologist. As the closing credits rolled, the girl frolicked in the park with a group of friends, laughing and smiling into the camera, free from the burden of depression and content in the knowledge that her life was worth living.

Yeah, fucking right.

Before Allison could reach into her bag to find an object large enough to throw at the television, Mr. Wilbur reached forward and turned off the VCR, making the screen go blue. "Can someone please get the lights?"

A girl sitting next to the doorway flicked the switch, illuminating a roomful of students in various stages of consciousness. Mr. Wilbur looked a bit crushed and Allison would have felt sorry for him if she didn't hate him so much for making them watch such a horrible film.

"Does anyone have any questions?" he asked loudly, presumably trying to wake up the sleeping portion of his class, which greatly outnumbered the portion that was awake. The tactic failed and most of the students remained draped over their desks, some of them snoring. Allison didn't quite blame them.

Mr. Wilbur sighed, frustrated. A few seconds later, the bell rang and the class stirred to life once again. Allison picked up her knapsack and slung it over her shoulder, starting down the aisle. She brushed past the television cart and, shooting Mr. Wilbur a nasty look (which he didn't notice), left the classroom.

11:24 A.M.

Claire sat in her fourth period study hall trying to finish the Calculus homework she had due seventh period. She would have done it the night before but Jenna and Charlotte had called, inviting her to go out with some of the guys from the football team and she'd accepted, of course, knowing that she could draw parabolas in study hall, where she had nothing better to do since she didn't have any friends in there with her. She'd tried getting her schedule changed at the beginning of the semester when she'd realized that she was all alone, but her guidance counselor had rejected the notion, telling her that she would only change a student's schedule if it was absolutely necessary. Claire told her that it was, in fact, very necessary. After all, what good is a free period when there's no one to talk or pass notes to? Her guidance counselor apparently didn't understand the severity of the situation because she refused to change anything.

When she finished the last problem, Claire looked up at the clock above the chalkboard, which told her that she had three minutes until lunch. The other students must have realized this, too, because everyone started rustling around all at once, opening backpacks and putting away papers. Claire tucked her Calculus homework into a folder and put her pencil into her purse. Her fingers brushed against a pack of breath mints and she removed them from the bag.

"Can I have one?"

Claire looked to her right, where a boy with shaggy blonde hair and a black leather jacket was watching her, eyebrow cocked expectantly. Claire's brow furrowed in confusion… and a bit of disgust. "What?"

"I asked if I could have one of those." The boy nodded at the pack of mints clutched in her right hand. "A mint," he clarified when she still didn't say anything.

Claire wrinkled her nose. "No."

The boy's expression hardened a bit, but he didn't flinch. "Not even one?"

Claire didn't bother to answer this time. She put the mints back into her purse and turned away, straightening her blouse and smoothing a few wrinkles out of her skirt. A few seconds later the bell rang and Claire gathered her books, pressing them to her chest. Just before she stood up, she felt someone hovering over her, their warm breath against her ear sending chills down her spine.

"Bitch."

The boy didn't say anything else, but the chills didn't go away. Claire sat rooted to her chair, afraid to move as she watched the blonde boy walk down the aisle, his combat boots hitting the floor with hollow thuds. When he disappeared through the doorway, she waited a few seconds then rose to her feet, books still clutched against her chest, and walked out of the room.