Disclaimer: Criminal Minds belongs to CBS, not me.

So I got nothing to share

"No, no, that's not right," Spencer said. He looked at the older student's homework, frowned deeply, and circled the problem with his pencil. "Why did you multiply? You should divide."

The girl huffed in annoyance and pulled the paper back. "God, why did I ever agree to let a Cabbage Patch doll tutor me?" she said, scowling at her homework.

"Because you're an idiot who wants to stay on the softball team and he's the smartest kid in the eleventh grade."

"Shut up, Parker."

Parker Dunley tipped back in his chair and laughed. "Oh, you're mad, Kayley," he said. "Come on, though. It's not that bad getting tutored by a twelve-year-old."

Spencer frowned. "I won't turn twelve until the end of the month," he objected.

"Oh, excuse me, an eleven-year-old," Parker snickered.

"Really, though, you should be okay on your midterms," Spencer said. "Mr. Jackson is going to let you have a card with all the formulas on it, so as long as you practice putting the current numbers from the word problems where they belong. Even if you don't remember exactly what you learned in class, getting the formulas right is-"

"All right, all right, all right," Kayley said. "I get it, okay? I get it."

Spencer pushed his chair back from the library table, a difficult task when his feet didn't reach the floor. "I found a book last semester that might be helpful," he said. "Hold on, I'll be right back."

He didn't need to bother with the Dewey decimal system; he knew exactly where the book was. It was about a step up from a "calculus for dummies," but Kayley didn't know that, and it might be helpful.

"Hey...Spencer?"

He glanced up and nearly dropped the book. Harper Hillman stood at the end of the aisle, dressed in her perfectly-pressed cheer uniform, her straight dark hair tied up with a neat purple bow. She was the second most popular girl in school, how did she even know his name?

Well, maybe because he was the only eleven-year-old at Las Vegas High School, but that was beside the point.

He didn't realize he was gawking and hadn't spoken until she cleared her throat. "You're Spencer Reid, right?" she said, clearly irritated.

"Uh...yeah," he stammered. "Yeah, um...I'm Spencer."

She smiled at him this time, teeth white and straight against her rose-brown lipstick. "You know Alexa Lisbon, right?" she said.

Alexa Lisbon- head cheerleader, homecoming queen, star of the school play. Of course he knew Alexa. "Yeah, sure, of course," he stammered.

"She wants you to meet her behind the fieldhouse," Harper said. "Like...ASAP."

He blinked. "For...tutoring?" he said, his unbroken voice squeaking a little higher.

Harper laughed. "Oh, you'll see," she said, and she turned on the toe of a perfectly white sneaker to walk out of the library.

Spencer gulped hard. If the most popular girl in school wanted to tutor him, it could go a long way to getting everybody else off his back. It wasn't easy being a junior in high school when he really ought to be in the sixth grade. He was small and skinny, he was clumsy, his clothes were always wrinkled and a size too big, he was on track to be school valedictorian but he was too little to drive a car or stay out past his bedtime for football games or even reach his upper level locker. He'd been picked on for as long as he could remember. But if Alexa Lisbon approved of him…

He ran back to the table. "Uh, sorry, you guys, but something came up, I gotta go, but this book should be helpful," he said, dumping the book on the table and making Kayley jump in surprise. "Page seventy-five especially, it'll help explain the exponents. Good luck on your midterms!"

He grabbed his backpack and ran, slinging the strap over his shoulder. This could change everything. Not that he was really looking to be popular, or even make friends. He'd never had them before so he didn't know what he was missing. The only person he was friends with at the moment was Ethan, and sometimes not even then. They were in the same grade, and Ethan had been the smartest kid in school before he got there. Usually they were friends, but they were neck and neck for the highest grades and the best projects, and if Spencer won out then Ethan might not speak to him for a week, or more.

No, becoming popular wasn't an option. But to spend the rest of his time in high school without his lunch money being taken, or bigger kids tripping him down the stairs, or rude words getting written on his locker, or his homework stolen, or getting kicked under the stairwell- that would be amazing.

He jogged towards the football field, his backpack bouncing on his shoulders and his shoelaces tangling around his ankles. Usually the field was full of football players running around or cheerleaders practicing their routines; it was unusual to see it so empty.

The fieldhouse door was slightly cracked. He pushed it open the rest of the way, peering into the half-lit room. "Alexa?" he called.

She materialized from behind a metal shelf unit, her blonde curls glowing in the late afternoon light. "Hey," she said, smiling at him.

He shifted his weight anxiously. "Harper said you wanted to see me," he said. "Harper Hillman, she-"

"Yeah, I told her to find you," Alexa said. She came closer, close enough for him to see the gold glitter in her pink lip gloss and smell the cherry scent of her perfume. "You know why?"

Spencer swallowed hard. "Tutoring, maybe?" he said. "I thought...maybe you wanted me to tutor you…"

She threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, honey," she said, and she didn't sound sweet at all. "You may be smart, but wow...you are fucking dumb."

His backpack slid off his shoulders and hit the floor with a thump. "Wh...what?" he stammered, his voice coming out small and lost. "I don't understand-"

Broad arms grabbed him from behind and dragged him out of the fieldhouse. Spencer screamed, thrashing his skinny legs. The late afternoon sun pierced his eyes as he was dragged out of the soft dark and he squinted.

"Ladies and gentlemen...we got 'im!"

He heard cheering. Happy, loud cheering, like he'd just scored a touchdown. He opened his eyes, and the football team ringed around him in their practice jerseys. The cheerleaders were there too, their hairbows bouncing merrily in the breeze. Spencer couldn't breathe; the football player had his arms pinned behind his back so hard his shoulders ached.

"Let me go," he said, but his voice came out as a tiny whisper. "Let me go."

The football player- Tanner Berkley, he realized, the quarterback- held onto him tighter. "Jordan, grab his other arm!" Tanner said.

Jordan did, grabbing onto his left arm so tight that Spencer winced. "Let's go!" Jordan bellowed, and the crowd cheered.

They dragged him through the grass across the football field, his heels dragging in the turf. He tried to fight them, but he was too small. "Let me go!" he shrieked. His head flopped back and he stared, frantic, at the peacefully blue sky. "Let me go!"

They dropped him to the ground and he scrambled to his feet, his arms and shoulders aching where they dragged him, but before he could run Jordan kicked his legs out from under him. He hit the ground with a gasp as the air knocked violently out of his lungs.

"Get his arms!"

"Get his legs!"

Spencer wheezed hard, trying to catch his breath, and then he realized they were prying off his shoes. "What are you doing?" he gasped. "What's happening?"

Someone pinned him down at the waist while someone else pulled at his jacket. Cool grass brushed his bare feet and ankles. They reached for the hem of his shirt. "No!" he shrieked, but they yanked his shirt over his head and arms with a sickening tear of fabric, pulling his glasses off with it. "Stop! Stop, leave me alone!"

Someone reached for the fly of his pants. "Stop!" he screamed, and panic squeezed hard in his chest. "Stop it! Don't touch me!"

They pulled down his pants first, then his boxers, and then he was lying naked in the cool green grass.

He tried to curl up, to hide, to do something, but one of the seniors grabbed him by the wrists and yanked him to his feet. His vision swam. They were still shouting, still cheering, but it blended together into one barbaric roar.

"...tie him...goalpost," he vaguely heard.

A big hand pressed against his bare chest, shoving him up against the sun-warmed metal of the goalpost. His whole body drooped, but he was held up by his chin and his shoulders. Rough rope wound around him, wrapping like a boa constrictor around his chest and hips and knees. He raised his head and caught the eye of the football player winding the rope. "Please," he gasped. "Please, let me go. I want to go home."

The football player looked away and handed the end of the rope to Jordan. Jordan looped the ropes around Spencer's slender wrists and tied it tight, painfully tight.

Spencer couldn't breathe. He was naked, he was tied to the goalpost, everyone was staring at him. The rough fraying ropes cut into his skin like dull knives. And they were cheering, they were pointing and laughing.

He raised his head slowly, lethargically. "I want to go home," he said. "Please let me go home. My mom...she'll look for me, she'll wonder where I am if I'm not home on time…"

"Oh, shut up, everyone knows your mom is batshit," someone said, and everybody laughed. He could pick out Jordan and Tanner in the crowd, he could see Alexa smirking with the glitter catching the lights in her pink lip gloss, he could even see Harper with her arms crossed over her chest. Everyone was staring at him.

"Let me go!" he said again, and it came out as a sob. "Just let me go, let me go…"

The ropes were too tight over his chest and belly. He couldn't breathe. They were all watching him.

Someone took a photo with a polaroid camera, the flash shooting off in his eyes. He flinched, trying to hide himself, but he couldn't. The metal of the goalpost burned against his skin; the sun was too hot overhead.

"Aw, is the baby crying?" someone cooed, and the laugh passed through the crowd in a tidal wave. He was crying, he was, tears spilling down his cheeks and dripping into the grass at his feet.

"Somebody help me," he begged. "Somebody help me, please, untie me, please…"

No one untied him. No one helped him. They watched him, some of them making direct eye contact. He cried steadily, tears dripping into his mouth, until he was so drained that there were no tears left. His body felt dry and cracked like a corn husk.

The Las Vegas sun was hot, too hot. Even in early October the heat was thick and parched and oppressive. He could feel his pale shoulders burning. "Please, just...water," he pleaded. "Water, I'm so thirsty…"

No one listened.

It felt like an eternity, his naked body tied too tight and exposed to these strangers, the sun baking him from the inside out, their eyes zeroed in on him. And then they began to walk away, little groups of two and three and four, as his misery began to bore them.

"Please," he begged hoarsely. "Please let me go. I want to go home. Please, please, somebody untie me…"

No one did.

"Alexa!" he called, the sound ripping his vocal cords. "Help me! Please!"

She turned and walked away, linking her arm through Harper's. And he was alone.

The sun began to set, but it didn't make him feel better. Heat exhaustion, he thought dizzily. I've got heat exhaustion. It had been over a hundred degrees in the afternoon. But he was starting to feel cold, prickles climbing over his body like invisible spiders.

Heat exhaustion. Nausea, dizziness, headache, weakness, vomiting. Get to a cool place, Drink water. Heat exhaustion leads to heat stroke.

He needed to escape. And soon.

Clumsily he wriggled his wrists against the ropes. They were tied tight, but well. If he could just loosen them…

He rolled his wrists slowly, trying to ease some space. Nausea crawled at the pit of his stomach, matching the dizziness swirling in his head, and he had to keep pausing, had to keep closing his eyes and falling still to fight it off.

The sun sank completely behind the horizon, the sky turning a deep navy blue, starless and thick, and the air began to chill. He whimpered as he struggled with the ropes. He wanted to go home so badly. Surely by now his mother was worried. Maybe she'd come looking for him, and rescue him…

He kept fighting the ropes, his fingers clumsy and shaking. He was cold, so cold, but his skin was on fire, and his stomach churned. The dizziness consumed him. His hands fell, limp and trembling, and he threw up into the soft turf, coughing up stomach bile. It dribbled down his chin and he couldn't wipe it away.

It was dark now. He had always been afraid of the dark, ever since he was little. And outside in the dark was even scarier than the dark of his bedroom. Panic bubbled in his chest. He wanted to go home. He wanted to someone to rescue him. He wanted someone to turn on the lights and tell him it was a bad dream.

At last, at long last, the ropes fell away from his wrists. He let out a strangled half-sob and fought weakly at the ropes keeping him lashed to the goalposts. His knees buckled and he fell forward hard on his hands and knees, the world tipping around him.

He laid there for a moment in the cold grass, his body aching, his head spinning, until he was able to lean on his elbows and push himself up. Slowly, shakily, he crawled across the football field towards the fieldhouse. His clothes were piled in little heaps on the ground, and for a dizzying moment he was grateful they hadn't taken them with them. Clothes itched on his burned skin and his fingers fumbled on the buttons of his shirt. He wiped the vomit off his chin with the back of his hand, pulled on his shoes but didn't bother to tie them, then picked up his backpack by one strap.

It was a forty-five minute walk home. His clothes scratched at his skin and his right sneaker rubbed a blister on his heel. He hadn't eaten since lunch, or even had anything to drink, but his stomach churned and tumbled and there was no way he could possibly eat anything. Exhaustion pulled at his vision, but he forced himself to place one foot after another.

Relief began to pour into him as he reached his neighborhood, then his street. He could see his house now, lights blazing in the living room. His mother was awake. Maybe talking to the police, trying to find him. He let himself in the front door, his body drooping in exhausted relief.

His mother paced back and forth, mumbling to herself, wringing her hands. "Mom," he said. "I'm home."

She didn't look at him. She just kept pacing, her repeating words getting louder and louder. "Mom?" he said again.

"...they won't stop talking, they won't stop talking..."

"Mom," he said again, desperate. His backpack slid off his shoulder and hit the floor with a thump.

She turned around, a pair of silver scissors clenched in her fist. "Do you hear them?" she demanded. "Have you heard them?"

"Who?" he asked, his voice coming out as an exhausted rasp.

"Them," she said, her eyes darting back and forth. "You know. Them." She scratched feverishly at her arms. "They were whispering, Spencer. Whispering my name."

She hadn't sent anyone to look for him. She hadn't realized he was missing at all.

"I haven't heard anything, Mom," he said dully.

"Good, good," she said. She brushed past him without seeing him, mumbling under her breath, and his heart sank into his shoes.

He left his backpack on the floor and trudged towards the bathroom. The lights nearly blinded him, and the sight of his own reflection caught him off guard. His face was beet red with sunburn, his eyes wild and watery. Slowly he pried off his clothes, easing away from his burned skin. He stared at his reflection as if he didn't recognize himself. White stripes criss-crossed his torso and thighs where the ropes had left their marks. The rest of his skin was flushed red and dry to the touch. But he felt cold.

He turned on the shower, drowning out any other sounds, even the running chaos in his brain. But when he stepped under the spray it wasn't soothing. It felt like a cloud of bee stings on his sore skin. He swallowed down a sob with the nausea. It hurt, but it needed to happen.

He stayed under the sharp spray for a while, washing his hair with cheap shampoo and rubbing a bar of soap over his body. It didn't make him feel clean, but he eventually he rinsed off and stepped out of the shower.

Like a little robot he went through the motions. He brushed his teeth. He combed his hair. He dressed in his pajamas. He hung up his towel and put his dirty clothes in the hamper and set the backpack down by his desk. Thoughts kept circling in his mind and he did his best to push it down, to silence it, to just not think for once.

He limped down the hall to the kitchen. Dishes piled haphazardly in the sink; he picked up the nearest glass and washed it thoroughly before filling it with water. He gulped down the tepid tap water, refilled it, drank again. His mouth felt like it was full of sand, he could still taste acid in the back of his throat. His stomach rebelled, twisting tight, and he had to stop and wait for it to subside before he could drink more.

He was still thirsty, but the edge was gone, and exhaustion was pulling him away. He washed the glass and put it away in the cabinet, then stumbled down the hall to his bedroom, his hand trailing against the wall to keep himself upright.

Spencer turned on the nightlight with a gentle click. It was childish, he knew it, but he didn't care. It was the only thing that kept him safe. He crawled into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin.

He had never had a comfort item as a kid- a blanket, a teddy bear, a stuffed animal. Now he wished he did, because nothing brought him any comfort. Dimly he could hear his mother, still caught in the grip of one of her episodes, talking to herself as she crossed up and down the hall.

Spencer gingerly touched the top of his head and imagined the memory of his mother sitting down beside his bed and stroking his hair, comforting him after he woke up with a fever or a nightmare. She used to comfort him, she did, he remembered it, and he missed it.

He tried to picture his father, and while he could see him clear as day, standing in the middle of the room, he couldn't remember his father coming to him in the middle of the night to take care of him. Did it ever happen? Did his father ever care?

Did anyone care now?

He thought he couldn't cry anymore, but a hot tear rolled down his cheek and soaked his pillow, and then another, and he silently cried himself to sleep.

His alarm went off at six-thirty.

His whole body ached, his skin blistering with sunburn, but he rolled out of bed and got dressed anyway. He had midterms. He didn't have the option of staying home.

He found his mother asleep on the couch, the scissors still clenched in her hand. Cautiously he pried them away and set them down on the coffee table, then draped a blanket over her. She'd cut chunks out of her hair; loose locks scattered across the floor. Hopefully she would take her medication when she woke up, but lately she'd been practically nocturnal, she might not be awake until he got home from school.

He hoisted his backpack gingerly onto his shoulder and let himself out of the house. The air was cool and soft against his face. He still felt cold and hot at the same time, chills still rolling up and down his body. And he realized he hadn't done his homework. Oh, well. His grades could take the hit of one missed homework assignment. As long as he passed his midterms. And then he could sleep.

He got on the bus and took his usual seat towards the front, ducking his head and avoiding eye contact. The bus bounced and jolted over the road and he realized he hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday. Did he have lunch money? He wasn't sure. He could eat at home. Probably.

The bus made another stop and more underclassmen climbed aboard. A couple of them glanced his way and snickered. Spencer turned away and caught his reflection in the window. He looked horrible. Sunburn spread across his nose and cheeks and his eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed in purple. If people at school didn't know what happened, they'd certainly start asking about it once they saw him.

He was the first one of the bus and he headed into the school building. There was just enough time to stop at the vending machines; he rummaged through the front pocket of his backpack and dug out a wrinkled dollar. He pushed the button for a yellow Gatorade. It clanked and rolled to the bottom; he cracked the lid and gulped it down eagerly. His empty stomach sloshed and threatened to rebel.

Midterms. He just needed to get through midterms.

He slogged through his classes. People gave him a wide berth- he supposed he was grateful for that. He felt like he was running a fever. Most likely he should go to the nurse's office, but midterms.

He took his seat for calculus class and set out his stubby number two pencils and a broken eraser. Parker Dunley sat down beside him and let out a low whistle. "You look like shit," he said cheerfully.

"Thanks," Spencer mumbled.

"Outside for too long yesterday?"

He lined up the pencils evenly and balanced the eraser above them. "Something like that," he said.

"You ready for the test?" Parker asked. He frowned. "Where's your cheat sheet?"

"Forgot to make one," Spencer said. He probably should have made one. His brain felt like jello. Maybe he wouldn't be able to pass.

He did his best, figuring out the calculations as efficiently as he could, scribbling out his answers. His hand felt unsteady as he wrote. Almost done, almost done… he thought.

The bell rang as he set the test down on the teacher's desk. The other students groaned; he was the only one had completed it in time.

"Hey, hey, what answer did you get for-"

He scooped up his backpack with one hand and walked unsteadily out of the room, ignoring Parker calling for him. Lunch, two classes, he chanted to himself. Lunch, two classes.

He spent lunch hiding in the bathroom. He didn't have lunch money, and he wasn't hungry anyways. His chemistry midterm was easy, his English even easier. The bell rang for three o'clock, and relief washed over him like a flood. All he had to do was stow his books in his locker, ride the bus home, and then he could spend the weekend recovering. Everything would be blown over by Monday.

He stumbled to a stop in front of his locker. Someone had hung a rope over it, blocking the door. The polaroid was tacked up with a magnet.

Someone laughed. He fell back, his lower lip trembling.

"Aw, is he gonna cry?"

He was going to be sick.

"That photo better make it in the yearbook."

He stumbled forward and snatched the photo down with trembling fingers.

"Send him back to daycare where he belongs."

He turned on his heel, wobbling, and he ran down the hall, out the front doors, away from the school.

Author's Notes:

This one was tough to write. Spencer sketches out the story in Elephant's Memory, but it was really hard to flesh it out, especially considering how young he was when this happened. And that his mother wasn't able to take care of him and help him.

This is a recurring theme in the pre-BAU chapters- Spencer going through difficult things in life without anyone to help him or take care of him. But don't worry, there's plenty of support happening in the chapters I'm currently writing!

Yeah, I just have a lot of feelings.

But in any case, thank you for reading, and thank you firepoppies, Dayanna, DestinyDragons101, and a guest for reviewing! (Also: DestinyDragons101, I'm totally planning on working on Coda!) Reviews are always welcome, and feel free to prompt things at my tumblr (themetaphorgirl)

Up next: twelve might be a little young to move to a new state and start college on your own