• Brenton threw his backpack down on the floor of the band room as he slid across the room in his usual brisk yet calm manner. He grabbed a chair from one of the chair carts, tossing it down over his backpack, then hurried over to the (music) stand carts, putting one of those in its place as well. He grabbed his bassoon case and began assembling the instrument with speed unmatched by either of the other bassoonists, who were probably still asleep at this point, along with every other student of his middle school. To humor himself, and partly to show off, he always showed up a few hours before school actually started to practice on one of the three instruments he could (bassoon, tenor saxophone, or tuba-he had no access to a piano at school, so he had to make due with his keyboard at home, which he used to compose). Today, it was his bassoon, as he had a concert coming up with his extra-curricular band, the only band whose music he ever practiced (allowing for the rare occurrence that any music given to the school band actually interested him, which, given the relatively pitiful level of the school band, was very rare).

    Two hours later, he was forced to listen as the trumpet section tried, tried again, and eventually (about five minutes before the end of the class period) succeeded in committing rhythmic suicide.

    After that, he retired to the band director's office, where he sorted out papers, ran errands, and when all that was done, he went into the "Green Room", where all the sheet music was kept, and proceeded to arrange the sheet music folders into score order, for his own enjoyment (and as an excuse to get away from the horrible noises caused by the Beginning band).

    Third period, he headed over to his Core (Language Arts/Social Studies) class, where he sat in the back in a futile attempt to keep the Christian, unmarried, pregnant, young, hormonal teacher's shrilly voice from setting his Tinnitus off again. The most entertaining part of the class was observing and averaging the seconds it took his classmates to answer questions that would be quite easy for any middle school student with a measurable amount of intelligence. Most of the time, the teacher ended up saying something the lines of "Since you've all seemed to give up, I suppose I'll have to force some random person to answer. I wonder who that might be."
    Brenton hardly waited for the teacher to say his name to answer the question.

    After 90 minutes of the drudgery of Core, he headed over to Science (currently 5th period). The case was almost the same when it came to the intellectual build of the rest of the class, except that this time the teacher was a mature, intellectual woman who had a voice probably best measured in the mid-tenor range and had no plans of having kids again, and was actually married (although Brenton had never bothered to ask her if she was religious).
    There was one part about Science that was worse than Core-the children in this class actually bothered Brenton with their hopeless attempts to compare themselves with him. This time, it was a particularly infantile child named Mikey whose physique resembled that of a primate, especially his face, with his sunken-in eyes and a jaw that stuck out so far from his face it not only looked primal but comical at the same time.
    This time, he wished to compare skills and experiences.
    "So, have you ever surfed before, Mr. Tough Guy?" he asked, though Brenton never actually showed off his moderately impressive muscular build.
    Brenton looked up from his book, the Handbook of Electromagnetic Pump Technology, a very complex manual co-authored by his Grandfather about a type of pump the man had invented.
    "Oh really? What, too heavy to get on a board?" Mikey teased, barely suppressing a giggle (yes, a giggle).
    Brenton figured that today was especially boring, so he would humor himself by responding.
    "No, it's just not 'my kind of thing', as you would put it."

    "Oh really? [o rly???//]"
    "Yes, really. I do not skate, or play guitar hero, or play real guitar, or specialize in drum kit." The list of questions was predictable, and it always angered Mikey to have his questions answered before he had a time to ask them.

    "Have you ever shot a gun?"
    Brenton glanced up from his book (he had resumed reading as Mikey fumed to himself and thought up a question).
    "Half of me wants to bed you to state that that was a serious question." he said.

    "And the other half?"

    "The other half is wondering if you're gaining or losing intelligence as your life progresses."

    This set Mikey off.
    "Alright, Mr. 'I'm So Attractive And Handsome'," another name that didn't apply to Brenton, who knew he was not attractive, and had no interest in any of the girls at school, or anywhere else (or the guys, as he had to repeatedly explain to anyone who asked), "Are you still a virgin, then?" Mikey smiled, assuming he had won with this question.

    Brenton anticipated a question of a perverted nature, and had a counter.

    "My apologies, but I am not raped every night by my parents." As Mikey turned a deeper shade of red, speechless, he added "I didn't know your father was so desperate."

    After a few minutes, Mikey opened his mouth to speak, but Brenton cut him off.
    "Enough! I grow weary of your futile attempts to undermine me." he pretended to lose some amount of control of his anger, and allowed himself to bash the fool.
    "First of all, I do not bother myself with useless sports such as surfing. Second, Guitar Hero is less than 1/36 the difficulty of playing a real guitar. Finally, the fact that you're completely unable to ever get a girlfriend whose parents will let out of their sight combined with the fact that you're 13 and no longer a virgin is both sad, for normal people, and quite humorous, for me."
    Not that he had anything against surfing or Guitar Hero, but he wanted to see what the general reaction around school would be, as outbursts such as the one above were quite rare for him.

    At lunchtime, he consulted his artist, asking her how progress was going with their latest progress, and learning (unwillingly) that she kept a lighter in her bra for self defense and entertainment.

    "As long as you don't do anything stupid with it, I won't tell anyone. Not that I expect there to be much response if I do-I can't really have them search your bra." he explained.
    Besides, his artist knew that if she did anything stupid, he would have no use for her, which would emotionally crush her (for some reason, working for him had been the only thing working out in her life, and she was somewhat emotionally challenged). It would probably drive her over the edge, and she might actually make a serious suicide attempt.

    Not that he would really react too much if she died. Not like a normal person, one who actually exercised their emotions often. Not that he didn't have them-he just didn't use them very often. It got in the way of his work, whatever that may be at any given time.

    After lunch, he had P.E. with the husband of his science teacher. It was Tuesday, which meant workout room. Of course, not even the highest weight setting on all the machines was a challenge for him.

    And then came math class. He was in the advanced class, which he enjoyed, because it put him with the smartest children at the school, and even better than that (for his pride [read-EGO]) was that he was still more intelligent than all of them.

    After that, he headed off to the band room, where he picked up his bassoon and tuba (he had left the tenor at home today), and sat in the same place he always sat. He called his mother to pick him up, and listened to Dvorak on his iPod until she showed up. Despite the unusual drudgery, the end of the day was slightly more pleasant in that none of the children bothered him as he listened to his music in peace.