He Doesn't Understand:Chpt. I

September.

The month when everything in a student's life seemed to slowly awaken after the long slumber of the summer holidays. The month when another year of school would start and high school students would grudgingly pick up their dust-covered textbooks as they moan and weep about their ephemeral summer. They trudge unwillingly back to school, counting down the number of days left until Christmas break.

It was back to school at Stratford College, a top-notch boarding school located at the most-northern point of an obscure town. From a quick glance, the school was the epitome of the perfect institution, with its ivy-covered heather grey walls to the majestic pillars in front of the various buildings. In front of the entrance, cheerful guards smiled at all respectable persons and cracked their knuckles threatening at any suspicious looking stranger who crept along the school gate.

--

The gentle autumn breeze lingered at the campus of Stratford, the fresh scent of pine darting throughout the campus. It was only 8:00 a.m. and everything was quiet, so quiet that if one listened carefully enough, he would be able to hear the whispers of the weeping willows planted at the edges of the campus as its branches danced gracefully in the September breeze. Most of the students were sleeping in their dorm rooms; classes didn't start until 9:30.

Even though the quietness of the campus grounds made Roxas slightly uncomfortable, as if he was the object of interest in a scientific observation, the blonde was secretly glad that he was the only person in the schoolyard. Roxas was congenial, though not generally social. And it wasn't that he hated being around people: he simply relished the moments he had to himself. It was during these moments that he could daydream about the possibilities in life, and the things that he could do, they wonderful things that could happen. He was very polite and had a large number of acquaintances at school, with few close friends. His best friend in the world was his one-year younger sister, Naminé. Blonde with large, sky-blue eyes, people often mistaken the two for twins. But that was as far as their similarities went. Naminé was very free-spirited, studying visual art at some sort of alternative school while Roxas, well, was more academically-driven, as he liked to think of himself. He had a 4.0 GPA and was enrolled in the Advanced Placement program. He was the editor-in-chief of the school newspaper, captain of the tennis team and on the weekends, volunteered regularly at the local soup-kitchen and nursing home. He was on a one-track path to a top-tier university and this put the blonde in his comfort zone.

But every once in a while, Roxas would feel a sense of dread or longing upon him. These strange occurrences did not come about often but when it did, the blonde liked having some time alone to clear up his muddled thoughts and feelings. Sometimes, he was still uncertain about his life, his future and he wondered if he was doing the right thing, or if he was doing anything important at all. And at the present moment, on the first morning of the junior year of high school, Roxas had a lot going through his head. It was bewildering, almost frightening, a tiny frown line appearing on the bridge of his nose as he mused, that there would only be two years left of high school. And somewhere in Roxas' heart, he wondered if university would be an improvement over high school, or everything would be the same as they were now: unsurprising, repetitious, and loaded with dull work.

--

"Microeconomics, Biology, Calculus BC…and hm, French. All in Advanced Placement." The guidance counselor murmured as her eyes scanned dubiously over the crisp, newly-printed schedule on the table. "Are these really the courses you picked?"

"Uh-huh." Replied a melodious, sleepy-sounding voice. The was the sound of shuffling feet tapping on the linoleum floor.

There was a pause.

"Well, here is your schedule. And I hope you enjoy your year here, Axel Skinner."

--

BANG. The sound of the classroom door being pushed, or perhaps kicked, as the open burst open.

Worn Converse sneakers, skinny jeans with several cigarette-burnt holes, dirty, wrinkled white t-shirt with obscene words, and a head of lion mane-esque bright-red hair, in that order, descended down the steps into the classroom.

All the students looked up; Roxas included, as they stared with amazement at the unfamiliar face in front of them.