Tristiana smiled sweetly as the Complexitor leaned in to hear her. “He’s listening to me,” she exulted in her thoughts, “and I didn’t even have to mystify him!” She had thought about their similarities for some time, and so the words rolled off her lips like a slick marketing presentation.

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Friday sent its electric wires to bus stops and breakfast tables, to car rides and sidewalks, gathering students to Westchester High, breathless with the oncoming weekend. Some looked forward to dates; others to time spent away from parents; others to band or football; but only a select few in the school’s hallways looked forward to karaoke night at the DMIC headquarters.

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“Brandon!” his mom yelled up the stairs, “Brandon! It’s Thursday! That means school!”

“Coming!” he yelled back down, hopping around on one foot, trying to get his shoe on. He threw the door open with his jacket half-way on, finally getting his foot in the shoe. He sat at the top of the stairs and laced up his shoes, put his arm in the other sleeve of his jacket and shrugged the backpack on. Then he shuffled down the stairs until he reached the last step. His mom stood a few steps away, looking at him with a mixture of exasperation and concern.

Brandon smiled like had everything together, took a step forward and ran straight into the wall. “Oww. Wow. Oww.” he said, putting his hand to his forehead.

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