Another Monday morning, another 40 minutes to watch everybody do nothing. Another 40 minutes. This period is always quietest on Monday. People with blurry eyes sit and talk about sports and the weather and that test later, because they can't talk about what they want to. It's too early, and it's Monday. Let's look to some of these people, shall we?

That blonde boy over there. His friends all laugh about inside jokes and girls, and he joins them, but he can't smile and mean it. Last night a crying girl whose name he barely remembered called him on the telephone and confessed that she lied to him. She wasn't on the pill. She never had him. She just wanted him so badly, and nothing had ever happened to him before. She hadn't taken any pills but those X tablets and she wanted to play that night eight Mondays ago. She had missed her last two periods. Oh God, she's scared. So is he.

And there, on the other side of the room. A brunette clad all in black, sitting by herself staring at her hands with a sad expression on her face. She's a beautiful girl, but racked with doubt and with little self-confidence. She wishes she could talk to the other girls but they don't like her because she's morbid. As a result she acts morbid so they have a reason not to like her. She's just afraid they would get to know the real her and not like her.

Sitting next to the brunette, paying her no attention, look at her. That bleach blonde with the high skirt and the low blouse, the one talking to her friends about the guy she fucked this weekend, the guys she fucked this weekend. She doesn't particularly care for the stories circulating about her, but the other girls don't seem to mind too much and she's certainly popular with the guys, so she'll keep it up. She's just afraid they would get to know the real her and not like her.

That boy, in the ruddy shirt, the overweight one. He's working on something important, and at a feverish pace because he's trying to be left alone. Every so often he'll steal glances at the girl two tables down and sigh because she's in the Pretty Girl Club and he's short and chubby. His important work won't ever get done, but he'll at least have fuel for his daydreams until tomorrow because of that girl two tables down.

And there, that other boy, in the letter jacket. His friends know him as friendly and outgoing, but today he's stony and quiet. On Saturday he was having sex with the girl with the low blouse and the too blonde hair. Not long into their session, his fourteen year old little sister walked in on them. Everybody was startled, but after a few seconds she tried to join them. He let her.

That girl at the next table, wearing the old shirt and no makeup. Her face is broken. To match her heart. She laughs with her friends but can't make jokes herself today. She heard her parents talking last night. Her grandmother died over the weekend, but don't tell her yet. She has college requisite tests tomorrow, we'll tell her afterwards. And now she has to sit and dwell not only upon her dead grandmother but the conversation she doesn't want to have later.

Four tables over sits a girl with plain looks who may be a diamond in the rough. She's placed her seat all year in a position to watch the boy two tables away from her. She likes to imagine dating him. He's a little chubby, but that makes him cute, like a big soft teddy bear. But surely he couldn't feel the same way about her, he's always so wrapped up with important looking schoolwork and he won't even come over to say hi to her...

The boy in the faded T-shirt with the long and unkempt hair is as lively as ever. He knows that reports are going home soon and that when his father comes home from the office he'll see what he got in English. Then he'll make disgusted comments and take a few angry swings with his fists before going to get the baton. The boy is as lively as ever, though. The old man peters out fast enough nowadays and it only hurts anymore while it's happening. All he has to do is cover his face, then hide his back and chest when he changes for phys ed.

A girl in nice clothes wearing a meticulously applied face of makeup and a tanning bed tan that makes her look thick and somehow foreign sits with her best friend. The two should be joking like they always are, but the silence between them leads to a sense of discomfort. On Saturday they were at a party, getting drunk, and to tease the guys they pecked each other on the lips. The night wore on. They got more drunk, and the guys urged them to kiss again. They did. After a while they were fucking, surrounded by cheering guys and even a few amused girls. Now that they're sober they realize they were both too drunk to remember if anyone had a camera.

The petite girl with the sweet looking face is staring into her bag with the jittery frown and the glazed eyes of somebody about to cry. And with reason. On Friday she left the necklace her mother had left her, a golden crucifix, in her locker so she wouldn't lose it during phys ed. It was stolen. She cried about her departed mother's present all weekend and she found it just now in her purse, snapped into three pieces and glued, upside down, to a Satanic pentagram.

That boy with the khakis and the polo shirt, watch him. He's reading that book, all the sophomores are, but what's more important than his reading is his new habit of absently fingering that bruise on the side of his head, in front of his ear. That's where he hit the floor. Academic pressure, demands from those around him, and his own self-imposed stress drove him to try his single father's Demerol this weekend. He overdosed alright, but not enough to kill him. He passed out, and vomited out the rest of the dose, the part that would have killed him. He woke up Sunday night with his bruise on the floor and a note in his father's hand left pinned to his shirt. It read simply, "Out drinking. Next time do it right, asshole."

The redhead with the tank-top and the sliced jeans is sitting uncommonly alone with her forehead cradled in her hands. This morning as she left the house her mother demanded to know where she got, and what she was doing with, Polaroid pictures of "that nice girl down the street" having a rather intimate encounter with a tanned beauty in the middle of a circle of guys. Going to the party wasn't her idea, it was her best friend's, but she went anyway and had fun. It looked like her mother wasn't going to let her have any kind of fun for a good long time.

This weekend was a busy one for more than one person, but this Monday is quiet. Mondays are always quiet in here. People with blurry eyes and blank expressions mixed in with people who are apparently alright except for a twitch here, a nervous glance there. Everybody's busy thinking about their weekend, and the coming weekend, and they talk about sports and the weather and that test later, because they can't talk about what they want to. It's too early. And it's Monday.

And nobody has problems like theirs. Right?