Bedlam always looked the same. Beige wheat fields connected the sparse red bricked farm houses as we drove down desolate and bare roads. Light wind swayed the spikes on the tall wheat, their shifting forms like Bedlam’s own version of dancing daisies.

Every morning we passed by the scarecrows as they hung. Hay-filled heads dropped forwards and staked into a few of the corn or wheat fields dotted around Bedlam. Each one has their own style, each one I like for a different reason. One of the scarecrows has a frown drawn onto the burlap bag that makes up its head. Its frown is long and pronounced, like it is angry at the crows as they try to fly near the field.

Another one of the scarecrows has an old pitch fork. The edges are red and rusted. And though it's not held up well and leans dangerously on a diagonal. One of these days I wonder if I won’t be able to see the rusted pitchfork because it will have fallen into the growing field.

My bag sat between my squarely placed feet, the entirety of my sneaker pressed against the carpet interiour of the truck. We mostly sit in silence during the ride to school, the only sounds shared between us are Evelyn’s frequent yawns and the low rumble from the radio.

Though neither of us pay any certain attention to the music as both windows stay open, shooting wind into the interiour of the truck, muffling the voices and beat.

Evelyn always drives with her right hand on the top of the wheel and her left on the bottom. I never quite understood it, but considering she was the one driving me, I didn’t make a fuss. Her thin silver necklace jiggled as she drove on.

It takes two lefts and a right to get to school and by the time we’ve passed all of the fields we’ve only taken one left.

“Oh wait, I forgot to ask earlier but can you check over my math homework? Mr. Barons decided that this would be the one week he actually checks over our work, so I did it last night at like two.” She rolled her eyes, as I nod silently and grab her bag.

“Which is it?”

“The calculus and vectors unit 2 lesson 4 page. It says at the top.” My eyes drag up and down the pages as I flip through them. Only some of the worksheets are filled out; some have light pieces of answers that I could tell she’d scribbled down, others had little drawings of eyes and moons in the corners, descending up and down the pages.

“Found it.” I say, finally stopping on a page filled to the brim with her work. Flitting over the page I nod for each question she gets right, “Looks good except for question six, its f(x)=3x − 2 and f(x) = −3x + 4. 1.1.86 not f(x)=3x − 2 and f(x) = −3x + 4. 1.1.67 like you said.”

“Shit, I knew I did that one wrong.” She looked over at me and smiled, the rising golden sun catching and weaving aurulent strands into her dark hair, “Good thing I got an alien calculator for a brother.”

Unease makes my fingers trace over the answers she’s written down in pencil. The lead smudges against the pads no different than another piece of paper, no wrinkles or whorls to highlight a fingerprint.

I went back to watching Bedlam in the early morning just as we make the second left turn. Right into the heart of town.

The truck slows down as we stop for the couple of faded stop signs creating intersections near the grocery store, the mechanics and the one café in town. My hair ruffled as delicate streams of wind encircled us.

One right and we were there.

Bedlam High School was an easy place to understand. In many ways it mimicked and replayed humans as a whole, a fact that I had learned quite quickly. The hierarchy was deeply entrenched in each student’s worldviews, and this hierarchy was vital to making many decisions regarding their social lives.

Because of this, I had gotten quite used to walking down the overcrowded hallways alone. Weaving, ducking and sidestepping past hyper students as they greeted each other with booming voices.

But, as with every morning, each student, without fail steps a little bit further into the crowd as they pass the comically large glass case. As though they’re afraid to even rub slightly against the impenetrable glass.

The case is filled, almost to the brim with Bedlam’s past sports achievements. The two regional championships won and the couple of times the baseball team hit the ball out of the park field. Despite the low amount of accolades, they frame each picture of the past teams with care and precision. A fact I quite frankly find endearing despite my disinterest in sports.

Evelyn leaves me as soon as the truck is parked. Every morning she meets with her boyfriend and her other friends near the edge of the football field. I don’t know much about her friends, I know humans like privacy so I try and practise that.

Students filtered in all around me, barely noticing my frame as I walk forward. I blend in, whether it be to the grey walls or the blue lockers, only on a second glance would anyone notice me. And to be honest, I like it that way.

To observe but not be observed.

I feel that I am destined to observe. To never dip even my fingertips into the pool of truly living alongside mankind. After all, this is not my home.

I sit at the back of my science class, away from the overzealous jocks and with empty graffitied desks separating me from the rest of the students. Hockey science posters cover the faded grey painted brick, they’re quite funny despite how outdated they are. One of the posters about DNA structure hangs over my head as I sit back in my small plastic chair.

Two boys sitting a couple rows in front of me whispered to each other, their shoulders inches apart as their hushed voices corroded my attention away from Mr. Ayaz. “That article you sent me was 100% phoney bro. Stop being an idiot! Aliens don’t exist.”

“How’d you know? Maybe they’ve already infiltrated us and are living among us.” My back straightened, still listening I kept my gaze tight against the chalkboard as Mr. Ayaz continued speaking.

“Because if they have infiltrated us already why aren’t we like, intergalactic slaves or dead already?”

The boy on the left’s head tottered to each side a couple times before he relented, “...True.”

Getting up from my desk as soon as there is a switch in the lesson plan I walk up to Mr. Ayaz and ask, “Can I go to the washroom?”

“I don’t know, can you?” He says, voice monotone which did nothing but confuse me further. His voice says one thing but his crinkled eyes say he’s not being serious. I hear a ripple of chuckles near the back. Mr. Ayaz slaps me on the shoulder after a few seconds of awkward silence, “...Go ahead buddy.”

Burnt tar and the smells surrounding the outside of a BBQ restaurant invaded my lungs as soon as I walked into the school bathroom. Smoke twirled around the two stall bathroom and out of the window with a small crack in it.

Both sitting near the window ledge they clicked, one thumb at a time on their Motorola V300s. After this, I returned to class, sitting back in my chair in the back and not focusing on the boys’ hushed conversation in front of me.