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The day I found out that Archer Morales killed himself, I didn't know what to think.

I stared up at Mrs. Anderson, the slightly batty and graying-haired German teacher, with a blank look on my face, not really believing what I'd just heard.

"Come again?" one of the girls sitting beside me – Kayla Bradfield – said in a light, airy voice as she sat upright in her chair.

Mrs. Anderson sighed heavily as she took off her glasses and polished them on the front of her polyester suit. "Archer Morales committed suicide yesterday evening."

I swallowed hard as I slouched backwards in my seat, feeling the color draining from my face. That's what I thought Mrs. Anderson had said. Normally the woman was so lost in her own little world and babbling things in German that I thought I could've passed off what she'd said as another bit of nonsense.

But I knew that this time that wasn't exactly the case.

The more I thought about what she'd said, the more I realized that it sort of did make sense.

When I'd first walked into the school not twenty minutes ago, I couldn't help but feel like something had gone wrong, like there was this massive cloud of depression hovering over the place. I'd even seen bits of the staff clustered together in the hallway, their heads together as they talked quickly and quietly in furious whisperings.

At first I'd just assumed that maybe there was a leaked pipe in the building or something. But did a leaked pipe really cause looks of sorrow and horror to be on teachers' faces?

"Who's Archer Morales?" another kid from the back of the classroom shouted, sounding duped.

Mrs. Anderson's tired looking eyes sparked with anger as she glared at the offender in the back of the room. "A very important member of this student body, Mr. Rosedale, and I do suggest you refrain from speaking like that again."

The entire class sucked in collective breaths of air.

Mrs. Anderson never talked like that.

I listened only halfheartedly to what our homeroom teacher said next, explaining how psychologists from town offices would be coming to school every day for the next two weeks to help people cope with what they were feeling. She kept talking about how it wasn't good that we should bottle up our emotions and how we should remember Archer with glad, happy memories instead of what he'd done.

Well, I had enough trouble sharing my emotions, and I wasn't about to change that anytime soon.

When the first period bell rang, piercing through the tense atmosphere in the room like a knife, I leapt up out of my chair, grabbed my things, and bolted from the room before anyone else had even realized it was time to leave.

I really didn't know why I was feeling like a complete and utter mess. It wasn't like I'd been best friends with Archer Morales or anything. On the contrary, the guy is – was – the school's social pariah.

He was insanely tall and had dark, unmanageable hair, along with a pale, sharply defined face that would have looked highly aristocratic on anybody else. Actually, Archer Morales was a pretty damn handsome guy, which made it all the more confusing as to why he was such an antisocial outcast.

Maybe it was because he just didn't like anybody. Or maybe it was because everyone else just didn't like him.

It had always been so hard to tell what the guy was thinking because he usually always had his head down and his hair was so wavy it nearly always fell into his eyes. Oh, God, his eyes.

The one time I'd actually gotten a good look at Archer's face had been in Freshman year, in English 1. I sat in the desk across the aisle from him and he'd accidentally knocked his notebook off his desk at my feet sometime later on in the year. When he'd leaned over to grab it, I couldn't help but look at him as he moved and was more than surprised when I actually saw his face, and more importantly, his eyes. God, his eyes were amazing. They weren't exactly blue or green, but they weren't hazel, either. I really didn't think the color of his eyes had a name, but I'd instantly fallen in love with them.

Archer Morales had the eyes of angel.

When Archer had caught me watching him, his eyes had narrowed as he sat up straight, his lips pursing into a tight line. I'd quickly flushed bright red and ducked my head, trying to keep myself from hiding my face in my textbook out of embarrassment.

Needless to say, I hadn't ever told anyone that story before. And I really didn't think that I was going to, either.

But now? Now Archer Morales had killed himself?

I was starting to freak myself out since my heart kept pounding erratically against my chest anytime I even so much of thought that sentence and it felt like I was in the throes of some horrible asthma attack and couldn't breathe.

What the hell was happening to me?

"Oh, my God, Hadley!"

I let out a squeak of shock and turned on my heel to see my best friend Taelor Lewis sprinting her way down the hallway towards me, her stylishly highlighted hair a complete mess. I didn't even bother myself with a "hello" because Taelor instantly started going off about what she'd just heard in homeroom.

"Did you hear what happened?" Taelor babbled, waving her perfectly manicured hands around for emphasis.

I didn't even bother asking her what she was talking about. I just kept my head down and continued walking down the hallway with purposeful strides. My face was getting hot and I so didn't want to be talking about this right now.

I was going to be sick.

"I can't believe it!" she kept babbling, her silvery blue eyes wide. "I mean, I knew Archer Morales was really weird, but I didn't think that he'd - "

"Just...just shut up, Taelor," I snapped before I could stop myself. "I don't want to talk to you about this."

Taelor stared at me as if I'd just slapped her across the face, her mouth dropping open. I couldn't exactly blame her for looking so shocked, because I never talked back to anybody.

"What's the big deal, Hadley?" Taelor wanted to know, going hand on hip.

A guy we knew had just killed himself. That was the big deal.

"I'll see you later," I muttered, turning away from her and continuing on down the hallway towards my first period class.

If I knew Taelor like I thought I did, she'd probably make me go and see one of those shrinks that were going to be here at school for the next two weeks because I was acting "weird". This was typical Taelor behavior, because she pretty much always had to have things go her way.

I made a mental note to avoid Taelor as much as possible for the next few days.

The only thing the student body seemed to be able to talk about the entire day was Archer Morales' suicide. Anywhere I went there were teens grouped about in the hallways and in the cafeteria during lunch, their heads together, no doubt talking about what had happened last night.

I couldn't exactly blame everyone for being so distracted, but that didn't mean I had to like it.

All I really wanted to do was go home, curl up underneath the covers on my bed, and pretend like this day had never happened. That was wishful thinking, though, because I knew it was entirely impossible.

I had to stop myself at random intervals of the day and remind myself that I hadn't known Archer Morales at all. I didn't know why I felt the way that I did, like there was this empty hole curling in my stomach, and it was starting to scare me.

Maybe I really was going to have to go see one of those shrinks.

I took the subway home after seventh hour visual arts class with my head tucked away in the clouds, my thoughts still swarming with everything that had happened. At the end of the day, the school's principal - Mrs. Jacksone - had read off an annoucement over the intercom asking us all to bow our heads in silence for a few minutes out of respect for Archer Morales.

It had sickened me beyond belief to see that while the rest of my classmates had remained silent, the looks on their faces held anything but sorrow or remorse.

Mrs. Jacksone had also informed us over the intercom that Archer Morales' funeral was going to be held at 7:00 this Thursday evening at St. Patrick's Cathedral downtown and that there would be no school on Friday. For a day of solitude and reverence, she'd said.

I'd already known before Mrs. Jacksone had finished speaking that I would be going to the funeral. Never mind the fact that this was going to be my first funeral.

What I really wanted to do was scream at the top of my lungs and kick things and not go to a funeral, but that really wouldn't get me anywhere. I didn't even know Archer, but there was some part of me that just felt like I needed to go to his funeral.

And who knows? Maybe I'd find peace of mind or closure at the service.

Or maybe I was just going insane.

God, did I sound like an utterly confused teenager. Yay for me.

My mother, Michaela Jamison, was sitting at the dining room table with her hands folded tightly together in front of her, when I walked through the front door after four later that day.

Her slightly graying dark hair was pulled back into an elegant twist, like always, and she was wearing one of her perfectly pressed suits that she always wore to work. This was nothing new, really. But the fact that she was home before eleven in the evening was definitely something new.

My mother was a high class, hard working woman who worked very close to 5th Avenue in the business department. My father, Kenneth Jamison, was an even higher paid lawyer who worked even later and traveled even farther.

I was home alone most of the time with only my kitten, Rollo, and the old lady, Mrs. Ellis, who lived across the hall from us and who my parents occasionally tipped to keep an eye on me.

I was okay with this, surprisingly. I was introverted person in all sense of the word and silence didn't bother me.

"Mom," I said in surprise, dropping my book bag down on the leather couch in the living room. "What're you doing here?"

Mom sighed heavily, leaning forward on her elbows with a grim look on her face. "I heard about what happened."

My heart sunk in my chest and landed somewhere around my kneecaps.

"You...you mean about Archer Morales," I said slowly, my face a question mark.

Mom nodded, not meeting my eye.

Well, that was all fine and dandy, but it still didn't explain why she was home.

Almost as if she could hear my internal debating, she continued on speaking.

"I thought that you might want to talk about what happened."

It took all of my composure not to burst out laughing at her words and ask her if she'd been knocked upside the head recently.

"Thanks, but no thanks, Mom," I said, dropping myself down into a seat across the table from her. "I don't want to talk to anyone."

This prompted another one of Mom's "why-must-I-carry-all-of-the-world's-problems-on-my-thin-shoulders" sighs.

"Hadley, it's not safe to bottle up your emotions," Mom said in a gravely serious voice. "What happened is very serious, and I don't want you to..to..."

"I'm not going to kill myself, if that's what you're asking," I cut her off in a steely voice, my eyes narrowing.

This was definitely rich of her.

Mom and I embarked on stare down after my rather crude remark, both of us trying to get each other to back down first and actually talk about what was going on. This was probably why we butted heads so much - because we were too much alike in some aspects.

"All right, Hadley," Mom sighed again after a moment, leaning back from the table. "If you say so. But I want you to see one of those pyschologists at your school this week. If you're not going to talk to me, then you should at least talk to somebody else."

"Fine," I responded immediately.

Most of the time it was just easier to go along with whatever Mom was saying just to find peace of mind.

I stood up from the table and left the dining room, grabbing my things off the living room couch as I made my way towards my bedroom.

"Oh, and by the way, Mom," I called back to her over my shoulder. "I'm going to the funeral on Thursday night."

All I got back in response was, "I figured you would."

I slammed my bedroom door shut behind me and tossed myself down onto my gigantic queen sized bed topped with freshly laundered sheets and comforters. My room was definitely my "me-place", even if the windows opened out over the bustling streets of New York City and it was sort of small and cluttered. Books were everywhere and so was old school work and maybe the few random articles of clothing I hadn't bothered to throw into the hamper yet.

I had a lot of nice things, sure - like an iPhone and a laptop - but I didn't consider myself snobbishly rich or anything like that. You sort of had to come from money if you wanted to live in New York City anyways.

After pittifully attempting to do my homework, I threw all of my books and assignments off my desk and onto the floor before dashing to my bed and curling up underneath the covers. I'd taken about an hour showering, scrubbing myself down with my favorite soap and shampoo, but I was still wound up and antsy.

It was probably going to take awhile for things to go back to normal - if that was even possible - and I sure as hell knew that it wasn't going to be easy, getting back some sense of normalcy in my life.

Because I most certainly did not cry myself to sleep at night.

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And...another one is up! This one is going to be quite a bit more serious than a lot of the other stuff I've written on here, but I hope everybody likes it, just the same. There will be humor thrown into the mix soon, but it might take a while, so just hang in there and stick with me! This is all still in the beginning stages, but I pretty much have everything I want to write planned out in my head.

Comments and votes would be greatly appreciated on this!! - because without you readers and fans, I'd be nowhere. Like, literally.

Sooo...tell me what you think, pretty please? Even if you just read this, that's appreciated, too!