This is something I wrote for fun. If by some coincidence, it's somehow related to any real life event you know of, either you're in my high school or it is really just a coincidence. It's kind of strange though because the perspective is unusual. You may have to read it again several times.
Comments, criticism, etc. all welcome.
She dropped the contents of her bag into her locker and piled the books neatly into the corner. The rest of her locker was well organized, and the binders, meticulously placed on the shelves. It was free of loose paper, and the magnets hung in a neat row. There was one magnet slightly off from the row of the other magnets, but she had no time to worry about that now. Her next class was English. She hadn't considered English to be hard; in fact, it was her favorite class, but now she wasn't so sure. The rumors said the teacher who taught her class was a tough one. They said his favorite pastimes in class include hurling dry-erase markers at students, yelling at them, and assigning lots of homework; his aim was deadly, his voice enough to break some of the toughest students, and his knowledge, legendary. She had hoped the latter would make up for the other unattractive reasons. If she could avoid having things chucked at her during class and bear with an English class more challenging than enjoyable, then it would have been worth it. However, the bell rang, pulling her from her thoughts.
"Oh no," she thought. "I'm going to be late." She certainly hoped that the teacher would ignore her tardiness. She stopped shelving the rest of her books and binders in her locker, grabbed her English binder and slammed the locker shut. In her haste, she didn't remember to lock it.
Unfortunately for her, she had the misfortune of having her locker in the wing of the school farthest away from her classroom, and she had to break into a run. She hoped that no one would notice. By the time she got there, panting and gasping, many students had already filled up the desks. There was only one seat left; it was, to her irritation, right in the center front row of the class, just in front of the one the teacher sat in. The teacher, as she had only seen for the first time, had his impressive expression locked onto her the moment she appeared in the doorway.
In a few words, she might have described her mentor as fat and balding. But in her panicked state, she saw every detail, only making her fear worse. He sat comfortably in the desk facing opposite the classroom, perhaps a little too comfortably, as his entire form filled out the desk completely. His short stubby fingers rested on the pages of a small book. Oddly enough, he wore one blue sock and one black one underneath a pair of neatly ironed trousers and his shirt stretched around his form like a mattress sheet. His face was large, and its features were concentrated near the center. His mouth, while covered underneath a graying mustache and beak-like nose, was still visibly turned down into a frown. His eyes concentrated intensely upon his tardy student like a prey. They were dark and full of wisdom, but now, the irritation of his late student interrupting him was clearly visible in his eyes. Concentric dark rings surrounded his eyes; he lacked sleep. She barely noticed that the effect of his dark eyes was because of his photo-grade glasses. The remains of his hair circled his head like laurels--or like horns. In her fear, it would have been easy to believe they were horns. She only trembled, fixated by his gaze.
"You're late," was his sharp criticism, the irritation dripping in his voice.
She mumbled a quiet apology, trying to avoid his gaze and hastened to the seat she was doomed to be in for the rest of the year. To her relief, he didn't make her tardiness into much of a scene; however, she began to notice that all the other students had the same book the teacher had on his desk, and that she did not have one.
"Oh, that's right. You don't have one." He quickly rose from his seat to grab another book. His steps echoed into her very soul. She didn't know whether or not the tremors came from his feet or from her own trembling. She could not stop shaking at the fear of being this close to the legendary teacher. He seemed to be in a good mood though. She tried to reassure herself. He came back abruptly and dropped the book on her desk. It landed with a loud thud. She jolted from its impact, scaring her out of her trembling thoughts.
"Aw, are you frightened?" He was indeed in a good mood. A grin broke out across his face.
"Um, no. I think I'm alright now." At least she hoped she would be.
"Good. We're on page 115."
It seemed they were reading a short story on a boy and his rocking horse. As the story went on, the teacher became increasingly more and more excited. His words were filled with more charisma than enthusiasm; he waved his hands about as he described the story. His words turned to bawdiness. It was one of the things the rumors warned of. Then the class suddenly turned into a firing range. He turned to her with excitement brimming in his eyes. A new target. He asked her a question; it was clearly aimed at her because he addressed her quite clearly. How he had known her name without asking, she did not know; nor did she realize it. Her trembling resumed. In the excitement of her mentor's vivid and subtle words, she had forgotten all about her fear, but now that the class had turned their attention on her, and he resumed his gaze at her once again, it came back. She barely heard his question; she did not know what to say. Even if she had heard the question he had asked, she wouldn't know how to answer it. She could only mumble a silent "I don't know..." and shake her head. Even though she sat directly in front of him, he didn't hear her.
He cupped a hand to his ear, tilted forward and whispered. "What's that? I can't hear you. You're going to have to speak louder. What?"
"I said I don't know."
His expression quickly changed. The frown appeared on his face once again, and the features on his face curved downwards angrily. He stared with intense eyes trained on her.
"You...what? You don't know?" His voice was barely audible.
A few students sat around bored, as if they had wanted him to ask them the same question instead because they knew it, but could say nothing. And a few more sat there, stoned with fright. The rest listened and looked on attentively at what would happen next. It was one of his most legendary moments.
She shook her head sadly.
As quickly as a fit of rage, he bolted from his seat, grabbed the nearby dry-erase off the ledge and hurled it at her. He did not miss; she was too shocked to even dodge or try to catch the offending object; it struck her squarely on the forehead and dropped with a sharp thud. The sound barely registered in her mind. The marker hitting her head did not hurt her as much as it hurt her pride--and everyone saw it. He ignored her quickly and began picking on other students. Nobody knew the answer.
Somebody shouted out the wrong answer. He grabbed the water bottle off of some unsuspecting student's desk and poured all of its contents on the offender's head. A grin spread on that student's face. How could he actually enjoy all this humiliation? The teacher's intense expression remained unchanged; no one could contest what he had asked. A silent student remained unasked in the corner. But the teacher barely noticed him.
He finally shouted out the answer in exasperation. The teacher and his class next door was sure to hear it. He wrote a word on the board and explained it. A student corrected his spelling. His explanation was deep and extremely detailed. But she heard none of his words. She was too upset to hear. Her fear had made everything worse. She glanced at the clock. There was too much time for the teacher to ridicule her. Never in her life had she wanted the class to end more than now. But it was far from over. He fired another question at her. She had to admit she didn't know. But she didn't want him to humiliate her as he did the first time, and so gave out an answer. She didn't know if it was right; she barely knew what he had asked. It had to be better than nothing, right?
He reached for the other dry-erase on the ledge and hurled it at her. Her pride continued to drop. A teacher, presumably from next door, came in. He wasn't there to tell her teacher to stop shouting so loudly though; he came to refill his cup of coffee. His grin was radiant like sunbeams, and she wished she was in his class instead. The sun came and went from that classroom; the gloom returned to that classroom once again. As she turned from the sunset, her teacher resumed his questioning. She did not know whether to say she did not know the answer or guess the answer. If she guessed the answer, there would at least be a small chance that she got it right. It would make up for her lost pride. But he occasionally left the students alone who said they didn't know the answer. She arbitrarily picked an answer. A slap stung the back of her forehead. The sheets of paper which he held in his hand like a fan was the assaulting weapon. She hung her head in shame, dropping it in her hands, and hoped this position would make him pick on someone else.
The rest of the class was spent on the teacher's antics at other students, but she sat there in fear the entire time, afraid that he would come and pick on her.
After what seemed like ages, the bell finally rang--she tore out of the classroom immediately. She tried very hard to hold back her tears; she was sure the students would laugh at her. She crammed her books into her locker as quickly as she could and retreated to the washroom. As she left the stall, another student entered. As the student reached for the paper roll, she spotted a gleam of light on the floor. Upon closer inspection, it seemed to be a small puddle of water.
As much as he hated to be at school so early, he lounged on the cafeteria benches. He was only here because his brother had borrowed the car, and his parents had to go to work early; there was no other way for him to get to school, so his parents dropped him off. The alarm on his watch woke him up at about the same time he saw another student wandering the halls aimlessly. He had often seen that student loitering around during some classes; he seemed to do nothing almost all the time, and yet, he was a student that many teachers favored--a student that many other students would not want to mess with. He ignored him and walked slowly to his next class. English.
He knew of the rumors surrounding his English teacher, and made sure to make good use of his teacher's antics. It would provide him good attention. The bell rang as he entered the classroom. The rumors said the teacher's aim was deadly; to test that, he sat in the back row. The rest of the students filed into the classroom. He spotted the ghost student from before. He sat in the front row. The teacher sat at his desk, squinting away at something on his computer screen. His desk was littered with many papers and books; yet, they were all somehow organized neatly into piles.
The class started with the teacher distributing small books. As he received the book, he noticed it was filled with short stories. They were all instructed to turn to page 115. He started by picking on a few students to read some paragraphs; they were all satisfactory readers, except some who spoke too quietly. When they did, he whispered at them to speak louder. It was boring until a student came into the class.
He irritably proclaimed she was late and went to get a book for her. He made a mental note to himself that he should be late next time; it would be amusing. The late student seemed to be very frightened. As was expected, he thought. There were the students who feared the teacher very much, as his vivid expression was impressive enough to inspire fear. Then there were the students much like himself who demanded attention--this teacher was capable of giving it to them. He dropped the book on her desk loudly, causing her to jump. He hoped the teacher would display some of his legendary antics. But he was in a good mood, and said nothing more after she reaffirmed that she was alright, even though the student was visibly shaken.
He knew that if he fell asleep in class, he could get more attention if the teacher noticed. But he was too busy paying attention to the late student, and began to fall asleep until the teacher shouted out his name loudly. He jumped a bit at his name being called and then regained himself--this was the attention he wanted. The teacher asked him a question. Any question he asked him wouldn't be something he knew. He hadn't paid attention anyways. He was more likely than not to answer the question incorrectly.
He said the wrong answer; the teacher's already exasperated expression remained unchanged, but in quick, bold strides, he went over to a student's desk, picked up the water bottle on it and dumped its contents onto his head. The student, whose water bottle had been taken was suddenly aware of what had happened and tried hard to stifle a giggle. The water dripped through his hair and onto his face. For anyone else, this scene might have been embarrassing, but for him, it was purely amusement. A grin spread across his face. The other students stared at him and tried hard not to laugh. Some just sat there in fright. They were thinking about how not to end up in this situation. How the teacher kept his irritated expression in such a ridiculous situation was unknown; perhaps he was already accustomed to doing this so many times that it was no longer funny to him, but routine. The thought made him even more amused.
The teacher went back to picking on other students. He became increasingly aggravated at no one being able to answer his question. The ghost student sat with an enthusiastic look in his eyes. He was enthusiastic for different reasons though; he probably knew the right answer. For some reason, the teacher ignored him though, and shouted out the right answer. With the same bold strides, he went over to the whiteboard and wrote a word on it. The ghost student immediately corrected him on a spelling mistake.
None of this interested him though. Not even his most detailed and sophisticated explanation of that term. He was waiting for just the right moment to grab attention for himself. But it seemed the tardy student got all the attention. Why was she so special? He needed some way to get the teacher's attention. Her fear prevented her from getting the right answer, and he responded with another marker to the noggin. Thankfully for him, the teacher next door had come over to get another cup of coffee. This distracted the other student for awhile. His teacher turned his attention on him.
Just what he wanted. He answered incorrectly again, and he threw a spoon at him. Again, no one knew the right answer. As the other teacher left, his teacher focused on that girl again. She dared an answer, which was obviously wrong, and he grabbed the papers off of his desk hastily and slapped the back of her head with it. She slumped down. The teacher finally asked the ghost student the same question. He almost had the right answer, but it was satisfactory, so the teacher just elaborated on his answer. He loved firing questions at his students.
There still seemed to be enough time for him to get another question wrong and have something thrown at him. He was not wrong; a stapler, another dry-erase, a book and the dry-erase brush came his way. This was going to be a very good class.
Just outside the classroom, she bent down to tie her shoelaces. She wasn't late, but just a bit worried. She had heard the rumors of this legendary teacher. She certainly hoped they weren't true--or if they were, they wouldn't be so bad, and she wouldn't be a part of the teacher's antics. A few of her friends who had told her the rumors found it amusing; it was true only if she didn't get hit. So she believed.
As she entered, there were already a few students sitting in the back row. A friend had told her that if she sat in the front row, the teacher was less likely to pick on her. Either these kids didn't know that rumor, or her friend was lying, she thought. She picked a middle row seat somewhere closer to the front. As she waited for the class to begin, she noticed there was one seat left at the front of the class. Could they really want the teacher to hit them? It made no sense to her. She thought the last thing anyone wanted was to be hit by a flying dry-erase.
The teacher's appearance was nothing new; she had already seen him several times in the hallways before, even though they had not known each other. As he came by her desk and placed a small book on it, she noticed that he was wearing a blue sock and a black one. Must be color blind, she thought. The teacher randomly picked someone to start reading a story about a boy using a rocking horse to cheat bets. One of the students he picked on spoke too quietly, so he did his whispering antic. After the poor student had finished reading his paragraph, the teacher picked her. She wouldn't have minded reading the paragraph if only she could stop worrying about the teacher's intense eyes. So she tried very hard to concentrate on the print in her book. She read as well as she could, until a girl came in. She was a tardy student. But he was in a good mood. She took the only seat left. He dropped the book on her desk. She jumped.
Clearly, there were people far worse than her at handling this. If that girl got the teacher's attention, then she would most likely be left alone. But the teacher picked on everyone equally. After the girl had answered she didn't know, and had a dry-erase thrown at her, he went around and fired the same question at everyone else. How was she to respond? All her friends had told her was that if she didn't want to get hit, she should say she doesn't know. But here, the girl in front of her, answered the same way, and had just been hit. Good mood indeed, she thought. But it was still better than saying the wrong answer and being hit for sure. She noticed the other students who replied they didn't know didn't get hit. She supposed the exception was because the student was tardy.
At last, the teacher finally focused his intense eyes upon her. She didn't know the answer. So she responded like everyone else. His intense eyes glared at her for a short while, then resumed picking on someone else. She assumed that everyone would be afraid of him, but this was not so. A guy in the front row had his eyes trained enthusiastically on the teacher. The teacher made no notice of it. Another one in the back row grinned enthusiastically--but for a different reason. The teacher picked on him, and he immediately announced the wrong answer. The teacher rose and grabbed a water bottle. Its contents were now spilling over the head of that student. He grinned from ear to ear. She did not know why. However, the ridiculous situation enticed her to laugh. Like the rest of her classmates, she held it back.
The class remained silent as he continued to contest them. No one knew the right answer. He shouted out the right answer. She was sure whoever was in the hallway at the moment would have heard it. And probably the class next door. She had been in the class next door before in a previous year, and remembered how she and her class would hear terms being shouted out from the other side of the wall. Her good-natured teacher at that time simply laughed it off. Now she was on the other side of that wall. She turned her attention back to the teacher, who was now frantically explaining some term he had written on the board. The guy at the front pointed out a spelling error. She didn't notice it. She wasn't looking to win any favors--it was all too much completely out of her range. He went on explaining the term most vividly. At least if she could survive not being hit by him, this class would be well worth her while. Another thing her friends told her of.
The teacher had finished explaining the term and went back to picking the poor girl at the front of the classroom. She hazarded a guess; it seemed she didn't figure out how the teacher worked. A dry-erase smacked her in the head. Her previous teacher came in. She knew all too well that he wasn't here to complain about how loud her current teacher was; he was used to that. He only came in to get more coffee. He smiled at the poor tardy student. The other teacher ignored him, and proceeded to ridicule the student covered in water. She had to admit it was amusing--but only if she knew she wouldn't end up being the brunt of his antics.
The teacher turned back to the late student. Her sunshine was gone. She said the wrong answer again, and the teacher grabbed some papers off his desk and slapped her in the back of her head. When would she ever catch on? She wondered if he had ever been reported for doing any of these things. But then she realized that if he had been, then none of these rumors would ever have existed--he wouldn't still be doing his antics. She did not know why. The teacher proceeded to shoot his question at the other student in the front row; he knew the answer. Well, almost. But the teacher didn't fire another classroom object at him. He elaborated it. She was thankful enough that for her own humiliation, the student in the back row and the late student had kept the teacher's attention enough that he never bothered to pick on her, and when he did, her answer of "I don't know" was satisfactory enough for her not to get hit. In fact, it seemed the teacher had spent most of his classroom objects trained on the student in the back row, who seemed to enjoy it. She would have enjoyed it more if she did not fear getting hit herself.
She slumped down next to her friends in the cafeteria. She was a bit tired, but happy at the same time. Her teacher had made her learning experience very worthwhile, but having questions fired at her made her worry that she would end up being the brunt of his jokes.
"So, how did it go?" A friend asked her.
"It was alright, I guess. I'm lucky he didn't hit me."
"Didn't hit you? But you've got to try that at least once. It's very satisfying."
She was puzzled. She could not understand how there were people that enjoyed this.
"How is being hit so satisfying?"
"Well, I guess it's different for everybody, but you're not just being hit by any old teacher, you're being hit by the legendary English teacher."
"So?"
"Most students consider it a privilege to be hit by him. It's probably not the nicest way to get attention from him, but it works."
She said nothing.
"He doesn't really hate anybody. I know; I've been hit a lot too."
Her expression changed.
"What was that like?"
"It doesn't really hurt all that much. If he did hate me, it probably would've. I used to be afraid of him hitting me. But the more he hit me, the more I wanted it. I don't know why, it was just so satisfying. Maybe it's the attention I'm getting from a highly revered teacher, or maybe it's me just wanting to be hit by such a person. I did realize if I kept answering wrong, he'd keep hitting me, but I stopped fearing that and let him have it. I'm sorry I forgot to tell you about that part."
"No, that's alright." She went home later that day and considered the idea of being hit by the legendary teacher.
The keyboard clacked resoundingly to his fast fingers. The sun outside had barely announced dawn; if it did, he didn't care to see it. Unlike many of his peers, he was already up very early in the morning, filled with energy, and enthusiasm to get things done. Such was the enthusiasm and energy of himself that he did not need an alarm clock to tell him of the approaching of dawn--he woke himself up. Sometimes, he woke up too early. Sleep was a hindrance to his goals. The same could be said for his teacher. As he was walking to school this morning, he recognized the teacher driving by as well. He was often accustomed to his teacher unlocking the lab room every morning, and knew that he wanted to get there early to use the computers. His parents would wake up and know that he was using the computer if he woke up too early and stayed home, and then tell him to go back to sleep. His only resort was to share the morning in a nearly empty school with the only other resident of that school at such early hours.
Unusually though, he had noticed that the school wasn't quite as empty as it should have been when he got there, as someone else was loitering about in the cafeteria as he approached. He wandered past the student and ignored him. It was none of his business.
The gradual trickle of footsteps, whispers of certain students and the smell of coffee brewing, teachers sharing conversations in far off classrooms, and then the chatter of more students filled the halls. He was accustomed to this as well, but ignored this too--it only told him how close it was to the start of the first class of his day. English with his sleepless teacher.
He too had heard the rumors as well, but was unusually enthusiastic about it. He used to fear that his class would be too difficult or unbearable. He once had a tour of the school with some high school seniors as guides, and they had introduced him and his class to the elderly legendary teacher. He was as amazing as he was pessimistic. Yet, he could not brush aside the amusement at the back of his mind. It never disappeared, and now, for the last year of his high school career, he must have this teacher--he must have this experience at least once, or it would come to pass, and never show itself again. He consoled himself easily by thinking that if he did ever have any classroom object thrown at him, then he could avoid being hit by it or catch the offending object. His reflexes were the speed of lightning.
When he thought the chatter in the hallways could be no louder, and the smell of the coffee, no stronger, the bell rang. He left the lab and entered the English classroom. Happily, he chose a seat at the front row. The other students gradually filled the other seats. He also saw the student from the cafeteria he saw earlier file into a desk in the back row. When there seemed to be no more students entering the class, there was only one seat left in the front row directly in front of the teacher's. He had noticed how most of the students filled up the back rows first, avoiding the front seats. If he had any plans of being hit by the teacher, he would have regretted his choice; it was difficult to imagine how the teacher could throw a dry-erase or any other object at anyone close up to the front. It mattered little to him at all whether or not he got hit; his plan was only for the case where it did affect him.
He could not say if he found English in particular to be an interesting subject; the classes might have been interesting. There was always a trend for English teachers to be strange and highly amusing. But the subject itself usually depended on what they read; if he liked what they read and found it interesting, he often did better. If he didn't, then he found it boring and difficult to read. Either way, he had difficulty understanding how the characters felt; emotions was one of the things he was not at home with. If he had better grades with English recently, it would be because he learned to pick on analyses of symbolism or theme, and other such things that were more visibly obvious to him rather than characterization. He hoped this teacher would do better than his previous mentors did.
The books they were reading consisted of a series of short stories. The teacher picked one on a boy whose mother complained she was unlucky, and her son rode a rocking horse and was always asked who the winner of a horse race would be. He was somewhat relieved that the teacher did not pick on him to read the story; he did not enjoy reading stories out loud. He did, however, find the teacher's whispering antic at the quieter students amusing. It was hard to resist a smile at it.
Then at the same time he noticed the tardy student, the teacher noticed her too. She apologized after he spoke irritatingly and sat in the only desk remaining. He found the teacher's reaction slightly amusing, but he had hoped for more. He made a comment about her fear when he dropped the book on her desk.
However, the excitement was in how the teacher explained the story; the choice of the story wasn't terrible. It was short, after all, and the language didn't bother him like certain British writers' did. And what he didn't realize, the teacher painted a vivid image for him. He enjoyed this immensely, and it didn't matter if he initially liked the story or not. He could explain with such detailed and tone-filled words and do what the book could not make him imagine. He was completely captured. Even in the teacher's bawdy, unorthodox interpretation, the likes of which other teachers might have been afraid to try explaining.
Then came the antics. Perhaps because the student was late, he picked on her first. Her feeble reply guaranteed a smack to the head with a dry-erase. How strange it was that he could not see how the teacher could throw something at her from such a short range, and yet, there it was happening right in front of him. He couldn't resist a chuckle. As the teacher was asking the question, he realized it was something that he could answer--he knew what it was--why didn't his peers? He admitted he had no love for his grad class. They were as boring as they were dull and unacademic. If they never got the right answer, he wasn't surprised. He secretly hoped the teacher would pick on him next. But nobody raised his hand.
Either they were too afraid to, or the question was so sophisticated beyond their understanding or knowledge that they didn't dare to. Even if one did know, it didn't work that way in this class. Instead of having the choice of answering the question if one wanted to, the choice was taken away and given to the teacher. If he wanted you to answer the question, you'd have no choice. You'd have to say something. And the converse was true too; if he didn't pick you, then you'd have no choice but to sit there until he decided to. And what you said determined whether or not he would reply with a glare, an even more elaborate response, or a classroom object hurled at you.
He stared at the teacher in an attempt to get him to notice him. The teacher made no notice of him. He was having too much fun. After shuffling through several students who all didn't know the right answer, and the kid from the cafeteria who said the wrong answer had the contents of a water bottle splashed ungratefully all over his head, the teacher grew increasingly angry (apparently) and finally shouted out the right answer. The crescendo of these events amused him even more. If he chuckled out loud, he didn't make a conscious effort to suppress it.
As another student who had been in the class next door previously, he was also aware of this teacher's antics of shouting out the answer, and being able to hear it a classroom away. This he found amusing as well, and it partly drew his curiosity to be in this class. If he revered the teacher for his knowledge and ability to draw him into stories he wouldn't otherwise have read, he would have believed him to be almost perfect as well.
But the teacher, in his excitement, rose from his seat and wrote a word on the board. Wait a minute, that can't be. He thought. There was a spelling error in that word! How could such a legendary teacher make this mistake? It was almost...embarrassing. Not that any of these numbskulls would notice or care. As there was no need to raise his hand, he openly expressed his disapproval of the glaring mistake. The teacher fixed it quickly, and continued on his rampage of the term. This, he also found nearly as amusing as his explanation of the story.
The teacher continued picking on the poor student sitting directly in front of him. She probably changed her strategy and decided to respond with an answer rather than saying she didn't know. The teacher's next response was just as amusing as the first. He was all smiles, inside and out.
The teacher from next door came in for a cup of coffee. He had always been amused at how the two got along like two good friends, yet, they argued and bickered like an old married couple. It would have been amusing to witness another similar scene now, but his teacher was currently too concentrated in his excitement to turn the guy with water in his hair into another target. A spoon connected with his head.
The trembling student seemed rather lost. It amused him a bit. She would be a most amusing target. The teacher caught on and fired another question at her. Another feeble attempt. Another attack, this time with a few sheets of paper. It was most amusing to him how his teacher managed to turn almost any object in the classroom into a weapon of literary correctness, and this classroom, a deadly war zone. Yet, he felt he had been excluded from it because the teacher paid no heed to him at all. It was amusing to him, whether or not he got picked. But he finally got his wish. The teacher aimed his intense expression at him and asked him a question.
"What does nominative mean?"
He didn't exactly know what it meant--if he had the slightest glimpse, he had difficulty explaining it. But he learned everything through the power of deduction; if he didn't know what a word meant, all he had to do was look up its original roots. In this case, he knew it was very well a Latin word.
"It comes from the Latin word for name."
The teacher was somewhat impressed. At least if he didn't know the answer, he knew where it came from. The slightly satisfactory answer, however, did calm down the teacher's expression. It was not enough for him though.
"It also means noun." The teacher continued to delve into a more detailed explanation of the word origin, and the actual meaning of the said word. This hadn't actually resulted in the teacher throwing anything at him. However, this reaction still amused him, although differently.
The rest of the class was spent on ridiculing the other students, particularly the student in the back row. In fact, it seemed the teacher might as well have hurled all his belongings at that student. He just noticed that he was grinning. From what? Was he mad or just plain stupid? He could not understand why anyone enjoyed being hit; he was only amused at the act of avoiding it. If you got hit, it was because you were being stupid. He admitted to himself that there were some questions he didn't know the answer to; however, the teacher left him alone as was often the case, or when he did answer, he answered honestly and said he didn't know. It never once resulted in the teacher throwing anything at him. It was a pity though; he never did get to test his plans on them. It remained that way for the rest of the year.
Comments, criticism, etc. all welcome.
She dropped the contents of her bag into her locker and piled the books neatly into the corner. The rest of her locker was well organized, and the binders, meticulously placed on the shelves. It was free of loose paper, and the magnets hung in a neat row. There was one magnet slightly off from the row of the other magnets, but she had no time to worry about that now. Her next class was English. She hadn't considered English to be hard; in fact, it was her favorite class, but now she wasn't so sure. The rumors said the teacher who taught her class was a tough one. They said his favorite pastimes in class include hurling dry-erase markers at students, yelling at them, and assigning lots of homework; his aim was deadly, his voice enough to break some of the toughest students, and his knowledge, legendary. She had hoped the latter would make up for the other unattractive reasons. If she could avoid having things chucked at her during class and bear with an English class more challenging than enjoyable, then it would have been worth it. However, the bell rang, pulling her from her thoughts.
"Oh no," she thought. "I'm going to be late." She certainly hoped that the teacher would ignore her tardiness. She stopped shelving the rest of her books and binders in her locker, grabbed her English binder and slammed the locker shut. In her haste, she didn't remember to lock it.
Unfortunately for her, she had the misfortune of having her locker in the wing of the school farthest away from her classroom, and she had to break into a run. She hoped that no one would notice. By the time she got there, panting and gasping, many students had already filled up the desks. There was only one seat left; it was, to her irritation, right in the center front row of the class, just in front of the one the teacher sat in. The teacher, as she had only seen for the first time, had his impressive expression locked onto her the moment she appeared in the doorway.
In a few words, she might have described her mentor as fat and balding. But in her panicked state, she saw every detail, only making her fear worse. He sat comfortably in the desk facing opposite the classroom, perhaps a little too comfortably, as his entire form filled out the desk completely. His short stubby fingers rested on the pages of a small book. Oddly enough, he wore one blue sock and one black one underneath a pair of neatly ironed trousers and his shirt stretched around his form like a mattress sheet. His face was large, and its features were concentrated near the center. His mouth, while covered underneath a graying mustache and beak-like nose, was still visibly turned down into a frown. His eyes concentrated intensely upon his tardy student like a prey. They were dark and full of wisdom, but now, the irritation of his late student interrupting him was clearly visible in his eyes. Concentric dark rings surrounded his eyes; he lacked sleep. She barely noticed that the effect of his dark eyes was because of his photo-grade glasses. The remains of his hair circled his head like laurels--or like horns. In her fear, it would have been easy to believe they were horns. She only trembled, fixated by his gaze.
"You're late," was his sharp criticism, the irritation dripping in his voice.
She mumbled a quiet apology, trying to avoid his gaze and hastened to the seat she was doomed to be in for the rest of the year. To her relief, he didn't make her tardiness into much of a scene; however, she began to notice that all the other students had the same book the teacher had on his desk, and that she did not have one.
"Oh, that's right. You don't have one." He quickly rose from his seat to grab another book. His steps echoed into her very soul. She didn't know whether or not the tremors came from his feet or from her own trembling. She could not stop shaking at the fear of being this close to the legendary teacher. He seemed to be in a good mood though. She tried to reassure herself. He came back abruptly and dropped the book on her desk. It landed with a loud thud. She jolted from its impact, scaring her out of her trembling thoughts.
"Aw, are you frightened?" He was indeed in a good mood. A grin broke out across his face.
"Um, no. I think I'm alright now." At least she hoped she would be.
"Good. We're on page 115."
It seemed they were reading a short story on a boy and his rocking horse. As the story went on, the teacher became increasingly more and more excited. His words were filled with more charisma than enthusiasm; he waved his hands about as he described the story. His words turned to bawdiness. It was one of the things the rumors warned of. Then the class suddenly turned into a firing range. He turned to her with excitement brimming in his eyes. A new target. He asked her a question; it was clearly aimed at her because he addressed her quite clearly. How he had known her name without asking, she did not know; nor did she realize it. Her trembling resumed. In the excitement of her mentor's vivid and subtle words, she had forgotten all about her fear, but now that the class had turned their attention on her, and he resumed his gaze at her once again, it came back. She barely heard his question; she did not know what to say. Even if she had heard the question he had asked, she wouldn't know how to answer it. She could only mumble a silent "I don't know..." and shake her head. Even though she sat directly in front of him, he didn't hear her.
He cupped a hand to his ear, tilted forward and whispered. "What's that? I can't hear you. You're going to have to speak louder. What?"
"I said I don't know."
His expression quickly changed. The frown appeared on his face once again, and the features on his face curved downwards angrily. He stared with intense eyes trained on her.
"You...what? You don't know?" His voice was barely audible.
A few students sat around bored, as if they had wanted him to ask them the same question instead because they knew it, but could say nothing. And a few more sat there, stoned with fright. The rest listened and looked on attentively at what would happen next. It was one of his most legendary moments.
She shook her head sadly.
As quickly as a fit of rage, he bolted from his seat, grabbed the nearby dry-erase off the ledge and hurled it at her. He did not miss; she was too shocked to even dodge or try to catch the offending object; it struck her squarely on the forehead and dropped with a sharp thud. The sound barely registered in her mind. The marker hitting her head did not hurt her as much as it hurt her pride--and everyone saw it. He ignored her quickly and began picking on other students. Nobody knew the answer.
Somebody shouted out the wrong answer. He grabbed the water bottle off of some unsuspecting student's desk and poured all of its contents on the offender's head. A grin spread on that student's face. How could he actually enjoy all this humiliation? The teacher's intense expression remained unchanged; no one could contest what he had asked. A silent student remained unasked in the corner. But the teacher barely noticed him.
He finally shouted out the answer in exasperation. The teacher and his class next door was sure to hear it. He wrote a word on the board and explained it. A student corrected his spelling. His explanation was deep and extremely detailed. But she heard none of his words. She was too upset to hear. Her fear had made everything worse. She glanced at the clock. There was too much time for the teacher to ridicule her. Never in her life had she wanted the class to end more than now. But it was far from over. He fired another question at her. She had to admit she didn't know. But she didn't want him to humiliate her as he did the first time, and so gave out an answer. She didn't know if it was right; she barely knew what he had asked. It had to be better than nothing, right?
He reached for the other dry-erase on the ledge and hurled it at her. Her pride continued to drop. A teacher, presumably from next door, came in. He wasn't there to tell her teacher to stop shouting so loudly though; he came to refill his cup of coffee. His grin was radiant like sunbeams, and she wished she was in his class instead. The sun came and went from that classroom; the gloom returned to that classroom once again. As she turned from the sunset, her teacher resumed his questioning. She did not know whether to say she did not know the answer or guess the answer. If she guessed the answer, there would at least be a small chance that she got it right. It would make up for her lost pride. But he occasionally left the students alone who said they didn't know the answer. She arbitrarily picked an answer. A slap stung the back of her forehead. The sheets of paper which he held in his hand like a fan was the assaulting weapon. She hung her head in shame, dropping it in her hands, and hoped this position would make him pick on someone else.
The rest of the class was spent on the teacher's antics at other students, but she sat there in fear the entire time, afraid that he would come and pick on her.
After what seemed like ages, the bell finally rang--she tore out of the classroom immediately. She tried very hard to hold back her tears; she was sure the students would laugh at her. She crammed her books into her locker as quickly as she could and retreated to the washroom. As she left the stall, another student entered. As the student reached for the paper roll, she spotted a gleam of light on the floor. Upon closer inspection, it seemed to be a small puddle of water.
As much as he hated to be at school so early, he lounged on the cafeteria benches. He was only here because his brother had borrowed the car, and his parents had to go to work early; there was no other way for him to get to school, so his parents dropped him off. The alarm on his watch woke him up at about the same time he saw another student wandering the halls aimlessly. He had often seen that student loitering around during some classes; he seemed to do nothing almost all the time, and yet, he was a student that many teachers favored--a student that many other students would not want to mess with. He ignored him and walked slowly to his next class. English.
He knew of the rumors surrounding his English teacher, and made sure to make good use of his teacher's antics. It would provide him good attention. The bell rang as he entered the classroom. The rumors said the teacher's aim was deadly; to test that, he sat in the back row. The rest of the students filed into the classroom. He spotted the ghost student from before. He sat in the front row. The teacher sat at his desk, squinting away at something on his computer screen. His desk was littered with many papers and books; yet, they were all somehow organized neatly into piles.
The class started with the teacher distributing small books. As he received the book, he noticed it was filled with short stories. They were all instructed to turn to page 115. He started by picking on a few students to read some paragraphs; they were all satisfactory readers, except some who spoke too quietly. When they did, he whispered at them to speak louder. It was boring until a student came into the class.
He irritably proclaimed she was late and went to get a book for her. He made a mental note to himself that he should be late next time; it would be amusing. The late student seemed to be very frightened. As was expected, he thought. There were the students who feared the teacher very much, as his vivid expression was impressive enough to inspire fear. Then there were the students much like himself who demanded attention--this teacher was capable of giving it to them. He dropped the book on her desk loudly, causing her to jump. He hoped the teacher would display some of his legendary antics. But he was in a good mood, and said nothing more after she reaffirmed that she was alright, even though the student was visibly shaken.
He knew that if he fell asleep in class, he could get more attention if the teacher noticed. But he was too busy paying attention to the late student, and began to fall asleep until the teacher shouted out his name loudly. He jumped a bit at his name being called and then regained himself--this was the attention he wanted. The teacher asked him a question. Any question he asked him wouldn't be something he knew. He hadn't paid attention anyways. He was more likely than not to answer the question incorrectly.
He said the wrong answer; the teacher's already exasperated expression remained unchanged, but in quick, bold strides, he went over to a student's desk, picked up the water bottle on it and dumped its contents onto his head. The student, whose water bottle had been taken was suddenly aware of what had happened and tried hard to stifle a giggle. The water dripped through his hair and onto his face. For anyone else, this scene might have been embarrassing, but for him, it was purely amusement. A grin spread across his face. The other students stared at him and tried hard not to laugh. Some just sat there in fright. They were thinking about how not to end up in this situation. How the teacher kept his irritated expression in such a ridiculous situation was unknown; perhaps he was already accustomed to doing this so many times that it was no longer funny to him, but routine. The thought made him even more amused.
The teacher went back to picking on other students. He became increasingly aggravated at no one being able to answer his question. The ghost student sat with an enthusiastic look in his eyes. He was enthusiastic for different reasons though; he probably knew the right answer. For some reason, the teacher ignored him though, and shouted out the right answer. With the same bold strides, he went over to the whiteboard and wrote a word on it. The ghost student immediately corrected him on a spelling mistake.
None of this interested him though. Not even his most detailed and sophisticated explanation of that term. He was waiting for just the right moment to grab attention for himself. But it seemed the tardy student got all the attention. Why was she so special? He needed some way to get the teacher's attention. Her fear prevented her from getting the right answer, and he responded with another marker to the noggin. Thankfully for him, the teacher next door had come over to get another cup of coffee. This distracted the other student for awhile. His teacher turned his attention on him.
Just what he wanted. He answered incorrectly again, and he threw a spoon at him. Again, no one knew the right answer. As the other teacher left, his teacher focused on that girl again. She dared an answer, which was obviously wrong, and he grabbed the papers off of his desk hastily and slapped the back of her head with it. She slumped down. The teacher finally asked the ghost student the same question. He almost had the right answer, but it was satisfactory, so the teacher just elaborated on his answer. He loved firing questions at his students.
There still seemed to be enough time for him to get another question wrong and have something thrown at him. He was not wrong; a stapler, another dry-erase, a book and the dry-erase brush came his way. This was going to be a very good class.
Just outside the classroom, she bent down to tie her shoelaces. She wasn't late, but just a bit worried. She had heard the rumors of this legendary teacher. She certainly hoped they weren't true--or if they were, they wouldn't be so bad, and she wouldn't be a part of the teacher's antics. A few of her friends who had told her the rumors found it amusing; it was true only if she didn't get hit. So she believed.
As she entered, there were already a few students sitting in the back row. A friend had told her that if she sat in the front row, the teacher was less likely to pick on her. Either these kids didn't know that rumor, or her friend was lying, she thought. She picked a middle row seat somewhere closer to the front. As she waited for the class to begin, she noticed there was one seat left at the front of the class. Could they really want the teacher to hit them? It made no sense to her. She thought the last thing anyone wanted was to be hit by a flying dry-erase.
The teacher's appearance was nothing new; she had already seen him several times in the hallways before, even though they had not known each other. As he came by her desk and placed a small book on it, she noticed that he was wearing a blue sock and a black one. Must be color blind, she thought. The teacher randomly picked someone to start reading a story about a boy using a rocking horse to cheat bets. One of the students he picked on spoke too quietly, so he did his whispering antic. After the poor student had finished reading his paragraph, the teacher picked her. She wouldn't have minded reading the paragraph if only she could stop worrying about the teacher's intense eyes. So she tried very hard to concentrate on the print in her book. She read as well as she could, until a girl came in. She was a tardy student. But he was in a good mood. She took the only seat left. He dropped the book on her desk. She jumped.
Clearly, there were people far worse than her at handling this. If that girl got the teacher's attention, then she would most likely be left alone. But the teacher picked on everyone equally. After the girl had answered she didn't know, and had a dry-erase thrown at her, he went around and fired the same question at everyone else. How was she to respond? All her friends had told her was that if she didn't want to get hit, she should say she doesn't know. But here, the girl in front of her, answered the same way, and had just been hit. Good mood indeed, she thought. But it was still better than saying the wrong answer and being hit for sure. She noticed the other students who replied they didn't know didn't get hit. She supposed the exception was because the student was tardy.
At last, the teacher finally focused his intense eyes upon her. She didn't know the answer. So she responded like everyone else. His intense eyes glared at her for a short while, then resumed picking on someone else. She assumed that everyone would be afraid of him, but this was not so. A guy in the front row had his eyes trained enthusiastically on the teacher. The teacher made no notice of it. Another one in the back row grinned enthusiastically--but for a different reason. The teacher picked on him, and he immediately announced the wrong answer. The teacher rose and grabbed a water bottle. Its contents were now spilling over the head of that student. He grinned from ear to ear. She did not know why. However, the ridiculous situation enticed her to laugh. Like the rest of her classmates, she held it back.
The class remained silent as he continued to contest them. No one knew the right answer. He shouted out the right answer. She was sure whoever was in the hallway at the moment would have heard it. And probably the class next door. She had been in the class next door before in a previous year, and remembered how she and her class would hear terms being shouted out from the other side of the wall. Her good-natured teacher at that time simply laughed it off. Now she was on the other side of that wall. She turned her attention back to the teacher, who was now frantically explaining some term he had written on the board. The guy at the front pointed out a spelling error. She didn't notice it. She wasn't looking to win any favors--it was all too much completely out of her range. He went on explaining the term most vividly. At least if she could survive not being hit by him, this class would be well worth her while. Another thing her friends told her of.
The teacher had finished explaining the term and went back to picking the poor girl at the front of the classroom. She hazarded a guess; it seemed she didn't figure out how the teacher worked. A dry-erase smacked her in the head. Her previous teacher came in. She knew all too well that he wasn't here to complain about how loud her current teacher was; he was used to that. He only came in to get more coffee. He smiled at the poor tardy student. The other teacher ignored him, and proceeded to ridicule the student covered in water. She had to admit it was amusing--but only if she knew she wouldn't end up being the brunt of his antics.
The teacher turned back to the late student. Her sunshine was gone. She said the wrong answer again, and the teacher grabbed some papers off his desk and slapped her in the back of her head. When would she ever catch on? She wondered if he had ever been reported for doing any of these things. But then she realized that if he had been, then none of these rumors would ever have existed--he wouldn't still be doing his antics. She did not know why. The teacher proceeded to shoot his question at the other student in the front row; he knew the answer. Well, almost. But the teacher didn't fire another classroom object at him. He elaborated it. She was thankful enough that for her own humiliation, the student in the back row and the late student had kept the teacher's attention enough that he never bothered to pick on her, and when he did, her answer of "I don't know" was satisfactory enough for her not to get hit. In fact, it seemed the teacher had spent most of his classroom objects trained on the student in the back row, who seemed to enjoy it. She would have enjoyed it more if she did not fear getting hit herself.
She slumped down next to her friends in the cafeteria. She was a bit tired, but happy at the same time. Her teacher had made her learning experience very worthwhile, but having questions fired at her made her worry that she would end up being the brunt of his jokes.
"So, how did it go?" A friend asked her.
"It was alright, I guess. I'm lucky he didn't hit me."
"Didn't hit you? But you've got to try that at least once. It's very satisfying."
She was puzzled. She could not understand how there were people that enjoyed this.
"How is being hit so satisfying?"
"Well, I guess it's different for everybody, but you're not just being hit by any old teacher, you're being hit by the legendary English teacher."
"So?"
"Most students consider it a privilege to be hit by him. It's probably not the nicest way to get attention from him, but it works."
She said nothing.
"He doesn't really hate anybody. I know; I've been hit a lot too."
Her expression changed.
"What was that like?"
"It doesn't really hurt all that much. If he did hate me, it probably would've. I used to be afraid of him hitting me. But the more he hit me, the more I wanted it. I don't know why, it was just so satisfying. Maybe it's the attention I'm getting from a highly revered teacher, or maybe it's me just wanting to be hit by such a person. I did realize if I kept answering wrong, he'd keep hitting me, but I stopped fearing that and let him have it. I'm sorry I forgot to tell you about that part."
"No, that's alright." She went home later that day and considered the idea of being hit by the legendary teacher.
The keyboard clacked resoundingly to his fast fingers. The sun outside had barely announced dawn; if it did, he didn't care to see it. Unlike many of his peers, he was already up very early in the morning, filled with energy, and enthusiasm to get things done. Such was the enthusiasm and energy of himself that he did not need an alarm clock to tell him of the approaching of dawn--he woke himself up. Sometimes, he woke up too early. Sleep was a hindrance to his goals. The same could be said for his teacher. As he was walking to school this morning, he recognized the teacher driving by as well. He was often accustomed to his teacher unlocking the lab room every morning, and knew that he wanted to get there early to use the computers. His parents would wake up and know that he was using the computer if he woke up too early and stayed home, and then tell him to go back to sleep. His only resort was to share the morning in a nearly empty school with the only other resident of that school at such early hours.
Unusually though, he had noticed that the school wasn't quite as empty as it should have been when he got there, as someone else was loitering about in the cafeteria as he approached. He wandered past the student and ignored him. It was none of his business.
The gradual trickle of footsteps, whispers of certain students and the smell of coffee brewing, teachers sharing conversations in far off classrooms, and then the chatter of more students filled the halls. He was accustomed to this as well, but ignored this too--it only told him how close it was to the start of the first class of his day. English with his sleepless teacher.
He too had heard the rumors as well, but was unusually enthusiastic about it. He used to fear that his class would be too difficult or unbearable. He once had a tour of the school with some high school seniors as guides, and they had introduced him and his class to the elderly legendary teacher. He was as amazing as he was pessimistic. Yet, he could not brush aside the amusement at the back of his mind. It never disappeared, and now, for the last year of his high school career, he must have this teacher--he must have this experience at least once, or it would come to pass, and never show itself again. He consoled himself easily by thinking that if he did ever have any classroom object thrown at him, then he could avoid being hit by it or catch the offending object. His reflexes were the speed of lightning.
When he thought the chatter in the hallways could be no louder, and the smell of the coffee, no stronger, the bell rang. He left the lab and entered the English classroom. Happily, he chose a seat at the front row. The other students gradually filled the other seats. He also saw the student from the cafeteria he saw earlier file into a desk in the back row. When there seemed to be no more students entering the class, there was only one seat left in the front row directly in front of the teacher's. He had noticed how most of the students filled up the back rows first, avoiding the front seats. If he had any plans of being hit by the teacher, he would have regretted his choice; it was difficult to imagine how the teacher could throw a dry-erase or any other object at anyone close up to the front. It mattered little to him at all whether or not he got hit; his plan was only for the case where it did affect him.
He could not say if he found English in particular to be an interesting subject; the classes might have been interesting. There was always a trend for English teachers to be strange and highly amusing. But the subject itself usually depended on what they read; if he liked what they read and found it interesting, he often did better. If he didn't, then he found it boring and difficult to read. Either way, he had difficulty understanding how the characters felt; emotions was one of the things he was not at home with. If he had better grades with English recently, it would be because he learned to pick on analyses of symbolism or theme, and other such things that were more visibly obvious to him rather than characterization. He hoped this teacher would do better than his previous mentors did.
The books they were reading consisted of a series of short stories. The teacher picked one on a boy whose mother complained she was unlucky, and her son rode a rocking horse and was always asked who the winner of a horse race would be. He was somewhat relieved that the teacher did not pick on him to read the story; he did not enjoy reading stories out loud. He did, however, find the teacher's whispering antic at the quieter students amusing. It was hard to resist a smile at it.
Then at the same time he noticed the tardy student, the teacher noticed her too. She apologized after he spoke irritatingly and sat in the only desk remaining. He found the teacher's reaction slightly amusing, but he had hoped for more. He made a comment about her fear when he dropped the book on her desk.
However, the excitement was in how the teacher explained the story; the choice of the story wasn't terrible. It was short, after all, and the language didn't bother him like certain British writers' did. And what he didn't realize, the teacher painted a vivid image for him. He enjoyed this immensely, and it didn't matter if he initially liked the story or not. He could explain with such detailed and tone-filled words and do what the book could not make him imagine. He was completely captured. Even in the teacher's bawdy, unorthodox interpretation, the likes of which other teachers might have been afraid to try explaining.
Then came the antics. Perhaps because the student was late, he picked on her first. Her feeble reply guaranteed a smack to the head with a dry-erase. How strange it was that he could not see how the teacher could throw something at her from such a short range, and yet, there it was happening right in front of him. He couldn't resist a chuckle. As the teacher was asking the question, he realized it was something that he could answer--he knew what it was--why didn't his peers? He admitted he had no love for his grad class. They were as boring as they were dull and unacademic. If they never got the right answer, he wasn't surprised. He secretly hoped the teacher would pick on him next. But nobody raised his hand.
Either they were too afraid to, or the question was so sophisticated beyond their understanding or knowledge that they didn't dare to. Even if one did know, it didn't work that way in this class. Instead of having the choice of answering the question if one wanted to, the choice was taken away and given to the teacher. If he wanted you to answer the question, you'd have no choice. You'd have to say something. And the converse was true too; if he didn't pick you, then you'd have no choice but to sit there until he decided to. And what you said determined whether or not he would reply with a glare, an even more elaborate response, or a classroom object hurled at you.
He stared at the teacher in an attempt to get him to notice him. The teacher made no notice of him. He was having too much fun. After shuffling through several students who all didn't know the right answer, and the kid from the cafeteria who said the wrong answer had the contents of a water bottle splashed ungratefully all over his head, the teacher grew increasingly angry (apparently) and finally shouted out the right answer. The crescendo of these events amused him even more. If he chuckled out loud, he didn't make a conscious effort to suppress it.
As another student who had been in the class next door previously, he was also aware of this teacher's antics of shouting out the answer, and being able to hear it a classroom away. This he found amusing as well, and it partly drew his curiosity to be in this class. If he revered the teacher for his knowledge and ability to draw him into stories he wouldn't otherwise have read, he would have believed him to be almost perfect as well.
But the teacher, in his excitement, rose from his seat and wrote a word on the board. Wait a minute, that can't be. He thought. There was a spelling error in that word! How could such a legendary teacher make this mistake? It was almost...embarrassing. Not that any of these numbskulls would notice or care. As there was no need to raise his hand, he openly expressed his disapproval of the glaring mistake. The teacher fixed it quickly, and continued on his rampage of the term. This, he also found nearly as amusing as his explanation of the story.
The teacher continued picking on the poor student sitting directly in front of him. She probably changed her strategy and decided to respond with an answer rather than saying she didn't know. The teacher's next response was just as amusing as the first. He was all smiles, inside and out.
The teacher from next door came in for a cup of coffee. He had always been amused at how the two got along like two good friends, yet, they argued and bickered like an old married couple. It would have been amusing to witness another similar scene now, but his teacher was currently too concentrated in his excitement to turn the guy with water in his hair into another target. A spoon connected with his head.
The trembling student seemed rather lost. It amused him a bit. She would be a most amusing target. The teacher caught on and fired another question at her. Another feeble attempt. Another attack, this time with a few sheets of paper. It was most amusing to him how his teacher managed to turn almost any object in the classroom into a weapon of literary correctness, and this classroom, a deadly war zone. Yet, he felt he had been excluded from it because the teacher paid no heed to him at all. It was amusing to him, whether or not he got picked. But he finally got his wish. The teacher aimed his intense expression at him and asked him a question.
"What does nominative mean?"
He didn't exactly know what it meant--if he had the slightest glimpse, he had difficulty explaining it. But he learned everything through the power of deduction; if he didn't know what a word meant, all he had to do was look up its original roots. In this case, he knew it was very well a Latin word.
"It comes from the Latin word for name."
The teacher was somewhat impressed. At least if he didn't know the answer, he knew where it came from. The slightly satisfactory answer, however, did calm down the teacher's expression. It was not enough for him though.
"It also means noun." The teacher continued to delve into a more detailed explanation of the word origin, and the actual meaning of the said word. This hadn't actually resulted in the teacher throwing anything at him. However, this reaction still amused him, although differently.
The rest of the class was spent on ridiculing the other students, particularly the student in the back row. In fact, it seemed the teacher might as well have hurled all his belongings at that student. He just noticed that he was grinning. From what? Was he mad or just plain stupid? He could not understand why anyone enjoyed being hit; he was only amused at the act of avoiding it. If you got hit, it was because you were being stupid. He admitted to himself that there were some questions he didn't know the answer to; however, the teacher left him alone as was often the case, or when he did answer, he answered honestly and said he didn't know. It never once resulted in the teacher throwing anything at him. It was a pity though; he never did get to test his plans on them. It remained that way for the rest of the year.
But overall, I enjoyed it. Very good for a 'fun' story.