"In Which Reality is Smuggling a Gay Man into Class"

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"You can only be young once. But you can always be immature."

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 Dave Barry

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September 13

9:15 AM 

Outside Crankston's Room

https://youtu.be/Bops47DFqZA

"One... Go!"

We both open the doors and go in at the same time.

SLAM! The door closes loudly behind me. The sound of wood against metal resonates in the room.

Everyone's attention — Crankston's included — is suddenly focused on me.

Showtime, bitches!

I hold down the feeling of nausea threatening to climb up my throat. It was a normal reaction I learned to ignore.

Suck it up, Michaels! You can fucking do this! You are one scary-hell-of-a-bitch!

I saunter past the board and the teacher's table, holding my bag casually like I own the fucking place.

The room was designed in a minimalist style with neutral shades of blue, brown, and grey.

Fluorescent lights mount the surface of the ceilings, brightening up the entire place. An AC was installed on either side of the room, keeping out the late summer heat from beating through the wide slider windows.

Six columns of steel desks, topped with smooth cedarwood, occupy the middle of the room in four straight rows. Under them, bags and books are strewn across the floor, obstructing the pathways for any clear exits.

At the back of the room, a wide bulletin board is stretched from one side of the wall to the other and pinned various documents that — let's be honest — nobody reads.

I focus my attention on the people inside the room, particularly the person who thinks he's in charge.

Crankston was the first to recover and, in a scornful manner, crosses his arms over his small paunch as he appraises my tardiness — again.

"Ms. Michaels, what a surprise. I am so honored that you have decided to grace my class with your presence whilst late — again," he adds the last word bitingly in that special deep nasally voice that just makes him... Crankston.

A student from the back row snickers.

A low rattling sound comes from the door. I watch as Emile's panicked face gets squished against the door's window from the outside. He points in the direction of the knob.

Locked. FICK! I did not expect that.

"Quiet!" Crankston barks. He steps a few feet forward in my direction where the front of the class is.

Looking at him, he represents the product of cruel social injustice known as high school.

Mind you, I have only met him these past few days, but it was enough for me to sniff out his type.

A former high school nerd devoid of social interaction and common courtesy, he makes up for those insecurities by abusing his status as a teacher and being a low-grade ass.

At first glance, he looks the part of the typical snooty high school teacher as painted by the mainstream media. You know, the one dressed in a tucked-in shirt and slacks, a pair of polished wingtip shoes, a shiny Class-A Rolex imitation on one hand, and a speck of dried spit on the corners of his mouth from the number of ass he had to kiss if he wanted to impress the more affluent and well-off parents.

Nobody would assume he was anything near unprofessional. Or, that he has the delusion that's he's a fucking ten rather than a two at best.

Wait, I forgot he's married. Make that two ... and a half. Condolence to the woman he suckered.

He turns back to me and fixes a stern glare at me through his wire-framed glasses. "Well?"

Uhh, no. He does not get a proper answer from me by intimidating me as he does to others. Doesn't he know that old-school style doesn't work on me?

Furthermore, I still have to worry about how to smuggle a gay man inside under his long narrow nose.

I turn to Tia and motion to the door with my eyes. She follows my gaze and sees Emile.

Distract him, her eyes tell me as she quietly stands up without a pip or a squeak.

Right, aggravate him —gotcha! And, I just know where to hit him the worst.

"Funny you said that. I didn't have much better to do. It just so happens that the sheriff didn't have an empty cell to spare so I decided, 'Hey, I might as well waste my time here. Feels like a prison, anyways.'" I jerk my elbow with a thumbs up with an added wink for optimal sarcasm. 

This earns me some more snickers from everyone.

"Is that so?" He asks, unperturbed.

He slides his glasses up his nose. "Then would you like to take a seat, or do you need a police escort for that, too? Perhaps, slap some handcuffs on your wrists and shove your neck down while you take a seat?"

Ooh, kinky! I raise my brows slightly at the unspoken challenge.

"Oh-h, Crankston, you just know how to make a girl feel special, don't ya?"  — I sigh with a cringed smile — "Can't say the same worked for your wife, though."

The other students were trying to hide their quaking laughter. That seems to rile him up a bit. Bingo.

Tia was already by the door, walking sideways by the wall like a ninja, and unlocks it.

Emile rushes in as they both go to their seats. A few minutes more, and they'll be safely seated without anybody to tell the difference.

Just a few minutes of shouldering the pain of the people's attention over me. Emile should know better than to give me lip for the rest of the day. The sacrifice I'm doing for him!

I return my attention to Crankston.

"It's Mister Cranston, for you, Miss Michaels. Take a seat —  now," he adds more weight on the last word.

That's it? No, not yet. I still haven't gotten my fun.

"Okay, just messing with you, dude" —  I wave my hand dismissively. I lean in, hands clasped behind my back — "we both know it's the wife who has the problem. But hey" — I raise my shoulders in an exaggerated shrug and add a mournful sigh — "just blame it on the women, I guess."

I watch as the eyes of every female in the room — aside from Tia's — settle on him. This irks him more.

"Miss Michaels," he says, tightly. Red blotches begin to appear on his narrow face, the nostrils of his long hawkish nose flaring. "I'm not gonna as"—

SQUEEAAAK! The shrill sound of wood scraping against the floor interrupts him.

Emile, who had already arrived at his assigned seat behind Tia's, had just dragged the seatback.

Could he not just spend the day – much less five fucking minutes – without making a fucking sound? Crankston makes a move to find the source of the sound unless I think of something quick.

"No offense, Mr. Cranston" — this gets his attention back. I make a mental smirk — "on you as a man but don't you think it's a little unfair?"

He frowns, unsure of what I'm leading him into.

Behind him, Emile was now safely seated and taking selfies with his phones. He was probably posting about getting away from a near-detention experience.

Meanwhile, I, his friend who had so graciously helped him, am still preoccupied.

Wonderful.

"Malleus Maleficarum*, virginity checks*, honor killing*, and even female infanticide*? Don't get me wrong" — I raise a reassuring hand to stop him from interrupting — "sir" — he nods for me to continue — "I salute you for teaching us the dominantly patriarchal view of the European society throughout the years."

He puffs his chest, clearly pleased with my 'praise'. I wasn't finished though.

"But, don't you think women were so disempowered, unjustly treated, and objectified? Why can't we also recount our studies based on the views of strong womanly figures too? There are so many things to consider about history from their own side, not to mention having them as inspirational figures for being survivors of gender oppression."

Sounds of approval begin to flow throughout the female students. Some are even whispering to their seatmates, dropping names for discussion. Crankston glares at me.

"Okay, that is enough, Ms. Michaels. As interesting as your opinions might be, I don't believe I asked you to share about it. I have already set out the course syllabus for the semester. What's done is done. I don't need you coming into my class and messing up my lesson plans for the whole semester. You are done. Now take a seat."

"Just because it's what's done, doesn't mean it's what should be done!"

This catches him in surprise. So did the rest of the class. Even Emile mildly looks up from his phone, uncertain if he actually heard me quote a Disney princess.

Tia is already signaling me to drop the entire thing.

"Why should we ignore the accounts of the women and have our education be stuck and oppressed by the words of arrogant, self-entitled, and boorish pri"—

"Uhm, Mr. Cranston," Tia interjects in a sweet soft voice, her posh Queen's English* accent clear as a bell. "Sorry to bother you, but the quiz?"— she gestures to her book full of highlighted lines and sticky notes.

This breaks whatever homicidal thoughts Cranston has for me. He clears his throat, trying to regain some composure.

"Why, yes, of course. Thank you, Ms. Benvidez, for reminding me" — he flashes her with a smile before casting me another look of pure disdain — "Ms. Michaels, for the last time, take a seat before I change my mind about letting you take the quiz."

I open my mouth to say something. He beats me to it when he sharply adds, "And not another word."

I glance down at Tia who dutifully sits on her chair. She shakes her head as if telepathically telling me, 'Enough.' 

I pout.

Without taking my eyes off him, I make a show of raising my hands at the level of my head in surrender. I walk over to the seat by the window next to Tia and dump my bag on the floor before sitting down.

I place my hands, with my fingers locked together, on my desk with the appearance of a student eager to learn.

He fumes but knows better not to comment further, choosing to continue the class than receive another verbal spew from me.

He goes towards his desk where he picks up a stack of test papers.

I turn to Tia and whisper, "Thanks."

"No problem" — she replies, her brown eyes still glued to her book — "I fail to see why you needed to amp up the attitude on him, though."

"Meh" — I shrug — "felt too good to pass up. Besides, you're the one who told me not to pull the fire alarm and distract him. I had to entertain myself somehow," I make it sound like it all adds up. Which it does-ish.

"Yes, by pulling down the man's ego. Genius move right there, I must say," she delicately sniffs.

I twist my waist to face her. "I had to pull something down, Tea." 

It was, after all, the way things work. It was how I work. She knows that. 

From the corner of our eyes, we catch Crankston's not-so-impressive bulge plays peek-a-boo like the size of a fucking grape ... underneath his unzipped fly.

Tia tilts her head in his direction and sends me a horrified look.

It seems she only noticed that, too.

"However, I have my limits too," my hand flies to my mouth while I make a puking sound. Like things that would require me to pour sanitizer in my eyes.

Meanwhile, Crankston, who was still unaware of his tiny wardrobe malfunction, moves to the far right of the room with test papers in hand. He then starts his mandatory spiel.

"Okay, class. You know the rules. Phones in the bag, if you don't have a bag put it on the floor," he motions at Emile to tuck his phone on the floor. 

Emile does so in displeasure and glares at him.

Crankston ignores him.

"Put your bags on the floor under your table. I don't want to see anything on your table, except for your pen and your paper. Keep your eyes only on your table. If I see anyone looking at their classmates, or using hand and feet signals — I would know you're cheating. So none of this — "he makes a series of hand signs" — "or this" —he taps his right foot in a series of sounds.

Damn, is he trying to do some sort of Morse Code or hand signs for 'fuck'?

"If any of you do so otherwise, just because you didn't study enough or can't comprehend the topics,"

Is it just me, or is he looking at me specifically when he said that?

"Doesn't give you the right to cheat." Yup, he's looking at me alright. He even narrows his eyes.

He thinks I'm gonna fail. Aww, shits and giggles! I'm so touched.

"Is that clear?"

A few of the class — Tia included — mumble, "Yes sir".

I roll my eyes at him. Like I care.

In spite of it all, I make a show of putting my phone in my bag and dropping it on the floor.

"Good" — he nods — "you may start once you get your paper."

He then begins to distribute the papers for each row.

Oh-h, fu-u-u-u-u-n! 

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Have you ever had that one teacher you just looove to hate?

For me, it's always the PE teachers. What about you? Write your answers down below in the comment section and win a FREE PRIZE! (Just kidding, I'm broke AF)

P. S. Scroll further down below for a short sneak-peek of my next chapter: "In Which Reality is a Catchy Beer Song".

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PLAYLIST

Bad Reputation — Joan Jett and The Blackhearts

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TRANSLATION

Fick — fuck

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*[F/N]*

Malleus Maleficarum — usually translated as the Hammer of Witches, is the best-known treatise on witchcraft.  It suggests torture to effectively obtain confessions and the death penalty as the only certain remedy against the evils of witchcraft. However, it's quite curious how every woman who had been dubbed as a 'witch' is said to have shown skills in medicine, academics, literature, etc. 

Virginity Checks — a controversial practice that aims to determine whether a girl has had sexual intercourse or not. In some cultures, female virginity is highly valued and expected for marriage or employment. Girls who have had sexual experiences

Honor Killing — (shame killing) is the murder of an individual, either an outsider or a member of a family, by someone seeking to protect what they see as the dignity and honor of their family.

Female Infanticide — the deliberate killing of girl babies. It is also described as gender-selective killing or "gendercide".

Queen's English Accent— also known as RP or Received Pronunciation Accent, or as what we commonly associate to as a British accent. 

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SNEAK PEEK

"Speaking of clubs, since today's Friday..." Jhett wags his brows, jiggling his shoulders.

My shoulders flinch. Fuck, today is FRIDAY?!

I zone off, barely catching on to a few words from Jhett like 'new', 'opened', and 'town'.

Joule's jaw slackens. "I can't believe it! Like an actual club here in Averill?! You didn't tell us your families were taken over by extraterrestrial life forms!"

Emile laughs like a hyena as if the very notion was the silliest thing he's ever heard this morning. "Joule, please. In the Bryer family, money talks louder."

Jhett nods in agreement, rubbing two of his fingers with his thumb. Well, that explains where the Orson family stands as well.

Kian holds her phone over the table, the screen showing an IG post of what looked like the perforated steel interior of a hip nightclub.

BANG! BANG! Tamieke strikes the table with a ketchup bottle like it was a gavel, calling our attention. "Children, you better have your fake IDs, because I do declare, we are going out tonight!"

The 'mos share a look and suddenly break into a song-and-dance number around the table.

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Copyright © 2017 Lei André