Europa High

Chapter 1: Another Year and No Dollars

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Sigh. Walking up to the familiar school gates that made the place look more like a prison than a school, the soft, warm lull of the dreamy holidays seemed like so long ago, like a fond memory. It made the trudge back to the old grind far harder than it ought to have been. I consoled myself with the fact that, once I got into the swing of things, as I would surely do in no time, I'd just get on with it, as I had done in the past.

My name is Amber Farrow, and this was my third year attending Europa R.C (Roman Catholic) School. I was coming back to this familiar place as a Year Nine student, now fully integrated with the norms of school life.

Seeing my Maths teacher and form tutor, Mr. Beilschmidt; blonde, German, and already red in the face and shouting his head off at the students cluttering the front doors, wanting to avoid entering the building at all costs, I smiled wryly.

Here we go again.

With a soft sigh, I passed through the iron gates and into the playground towards the front doors.

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Registration Time: (09.20am)

"Guten Abend, alle!" the familiar deep, firm German accent boomed from the front of the class. The clean-cut blonde man standing before us, dignified in his navy suit and tie stark with the colours of the German flag, smiled awkwardly. "Let's make this Jahr less mentally-traumatizing and stress-filled than zhe last van!"

There were laughs and cheers and shouts of "S'yeah right, sir!" from my classmates. Mr. Beilschimdt raised his hand for silence, and silence was achieved instantly.

We stood motionless standing behind our chairs, waiting. Then, each of us, one by one, requested: "Darf ich meine Jacke aus, bitte?" (May I take off my jacket, please?)*

Satisfied, Mr. Beilschmidt would bid each one of us to sit down while taking off our coats and heaving bags until everyone was seated. Don't get me wrong, having done this every single morning for the past year and a bit, this was all done quickly and smoothly.

In moments, we were all seated and waiting for him to speak.

This was the extent to which he had authority over us. No one would dare even thinkfor fear of inciting our form tutor's terrifying wrath. The man was so particular about noise, rumour had it he had telepathic powers to tell if your mind wandered into the land of 'unicorns and flying mint bunnies', as the German contemptuously called it, while he lectured.

Having been made form tutor of our class (9A) for the second year in a row, he was well aware of our behaviour patterns and achievement levels, but to the extent where he had the creepy tendency to approach you with tips to boost your grades he seemed to know without asking, and tell you to get to a particular lesson without even having seen your timetable in months.

Maybe that's the power of the German mind…

Some other assets were not so positive. The poor man has half the Upper Sixth girls swooning over him. God, you'd think those girls hadn't even heard the word 'self-respect'. Practically drooling and obsessively following his every move with puppy-dog eyes that made you want to slap them. I mean, yes, the man was young and pretty good-looking in all respects, but so out of their league it was pitiful. Knowing his rigid, border-line perfectionist personality, those girls wouldn't last five minutes with him without throwing themselves into a nearby taxi to drive them as far away as possible from the crazy OCD man who couldn't accept that she had been 1.53 minutes late on their date and that her hair was at a wrong angle.

No chance.

Mr. Beilschmidt avoided these rabid hyenas like the plague, so no real problems aside from incessant stalking and random accosting by obsessed young women throwing their breasts in his direction suggestively as he walked past arose.

Poor guy. Now he probably knew how Mr. Braginski, our cheerful yet sinister Geography teacher, who was nigh-constantly stalked by his assistant, Miss. Arlovskaya, his (batshit insane) sister, feels.

Getting back to things, our form tutor proceeded with the military-drum-roll-esque register, featuring Mr. Beilschmidt practically shouting each name like a war cry and shouting whenever somebody answered a split second later than required.

He was a damn good teacher, but certain aspects of his personality really just made you want to yell "SHUT IT, THEY CAN HEAR YA IN CHINA!"

Of course, we all knew doing that would result in instant death by lap-running. The German had a habit of punishing students by making them run laps around the main building of the school (which is bloody huge)**, while hollering out the window at them with a megaphone: "YOU CALL ZAT RUNNING? MY GRANDMUZZER COULD RUN FASTER THAN ZHAT AND SHE'S IN A WHEELCHAIR!"

I just clenched my teeth and bore it until my turn came to practically shout my name out as well.

When all was done, Mr. Beilschmidt let us go with a loud: "That is all! Dismissed!"

Being right at the front of the class, I managed to hear him mutter under his breath, "And don't break anyzing zis time…"

I smirked. Heh. Busby's chair last summer…Good times.

Filing out of the classroom, I turned the corner and made my way down the corridor to the History Bloc.

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First Period: History (10.00am)

"Ohayo gozaimasu," a smooth, soft voice greeted as we took our seats.

We returned the gesture in unison. Ah, good old Mr. Honda. The Japanese man really was born to teach this subject. Speaking and acting like an old man himself, despite being no older than Mr. Beilschmidt, when he talked about historical events it almost seemed as if he had actually been there, heightening the awesome experience being taught by him was. It really was like going back in time in Mr. Honda's class.

Everything from the Victorian wooden tables to the old black-board to the pictures decorating the walls was ancient. The room even had the musky scent of an aged bunker or museum filled with ancient artefacts. Mr. Honda himself always turned up in a smart Japanese naval officer uniform, pure white and suiting his clean-cut and impeccable appearance and demeanour.

Smiling slightly, stood at his desk and looked around at us as if he were genuinely glad to see us, and the gleam in his eye told us he was.

"Wercome back, everyone,' he said, in his funny Engrish, "I hope this year's History topic sharr interest and inspire you all. I wirr work hard to make sure you do your very best, and you yourserves sharr do the same."

By now we had perfected the art of repressing fatal fits of laughter in the Japanese man's presence. The last person who did that...well...I won't go into details. Too mentally harmful.

Grasping his chalk stick and turning to the blackboard behind him without turning his eyes away from us, Mr. Honda began.

"So, let us get started, sharr we?"

Despite his soft-spoken personality and short stature, Mr. Honda was one of those teachers who had a certain aura around them that said: "Mess with me and I shall make you rue the day your father said to your mother, 'Gosh darling, I'm feeling a little frisky tonight'".

Or, at least, that's the uncensored version that Mr. Honda emitted. The Head Chef Romano's aura was quite a different story.

"Fuck with me and you die!", it roared, in a heavy Italian accent.

Heh. Lunchtime was gonna be fun.

Besides that, he really did bend over backwards to make sure you knew everything and didn't fall behind, and really seemed to care about your progress.

Mr. Honda had achieved the fine art of being approachable and kind while retaining a strict code of discipline and order in the class.

By and by, our new topic for History was the Mongol Empire, and one that immediately incited my lust for anything and everything new and mysterious. I let out a squeal that made Mr. Honda look at me funny. The class sniggered.

Naturally.

And, as always, Mr. Honda spoke as if he knew literally last detail of the whole string of events right down to what the people of each nation involved had for breakfast each morning, and even their names. He also seemed especially emotional about this particular topic***. That was saying one heck of a lot from a man whose usual expression was like a guy sitting through the Twilight movies—the expression of one who has utterly repressed all feeling in a desperate attempt to cope with the amount of mind-numbing crap playing out mercilessly before his eyes.

This was going to be interesting…
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Second Period: English (10.40am)

"Right, lads and lasses, get your Macbeth textbooks out and turn to page forty-two," Mr. Kirkland instructed breezily just as he walked into the room. We stared, outraged. What, no greeting? Hi, how are ya? How's yer cat been?

Pushing up his small round reading-glasses up his nose, the blond Brit scanned our faces with a frown.

"Oh, sorry. Good morning all, sorry for the lateness. The Frog was being a wanker again."

We cracked up. Ah, Mr. Bonnefoy and his sexual rabidness (sorry Mr. Kirkland, bad English).

Mr. Kirkland smiled wryly.

"Off with you," he retorted, and got out his own copy of the Shakespeare text and flipping through the pages. Mr. Kirkland could be cool sometimes.

However, much of the time he acted like a spurned old man. And God did we hate him when he was really in a bad mood, always seemingly for no reason whatsoever, and taking it out on us by either of the following: random down-grading, shouting, ranting, and, even worse, the cold shoulder. He could shun you for several lessons at a time if he wanted, leaving you utterly helpless in the face of a problem you couldn't solve without his help. Did he apologize for said unexplained rejection? Hell no! He just went back to his usual grumpy self.

"Right,' the Brit spoke up, clearing his throat, mammoth eyebrows furrowed in his characteristic angry frown. 'Let's make a few things clear. This year, I will not be taking any cheek or back-talk from any of you. If any of you make it clear you don't to be here and actually learn something, you're out on the spot. This is the year of your GCSE exams, mid-year exams, or whatever you want to call it, and there is absolutely no room for larking about. Anyone who does will receive a good old British-style thrashing. With this cane..."

[At this, Mr. Kirkland whipped out a long, thin wooden stick]

"Everybody," he announced, swishing the cane around suggestively. "This is Herr Schtick. Courtesy of Mr. Beilschmidt. Since he discovered far worse ways to punish students (lap-running, as we all know), he's lent his favourite cane/stick to me for use whenever I see fit. And I intend to use it to its utmost potential."

Mr. Kirkland leered at us in a way that made us fear for our welfare for a moment.

"So. You treat me right, and I'll do the same to you. Then we won't have any problems now—" He struck the cane with a sharp thwack! on his desktop, and we flinched. He smirked. "Shall we?"

I think the message was pretty clear. We nodded.

"Good!" Mr. Kirkland said, satisfied, and stowing away Herr Schtick one of the desk draws. "Now, let's turn to Macbeth, page forty-two..."

Carrying on the depressing-ass play we had been studying for the past year, I thanked my lucky stars that at least I was top of my class in the subject regardless of whether I enjoyed it or not. Here I could really let my creativity shine through, something that Mr. Kirkland was all too happy to encourage.

Strange, when one hates the subject yet still gets good grades. But then, there were a lot of people I knew last year who studied French with Mr. Bonnefoy—hated him, and the subject, but still got top grades. You can't imagine the ecstasy of the girls (and even some boys) in the class when they were told pervy teacher would be transferred to the Drama department to replace the departed sole teacher of the subject at the time.

The only thing that kept the Frenchman in the school was the knowledge that he, despite all his unashamed perversion, would never dream of touching any of us.

The staff, on the other hand, were another matter altogether.

Back in English class, the lesson ran as it always did—with a few "wankers" and "good show's" thrown in.

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Third Period: Science (11.40am)

"Aiyah! You're all here, aru!" a certain Chinese man cried as he turned round from his ferocious scribbling on the whiteboard some nonsensical science formula to see us all seated and waiting. We grinned back at him.

No shit, Sherlock.

He turned back the board and begun to hastily wipe away the scribbled notes off the board with a cloth. Sometimes he could be as old-fashioned as Mr. Honda.

Swirling round again; lab-coat (the sleeves of which being hazardously long), pony-tail and all, Dr. Wang Yao clapped his hands.

"Ni hao, welcome back! Right, everyone! Our first topic for this term is the properties of medicine, aru! You know, how to make them, aru!"

Everyone chattered excitedly. I beamed secretively. Wow, this year was going to be fun! We all knew that Dr. Yao would naturally be far more enthusiastic about this topic than he had with previous ones. This would mean a vast improvement, since he had loathed the prior topics and had complained nigh-constantly about them in both public and private. Dean Veneziano (nicknamed Grandpa Rome, for kicks), our lusty, overly-affectionate headmaster, must've gotten tired of it and pulled some strings on the syllabus.

Dr. Yao himself was like a firecracker; when dormant he was colourful and amicable with everyone, but when he exploded, he was like a demon possessed. It could happen without warning and at the slightest thing. Nobody wanted to be in the same room as Dr. Yao when he flipped, because he would more often than not break something potentially dangerous and take it out of everybody by yelling more.

As a result, we were extra-cautious in his presence and did everything he said without a single complaint or mistake...or tried to, at least. That way, we kept the peace.

Once he had registered us with his typical sing-song gusto, Dr. Yao began his lesson, gesturing wildly as his fervour took him over.

Then, when he had finished outlining the basics of the topic and making sure we had all firmly imbedded the information into our wearing craniums, the slight Chinese man scanned the room with keen dark eyes.

"I'll be needing a volunteer to help me with this substance, aru," he said, smiling. Everyone instantly distracted themselves with the doodles on the desktops, shifting on their lab stools and fiddling with their hair or pencils.

I stared psychopathically at my lesson notes, praying to whatever omnipresent force to save me from any kind of abject humiliation—

"Ah! Hǔpò! You will do fine, please come up here and help, aru!" he bid cheerfully. I inwardly groaned.

Apparently the omnipresent forces had a grudge against me.

In any case, 'Hǔpò' was the Chinese equivalent of my first name, Amber. He called everybody by the Chinese versions of their names, except when he was angry.

The class snickered.

I pushed back my stool, and, not looking at anyone, made my way round the long front desk and to where Dr. Yao stood holding a beaker, in which a strangely pink substance bubbled.

Standing beside the man who was only inches taller than I was, I was handed the beaker.

Ew. It was a liquid pink goo I didn't know the name of. I blocked out everything Dr. Yao was saying as he vigorously explained what the stuff was, and stared at the floor. Do not look at anybody's faces, I told myself fiercely. Just don't—

Dr. Yao began to pour another beaker filled with a yellowish substance into mine, and instantly the mix turned a deep shade of orange.

More explaining. I did not listen. I could feel their ugly gleeful eyes on me. Waiting.

"...Now, Hǔpò, please place the beaker at the back of the class," Dr. Yao instructed, smiling.

I nodded mutely, and made my way down the path between the two split rows of desks in the centre of the room, keeping my eyes firmly on my destination: the back counters on which various scientific appliances stood.

Suddenly, I felt something kick away my left foot from the ground, and sent me crashing forward onto the floor.

The beaker and its contents smashed and spilled everywhere, on my face, hair and uniform, and littered the floor.

The class erupted in laughter. My ears were ringing with it, whole body trembling with the shock of the fall and calamity of noise around me. They'd done it again. Shock turned to rage, and tears spilled.

Dr. Yao rushed to my side, shouting at everyone to be quiet, helped me to my feet, and began to inspect me for injuries.

"Hǔpò! Tiān a!**** You're bleeding! Don't worry, I'll take you to the nurses' office!" I heard him cry, horrified. "Does it hurt anywhere else?"

I did not respond. Oh, it hurts somewhere, Dr. Yao. But not where you'd think.

The laughter continued. Bellowing. Mocking.

Before I knew what I was doing, I'd wrenched away from the teacher's grasp, turned heel, and ran out of the classroom and down the Science corridor. I heard Dr. Yao shouting my name, but I was focused on getting away. It hurt. My legs ached. My ankle seemed to be sprained, and I limped as fast as I could. Get away. From them. From this damned school...

I turned the corner and sprinted, bleeding and sobbing, down yet another corridor, turned left again, and burst through the doors to the girl's toilet. It was empty.

I went into the first corridor I saw, sat down on the seat and locked the door. The secluded, compressed space allowed me time away from the rest of the ugly world, and I cried undisturbed.

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Fourth Period: Art (12.20am)

When I was done, I washed myself in the sinks and stopped the cuts bleeding, and tried to wash as much of the liquid orange substance off the uniform and hair as possible, drying myself under the hand-dryers.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I looked an emotional wreak. Christ, the girl from the Exorcist was the next step up from here. I smirked. Go me and my dark humour in times like this.

I then realised that I'd left my bag vulnerable and unattended in Dr. Yao's room. Oh God. I'd probably been robbed blind. No, I'd definitely been robbed. But Dr. Yao would not allow that, surely...but, I thought, he didn't have a hawk's eye, as Mr. Beilschmidt did, when it came to such secretive acts.

Anxious and dreading the thought of going back to that place where Dr. Yao and perhaps some of my bastard classmates would likely be, I walked out of the girl's toilets and made my way back to the class.

My stuff's safety was my priority. I had to go back there sometime, and sooner was better than later.

Glancing at the classrooms I passed, I could see everybody standing behind their chairs ready to be dismissed. Panic overtook me as I imagined how they would react if they saw me in this state, so I dashed down the corridor and made it to Dr. Yao's room before they could file out and see me.

Approaching the door of the Science class, I peeked round the door.

No one there.

Sighing in relief, I entered the classroom, and spotted my bag sitting on Dr. Yao's desk.

"Aiyaaah! Gotcha!" a voice yelled, and suddenly Dr. Yao bounced up from behind me and grabbed my arm.

"Jesus, sir!" I yelled, freaked out. "What the hell, you were waiting behind the door this whole time? Who are you, Mr. Bonnefoy?"

The young Chinese man pouted like a five-year-old.

"Please don't compare me to that rampant animal, aru!" he huffed. Then his expression softened. "I just wanted to properly make sure you were alright, aru. You were hurt, and very distressed. I hope you've calmed down a little now?"

I nodded, self-conscious.

He looked me over carefully, noticing my cuts were more-or-less taken care of, and my clothes and hair more-or-less dry and free of orange goo.

"You've done a good job with yourself, aru," he remarked, smiling at me. "But I'd better finish off and give you proper treatment."

Dr. Yao turned to the cupboard behind the door, opened it, and fished around. He brought out a little white case with a red cross on it.

"I always come prepared for injuries, aru," he said, opening it on his desktop and taking out a packet of plasters and bending down in front of me to administer them to my cut arms and hands. My legs seemed fine, though.

"Does your ankle hurt?" he questioned, seeing my limp. "Aiyah, you have sprained it!" he gasped, fuming. "Oh, those little devils! I would've hit them harder if I'd known you were hurt like this, aru!"

I blinked.

"You hit them?"

"Oh yes!" Dr. Yao cried passionately. "I gave them all a good hiding with my cane. One boy protested of why I was bothering over you, so I slapped him round the face!"

I laughed. Trust Dr. Yao to give it as good as he got.

The Chinese man grinned.

"I am glad you're feeling better, aru," he said, standing up. "I think you should go to the showers in the P.E bloc, aru. The substance will make your hair all sticky. We don't want that, do we, aru?"

I nodded, thanking him.

"It was no trouble, aru. By the way, I informed your form tutor about this incident. He will make sure something is done. This class consists of your form-mates, don't they?"

"Yeah," I replied, gritting my teeth.

"Well then, Mr. Beilschmidt will sort them out, aru," he assured. "Don't worry, I'll tell Feli—I mean, Mr. Veneziano, that you'll miss his lesson. I won't go into details, though, aru."

Thanking him again, I took my bag from his desk, checked the contents, and found everything where it should be, and made my way to the door.

"Hǔpò," Dr. Yao said.

I turned around.

"Ye—?"

My Science teacher hugged me without a word. He squeezed me warmly, a real friendly panda-hug. After a few moments, he pulled away, smiling.

"I thought you needed that, aru. Now, off you go!" he said, mock-shooing me away with his freakishly long sleeves.

I grinned, thanked him again, and walked out down the corridor and made my way to the P.E bloc.

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Apparently the omnipresent forces that had abandoned me earlier had reconsidered their harsh treatment, because I was saved the embarrassment of meeting anyone in the showers. I quickly washed, changed, and was out in minutes. Phew. Maybe this day was not so—

"Heeeeey!"

Oh for GOD'S—!

"What'cha doin' there?" a chipper, annoyingly loud American voice drawled. Mr. Jones, my P.E teacher, jogged up beside me in his tracksuit gear and trainers (or sneakers, if you're American).

"Going to my next class, sir. I had to take a shower," I said, walking a little faster. Inside, I panicked. Please don't probe, please don't probe, please don't—

"Oh? How come?" the insatiably curious American asked, innocent confusion all over his face.

"Long story," I sighed. God, Mr. Jones just had a knack of shoving his nose into people's businesses, whether they wanted him in it or not.

"I have time!" the young man laughed, as if he hadn't even registered the warning signals in my voice and my look.

"Sir, I really don't—"

"Aw, c'mon, you can tell me!" he cut in cheerfully. "I won't tell anyone!"

I shot him a look.

"Oh, like you said you weren't going to tell people I was having that time of the month when you saw me in the nurses' office last year!" I hissed savagely. "But, would you believe it, the moment I left the place I had people sniggering, asking how damn heavy I was, and chucking ketchup packets at me at lunchtime! 'Oooh, you're not very careful, are you, Amber?'I had to put up with that for a week!"

All my rage was pouring out like a burst dam, and I couldn't stop it now.

Mr. Jones stared at me through his rectangular glasses, blue eyes wide.

"W-well, gosh, I..." he mumbled. "I didn't know..."

"No, you never know anything!" I spat. "You're always too busy stuffing your stupid face with burgers and fries to notice anything, let alone me! Why don't you go to the kitchen and see if they have any and stay the hell away from me, alright?"

Before he could respond, I rushed away through playground and towards the main gate.

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Lunchtime: (13.20pm)

I quickly ate in the canteen, but just long enough to hear Chef Romano screaming and shouting at his assistants with such venom and profanity he'd put Gordon Ramsey to shame: "YOU CALL DIS PASTA? FUCK, MY DOG WOULD NOT PISS ON THIS ABOMINATION! THROW IT IN THE TRASH WHERE IT BELONGS OR I WILL KICK YOUR ASS TO CHINA!"

Woe betide the people who had school dinners, and would be served by an angry Italian shouting: "WHAT, YOU HAVE NO MONEY? WHAT AM I, A FUCKING CHARITY? NO MONEY, NO PASTA, THAT'S MY MOTTO! GET OUT, YOU'RE DISGUSTING! NEXT!" Seconds later Mr. Beilschmidt, who had been put on canteen duty, stormed in and yelled: "SHUT UP YOU CRAZY TOMATO FREAK, HOW DARE YOU SPEAK SUCH WORDS IN FRONT OF THE CHILDREN!"

"OH, YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THAT, POTATO BASTARD?" came the bellowing reply from the kitchen. "COME IN HERE AND WE'LL SORT THIS SHIT OUT LIKE MEN-WITH APRONS AND BAGUETTES!"

"MAYBE I VILL!"

"COME ON THEN!"

"I'M COMING, HOLD YOUR HORSES!"

I ran out and buried myself away in the library before I could witness the "fight".

Apparently it was carnage...

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(In the Library...)

I noticed Mr. Kirkland, our school librarian as well as an English teacher, frowning thoughtfully at me from the corner of his eye as he sat reading a Dickens novel behind the counter, but didn't speak to or approach me.

Weird.
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Fifth Lesson: R.E –Religious Education- (14:20pm)

Oooh, now this was more like it! Good old effeminate Mr. Feliks (called thus since no one could pronounce his last name) to brighten my day.

God knows how the young blond Pole became an R.E teacher in the first place. Sure, he was Catholic, like our school was (essentially), but his camp manner flew in the face of a certain topic the Church threw hissy fits about: that being sexuality. There was a poll going amongst our year for how long it would take until Mr. Feliks finally came out of the closet. So far, a lot of people had lost their lunch money.

"Like, hi guys!" Mr. Feliks sing-songed as he literally skipped into our classroom, twirling and them striking a wide, heroic pose at the front of the class, pointing dramatically in the air like someone who'd just spotted Chuck Norris in the sky. "Let's do RELIGION!"

I think I might have peed a little from laughing so much. Thankfully, everyone else seemed to be in the same state.

When we'd calmed down, Mr. Feliks announced himself.

"So, guys, great to be back and swinging sexy as always! Hope ya had a nice holiday—mine was shit, by the way. Stupid Liet and stupid economic crisis or whatever it's called...didn't let me go to Ibiza...stayed home watching chick flics..." He trailed off, muttering to himself. Noticing we were right there staring at him, Mr. Feliks cleared his throat and began the lesson.

"Right, guys and gals, here's the deal. We're gonna be learnin' 'bout good ol' Jesus Christ and the Passion...Yeah. That stuff. Y'know, how he kinda died and went up to Heaven and royally screwed over everyone's asses like "TAKE THAT! NO ONE KILLS JESUS CHRIST! Oh, and by the way, just for being assholes to me, your Empire's gonna go bye-bye in a couple'undered years. Toodles!"

We just couldn't control ourselves. Ah, why have comedy shows when you can just sit in Mr. Feliks' class and get it free of electricity charge?

"So yeah, Jesus is kinda like an internet troll. He says stuff, and people get rid of him, and then he turns up like 'LOL, I SAID BRB, YA LOSERS!' and POOF, he's back again!'

Some people were on the floor at this point. I couldn't blame them, to be honest. I was near joining them.

Mr. Feliks was laughing himself now.

"I don't know about you guys, but I'm like, totally gonna enjoy teaching ya this!"

Oh, Mr Feliks. You might be selfish, narcissistic, effeminate nut...But we love you.

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End of Day (3:00 pm)

Ahh. This was what school was about. A bit of drama, angst, crazy teachers, gay teachers, and a whole dollop of insanity thrown in. Thank God Mr. Feliks had been there to completely change my bad mood around. He didn't know it, but he was a Godsend that Monday afternoon.

All in all, it was a pretty good first day of the school year. I still had my issues to sort out, but I had plenty of time to do that in.

Right now I had time to kill and a few books to read on the bus home.

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