Chapter Three

When we entered the room, the new teacher was nowhere in sight, just a briefcase sitting in the teacher’s chair. I thought it was a good sign that the teacher was late. Maybe it meant he was a relaxed, laid-back kind of guy; the kind who would joke around with the students and be forgiving when they were late. This was not to be the case.

The teacher came in the door just as the bell rang. He was a big man. His shoulder-length hair covered his face as he walked with his head down. He carried a handful of books under his arm. His pale purple tweed jacket with pink elbow patches meant he was either totally out of touch or a little eccentric. I needed to see more before I could make a determination.

He turned to face the class, revealing a gray beard that masked his face and made it obvious that his hair was colored. The orange hair color that he’d chosen to help him hang onto his youth matched his bow tie. A bow tie!

“Crap,” I said under my breath. “That’s not good.”

He glanced my way.

Fortunately, after years of practice, I’d mastered a speech level that most teachers couldn’t distinguish, with any certainty, from the voices in their heads.

Mac Webble helped in my cover-up. Mac was a little guy to begin with, but he had been truly dwarfed by the teacher when he’d followed him in. Mac was trying to find a seat when the teacher noticed him.

The new teacher slammed his books onto the table.

“Boy standing!” he yelled.

Mac spotted a chair on the far side.

“Boy standing,” the teacher repeated, picking up his books and slamming them down again.

Mac, realizing that he was the only one standing, looked around to be sure, then looked to the teacher and pointed to himself just to be absolutely certain, hoping to be wrong—a wish rarely made when called upon by a teacher.

“Yes, you,” the teacher said slowly, as if he thought Mac was having difficulty with the language. “Why are you late?”

“Late?”

“Yes, that’s what you call it when someone doesn’t arrive on time. I see I’ve got my work cut out for me if you’re any representation of the class’s abilities.”

“I followed you in.”

“And I was right on time, which would make you...?”

“Late?” asked Mac.

“Very good,” said the teacher. “Since we have made some progress today, I will let you take a seat and only put you on probation. If you’re late again, you’ll be going to the office. Now sit.”

Mac stood for less than a second in fear and confusion.

“Now!” the teacher yelled.

This sent Mac stumbling over one desk before falling into another. He finally took his seat while rubbing his shin.

“Well, class,” the teacher said, turning his back to us. He picked up a piece of chalk. “My name is...” and he sounded it out as he wrote on the board in big block letters.

“MR. S...F...I...”

He put extra emphasis on the I, making sure we understood that it was pronounced I, as in I hate my name. I will unleash a great wrath on any who mispronounce it. I still have nightmares over the locker it got me thrown into and the beatings I took. And then he quickly finished. “...NKTER.”

As he finished writing Mr. Sfinkter on the board, a collective snort went up as the class tried to hold back a giggle.

Mr. Sfinkter spun around, opening his mouth. There was a knock on the door.

The anger disappeared immediately and a wide smile crossed his face as he walked over to answer the door.

“Ms. Surette,” he said, pouring on the false charm. “What a lovely surprise.”

At the sound of her name, Chill looked up from his drawing. He had not heard or noticed anything that had gone on in the class to this point.

“And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Mr. Sfinkter asked.

“Chill forgot his bag,” she said, holding up a knapsack.

“Chill?” he said and looked to the class.

“Chill?” he repeated with cheerful authority.

Chill raised his hand, identifying himself.

“Come and get your things.”

Chill moved to get up.

“That’s okay. I’ll bring it to him,” Ms. Surette said.

“As you wish,” Mr. Sfinkter said, making a wide sweeping “come in” motion with his arm.

Ms. Surette smiled at his gentlemanly behavior.

Chill rose to take the bag from her.

“Thank you, Ms. Surette,” Chill said.

“Let’s try and not make a habit of it this semester, okay?” she said with a smile.

“I’ll try,” Chill said.

“That’s all I can ask,” she said and exited, thanking Mr. Sfinkter as he bowed to her and closed the door.

He made his way back to his desk, where he opened up his class list and ran his finger down it until finding Chill’s name.

“Mr. Holinground, is it?”

“Yes,” Chill replied.

“Should I expect you to be the cause of many interruptions?”

“No,” Chill said.

“Good,” he said. “And if you leave your bag in here, you may find yourself rummaging through the garbage bin to get it. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Mr....” and then Chill looked to the board, “Sfinkter.”

Chill didn’t pronounce the I as in I warned you, but the I as in if you show me respect, you’ll get it in return.

“Sf Inkter!” the teacher yelled. “Or sir to you and everyone else for that matter! Since you all seem to have problems with the language, we’ll use the small words!”

He was turning red, a red that, with his outfit, made him look like a demented clown. But after the narrow escape last time, no one snorted or giggled.

“Yes, sir,” Chill quickly said, calming Mr. Sfinkter ever so slightly.

“For the rest of this class, I want all of you to write me a page on what you expect to do with your lives. That way, I can assess your English skills as well as your grip on reality. Now get to it!”

Chill took his binder out of his bag and went right to work with the teacher staring at him. As soon as he looked away, I saw a little smile cross Chill’s face. I knew that this was only the beginning.