We've had all our classes at least once, except for science and history. It's unclear when, or even if, we'll have a science class this year. There is a persistent rumor going through the hallways that our science teacher, Mr. Kwant never showed up at the start of this school year, and nobody seems to know why.
"Force majeure?" stammered Perkins nervously when we asked him about it. "A study trip, maybe? Or or… a sabbatical?" His embarrassment was palpable and understandable. An error in the otherwise flawless school schedule of this over-organized, dictatorially led school must be considered a disgrace of epic proportions, and although I couldn't care less about the well-being of a teacher, I do worry that this 'glitch' will eventually result in an enormous amount of overdue homework at the end of the year.
"Show off," sneers Gnat when I tell him this in a rare moment of confidentiality. "I just keep praying to all the gods of laziness and mischief that this Kwant person stays away forever."
I'm actually looking forward to my first history lesson. I love history. When I was young, I listened with rosy cheeks to Gran's childhood stories from World War II. Of course, I learned only much later that they were the sanitized versions—the versions without the suffering, hunger, death, and grief. But even knowing all that now, World War II still has a patina of excitement and adventure. And yes, I know how politically incorrect that sounds.
When I enter the classroom, however, I stop in my tracks, not because of Slug, who is already smiling from his usual spot in the dead center of the room, but because of the classroom itself. It’s not only because all the windows have been taped light-tight, making the room even darker and eerier than the rest of the school, but because of what is displayed on the walls.
On the left hang paintings depicting rather horrific victory scenes from different periods in history. A Neanderthal impales a Homo Sapiens on a wooden spear. An Egyptian prince exposes a slave’s intestines with an enormous shekel. A medieval knight raises the decapitated head of an Islamic warlord during one of the Crusades. A fat and bored-looking pope watches a woman burn at the stake.
On the right wall, there are only posters, all from the same historical period: World War II. Hardcore propaganda posters for the Third Reich, dominated by red and black, swastikas, fair-skinned, blond-haired, angular-jawed young men and women, looking heroically towards the horizon, anticipating a victorious future. They romanticize the era completely different from how Gran did.
The back wall displays only one oversized movie poster from the late 1970s, showing four men and two women dressed in skin-tight silver spacesuits, looking out over the red plains of a planet still to be conquered, radiating huge amounts of confidence and superiority.
Maybe this is all meant to be instructive—educational tools to teach us a valuable lesson about arrogance and misguided feelings of superiority in history—but somehow, I find it hard to believe. Even Gnat, today dressed in impeccable white linen trousers and shiny black loafers, can’t completely hide his surprise behind his I-don’t-give-a-shit facade. A little contemptuous smirk communicates perfectly what he thinks.
And he’s right. The moment our teacher closes the door with a resolute click, it is abundantly clear that he doesn’t criticize Nazi Germany at all. Everything about him radiates the order, discipline, arrogance, and superiority that defined the Third Reich and that I hate so thoroughly.
His name is Scroptz, and everything about him is spotless, disciplined, and very wrong. He wears a brown woolen suit and a black shirt, which is bound together with an equally black tie. What’s left of his hair is carefully combed over the top of his head, and despite his round and plump physique, he marches like a soldier on parade in a perfectly straight line towards his desk. Gnat releases a long hiss, whispering under his breath, “A case of being wrong after the war.” Despite myself, I have to laugh.
“Books out!” Scroptz commands, turning sharply on his heels to face the class. “One book! No phones, no iPads, smartwatches, or other smart electronic nonsense! One book and one pen! On the count of three!”
Right away, a finger shoots up, belonging to one of the many ponytailed girls in our class who only ask questions to demonstrate how smart they are. “Sir, do you mean The Contemporary History of Modern Warfare in the Middle of the 20th Century: Facts and Misunderstandings about Winning and Losing?”
His eyes slither towards her, like a snake cornering a mouse. “Miss Constantine, are you under the impression that I’m here to answer redundant questions? Please tell me, what other books did you find on the list you received at the start of this year? Or did you maybe receive an extended list because you are so much smarter than all the rest?”
“But... I mean... I...”
“I perfectly understand what you mean, Miss Constantine. A thousand lines for you: ‘I will not waste my teacher’s valuable time with questions that I already know the answer to.’ On my desk tomorrow morning.” He turns to all of us. “Some teachers think that writing lines as punishment is old-fashioned and obsolete. I, on the other hand, think they are most effective.” The class is dead silent, and Scroptz has no difficulty in maintaining that silence painfully long until it gets broken by a knock on the door. Scroptz, visibly irritated by the unsolicited intervention, answers with a curt, “Yes.” In the doorway, the crooked silhouette of Williams appears, accompanied by a much smaller figure that I have difficulty seeing clearly. Somehow, my eyes seem to slide off him or her. Only when I strain do I recognize that it’s a girl. A dark girl... I mean… someone from Africa... eh... I’m not sure what the current politically correct term is.
“What is that, Williams?” Scroptz's voice is saturated with contempt, though it's not entirely clear if this is directed at Williams or the girl. Probably both.
“Yes, Mister Scroptz,” Williams replies. “Late delivery, so to speak. This sweet girl has been dropped off from the Asylum Seeker Centre downtown. She has been designated to this class. I trust you know about it?” He sounds friendly and polite, but a hardly discernible smile playing around his lips makes me think he knows full well that’s not the case. It’s also completely clear that he’s not at all as impressed with Scroptz as Scroptz thinks he should be.
“And what if I don’t, Williams? What if that memo mysteriously got lost on the way to my desk, like so many this year?”
“I would be really sorry if that were the case, sir.” And then they lock into the strangest stare-down I have ever witnessed: the bright and friendly janitor against the disgruntled history teacher. Scroptz is the first to look away, immediately thinking of something to distract from his defeat.
“Monteque. Two hundred lines. ‘I shall never disrespect a teacher or openly make fun of him, especially when I have just started at a new school, and even more so because I am an arrogant, unbearable rich little brat.’ Tomorrow on my desk before school starts.” Gnat makes—ominously enough—no sound. This means only one thing: war.
“Thank you, Williams. You can leave that here.”
“Of course, sir, and a very fine day to you.” Softly, the door closes.
“You! Sit!” barks Scroptz to the girl, as if he’s commanding a dog. Reflexively, I shoot up and open my mouth to protest, but before I can utter a word, Scroptz cuts me short with a razor-sharp voice. “One word, Kwintens, just one word, and you’re done at this school.” With the utmost difficulty, I manage to keep my mouth shut. “Don’t stand out, blend in, keep your head down,” I mumble to myself.
Even now, the girl has found a place closer to me, next to Christine, whose ponytail still looks rather upset. It’s still difficult to focus on her and distinguish her from her surroundings. She obviously has a much greater talent for staying unnoticed than I do. Next to me, Gnat rubs his eyes. “There’s something wrong with my eyes, Firehead,” he hisses. “She’s some kind of shadow.”
After the explosive start, the rest of the lesson is remarkably uneventful. Triumphant monologues about heroic battles and superior occupations turn out to be as boring as Mister Perkins’ endless recitations of Old English poems and when, finally, the lesson is over, all the students quickly spread out into little groups.
Stepping into the corridor, Gnat is, to my surprise, nowhere to be seen, Slug sits on the floor studying something that nobody else notices and when I turn my head, I catch the new girl leaving the classroom, cautiously looking around, unsure where to go next. It must be difficult for her on the first day at school, especially when it starts like this.
In a sudden impulse of empathy, I decide that I want to help her. I’m not even sure why—maybe because it’s the right thing to do, and it’s what Gran would have done. But when I turn back again, she’s already disappeared.