by Ilia Bera
She sat down carefully at a desk and took off the fluffy scarf from her neck, and she removed her clean jacket, revealing a low-cut, sweater, which was tight and translucent enough to highlight her red push-up bra and her perky breasts. On her legs, she wore tight black pleather pants. She glanced around the room casually with an innocent, yet guarded smile on her face.
At first glance, you would have thought the fashionista was no older than fifteen or sixteen years of age. You would be surprised to know that she was weeks away from turning twenty.
Upon first glance, the young girl elicited one of two reactions: From most other women–the classic disapproving eye roll. From most other men–horny gawking. As cruel as it may sound, the young student appeared “easy” and “ready to put out”.
“Hi,” the young man said to the dark-skinned girl with a genuine smile upon his face.
“Hi,” the girl replied.
The man stood up from his chair and reached across the empty desk between himself and the girl. “Andrew,” he said, introducing himself.
The girl gently took his hand. “Brittany.”
“Nice to meet you, Brittany,” Andrew said.
Brittany smiled genuinely.
One would expect a girl like Brittany to be dismissive, or even “bitchy”. But she was far from either–she was surprisingly polite and refreshingly pleasant.
“Excited for English?” Brittany asked.
Andrew laughed. “So excited,” he replied sarcastically.
Click!
The room’s sole door opened and an older, rounder man walked into the room. He was wearing a black sport coat, and a pair of blue jeans. He had a few days worth of stubble over his aged plump cheeks. His chubby cheeks hung low, almost like jowls, giving him an almost bulldog-like appearance.
He slouched as he walked up to the front of the class and started to meticulously unload a series of binders from his bag. He placed each document down with precision, making sure each one was perfectly aligned vertically and horizontally with the dimensions of the desk–and each one was spaced out evenly.
There was no question that this man was going to be the class’ teacher. He didn’t look up at any of us while he carefully prepared his night class. As far as he was concerned, none of us existed until the clock struck eight, and we would cease to exist once the clock struck ten-thirty.
Once his binders were perfectly aligned, he removed his cheap sport coat and carefully placed it on the back of his seat. He made sure that each arm hung in proportion with the other, and that the collar was nicely straightened to avoid wrinkles.
The man removed a whiteboard marker from his bag and turned to the large blank board. He brought the marker up to the board, then stopped as he noticed a small smudge. The teacher scanned the whiteboard’s pen tray, and then groaned loudly as there was no board eraser.
Sighing, the chubby teacher used the sleeve of his shirt to remove the practically unnoticeable smudge from the whiteboard.
Then, the man began to write his name upon the board:
“Mr. Wade Fenner”
Mr. Fenner took a seat at his desk and continued to straighten his binders and papers as he waited for the rest of the students to arrive.
Andrew looked over at Brittany, who was staring out the window, watching the heavy snow cascade down from the dark small town sky.
Her mind was mulling over all of the events that brought her to that small, night time classroom.
“That snow sure is something,” Andrew said, pulling Brittany’s attention away from the window.
Brittany smiled. “Hopefully it lets up soon.”
“Hopefully. This morning, they said it’s only going to get worse.”
“How can it get worse than this?” Brittany asked as she looked back out the window.
It seemed impossible that her circumstances could get any worse.
Five years ago, had you told Brittany that she would be taking night classes to finish her high school degree, she would have died of laughter. She was supposed to be in an Ivy League University. She was supposed to be buried in scholarships.
She still hadn’t fully come to terms with how far she’d fallen away from the life that she once had.
Despite what her audacious and even trampy appearance suggested, Brittany wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t upgrading her English because she failed.
She was upgrading because she never took twelfth grade English to begin with.
And neither did Andrew.
Andrew missed out on most of high school.
He had the unique opportunity when he was a young teenager to go and travel the world with his family.
Andrew’s father, a wealthy real estate investor and a hobbyist sailing instructor, decided to retire when Andrew entered into his first year of high school.
Andrew’s mother, a successful immigration lawyer, retired at the same time as her husband. Andrew’s parents were very liberal, and were not only okay with the idea of Andrew tagging along on their world-travelling retirement expedition—they insisted that Andrew come along.
Four years later, Andrew had been to every single continent, and he’d sailed every single ocean.
He’d been everywhere—From Mongolia to Australia, and Egypt to Argentina. He’d seen the monolithic glaciers in The Antarctic, and the frozen tundra of The Arctic. Andrew could speak phrases in countless different languages.
At nineteen years of age—Andrew had seen more of the Earth than most people would see in an entire lifetime.
The epic memories never faded. Instead, they remained at the forefront of Andrew’s mind. Everything reminded him of something more exciting–more exotic.
Every cheesy motivational poster on the walls of that little classroom were reminders of just how dull life was, stuck in the same old, cold little town.
Click!
The door to the class opened again, and another young girl entered.
The girl’s skin was pale, and her hair was dark, and wavy. Her messy bangs fell over the tops of her dark brown eyes. She wore a big warm coat over top of a thick, oversized sweater. The girl had a cute face with a small ski-jump nose and soft, round features. She shyly sat down in the back corner of the classroom and pushed her dark hair off of her face.
The girl made no eye contact with anyone in the room—not even for a moment.
Brittany looked back at the girl and instantly recognized her. Brittany rolled her eyes as she looked back towards the front of the class—the two girls had history.
Andrew characteristically smiled and nodded at the shy girl.
“Hey,” Andrew said.
“Hi,” the girl replied sheepishly.
There was more than just social anxiety behind the mysterious girl’s silent demeanour. She carried an aura of complexity around with her—A life that couldn’t easily be described in a single sitting.
The girl pulled a binder out from her bag and placed it on the table. Written on the spine of the binder was, “Hanna Wilkinson – English 12”.
Mr. Fenner looked up at the clock. There was only one minute before class began.
He pulled an attendance list out from his bag and looked over it. He silently groaned, as it was just the first class and there were already latecomers.
He looked back up at the clock, waiting for the exact second to start his first lecture.
TWO
Kane Patrick
Wade had been through this many times before. His jaded demeanour was accentuated by a number of ticks and bored mannerisms. Every one of his loud sighs was a long deep groan. Each time he looked down at the day’s course work, he would hold his eyes shut for a moment—internally motivating himself to power through it.
While he waited anxiously for the class to get underway, he would rub his thumb against his pointer finger in small circles, and he would tap his foot perfectly in rhythm with the tick of the clock. If you listened closely you could even hear his teeth chatter along with the clock’s prec
ise metronome.
The room’s stagnant silence was only ever disturbed by the occasional gust of icy wind blowing thick snowflakes against the school window.
“We may as well get started,” Wade said, breaking the
silence. He looked down at his attendance list.
“Andrew Walker,” Wade read aloud.
“That’s me,” Andrew said with a handsome smile on his tired face.
“Kane Patrick.”
The room was silent.
“Kane–Kane Patrick?” Wade read again.
There was still no answer.
“Okay, moving along—Hanna Wilkinson.”
“Here,” Hanna said in a coy silence.
“Okay, good... How’s about Brittany Bru—Bru–Bruch—ev…” Wade tried to read.
“Brucheveskyj,” Brittany said, pronouncing her difficult name. “Brew-Chev-Es-Ski.”
“Brucheveskyj,” Wade said slowly. “Russian?”
“Polish,” Brittany corrected.
“Right,” Wade said. He looked back down at his list. “Connor Knight,” he read.
Again, there was no response, eliciting one of Mr. Fenner’s characteristic deep groaning sighs.
“Okay, and then...” Wade said, looking down. “Oh, that’s it,” Wade said as he realized he had already reached the end of his tiny attendance list. “I guess we’re done with that. I’ll introduce myself,” Wade said as he pushed back his chair and stretched his back out.
As Wade slowly stood up from his desk and opened his mouth to speak, the door opened. Another man walked in from the cold.
The new man wore a long black pea coat, and his hair was dark and long—down to his shoulders. He made no eye contact with anyone as he entered, and he carried no bag with him. The man carried a shroud of mystery with him.
He sat down in the back of the room, as far away as he possibly could from any other form of life. As the man pushed his dark messy hair off of his face, he finally scanned the quiet room. Andrew smiled and nodded at him.
“You’re late,” Mr. Fenner said to the man.
The man looked down at his surprisingly nice wristwatch with a puzzled look on his face. “I’m right on time,” the mysterious man replied. “It’s exactly eight.” His deep voice had a flare of hoarseness to it.
“It’s almost a minute after eight. If you aren’t five minutes early, then you’re late.”
“The program said to be here at eight...”
“I expect everyone to be five minutes early for class,” Wade said, dismissing the program.
“Then what’s the point of setting the start time at eight? Just set the start time for seven fifty-five.”
The man appeared to be a few years older than the rest of his classmates—although that wasn’t the case. Unfortunately, life’s mysterious circumstances had taken their toll on the man’s appearance. The skin on his face appeared weathered, despite the man only being twenty years old. Under his eyes were dark circles, and he was already starting to develop crow’s feet. His early-blooming dark facial hair didn’t help his aged appearance either—despite being neatly styled into a goatee.
Wade released another deep groan. “For you, perhaps I will do just that.” Wade forced a jaded smile at the late student. “What’s your name?” Wade asked in a monotonous, unenthusiastic voice.
“Kane,” the mysterious boy said.
“Kane—Kane Patrick,” Wade said as he marked Kane as late on his attendance. He looked up at the class as he mumbled something incoherent to himself.
“There are a lot of great, respectable people who are bad at math, and great, respectable people who are bad at science. Hell, there are even great people who are terrible with English—and that’s okay. But there are no great, respectable people who are unprofessional—remember that. Being chronically late for class is worse than failing the final exam as far as I’m concerned. Employers will still hire you if you have your academic shortcomings—most people do. Employers will not hire you if you are unprofessional.”
Brittany watched Wade’s lips move as he talked. Instead of hearing his cheesy, overly-prepared speech, she heard, “I hope you like community college, because that’s where you’re headed.”
“Do you think that the guys in the NHL all made it there because of their talent? No. Those guys made it because they act like professionals. They were the guys who made it out to practice every day. They were the guys who played the whole sixty minutes, night in and night out.
“Sure, you’ve got your Crosbys and your Ovechkins, but that’s just a few guys among thousands.” Wade looked directly at Kane and waited for Kane to respond.
“Who?” Kane asked.
“Crosby? Sidney Crosby? Alexander Ovechkin?” Wade asked.
“Never heard of ‘em,” Kane said. Kane wasn’t being sarcastic or facetious. He legitimately didn’t know anything about hockey.
Wade took a deep breath in and then groaned loudly. Brittany quietly giggled at the teacher’s floundering.
“Just don’t be late, or you won’t pass,” Wade said firmly.
As if on cue, the door opened and the final student walked in to the room.
He was tall and fit, with neat short hair and a chiselled, athletic jawline. He was your classic high school stud. He scanned the small room for an ideal place to sit–a sea of empty desks.
“Please have a seat,” Mr. Fenner said impatiently.
Connor hesitated a moment.
“Right there is fine,” Wade said, quickly losing the final ounce of patience he still had in his body.
The strapping young man took the nearest seat, which happened to be right next to Brittany.
“Your name?” Wade asked.
“Connor Knight.”
“Don’t be late for my class again.”
“I’m sorry—It won’t happen again. I borrowed my friend’s truck, but it got stuck in the snow…”
“I don’t care–don’t do it again, please,” Wade said, cutting Connor off.
Wade straightened his back—finally able to begin his class. He cleared his throat with a series of deep coughs, and he rolled his head in small circle, getting the cricks out of his stiff, chubby neck.
Brittany silently chuckled again at the eccentric teacher and his bizarre mannerisms.
“I’m used to bigger classes,” Wade said. “This is supposed to be a twenty-student class. I’m sure you can all guess why this particular group is so small—and I bet you are all wondering why, despite recent events, I’m still teaching the class.”
Wade looked around the class, immediately noticing that Kane wasn’t paying attention. Instead, he was looking around the room, scanning his fellow student’s faces.
“Mr. Patrick,” Wade said.
Kane looked at Wade. “Yeah?”
“Do I have your attention?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to know why I’m teaching this class?”
“Why?” Kane asked.
“Partly because I have a screaming newborn and a hormonal teenaged daughter at home. But mostly, it’s because—believe it or not—I care about your educations.
“Now—This class is going to be a different experience than what you’re used to. First off—it’s a high school course, but this isn’t a high school, as I’m sure you all noticed. We’re in an SBU classroom. Unlike high school, you’re actually paying to be here. This is a course that you, or your parents, have paid for because there is actually something you want to do that requires this class. The Education Board has nothing to do with this class—which means I’m free to run the show however I want. I will personally input your final grade into the database, which gets sent to the provincial education system. What does that mean for you? It means, don’t be a shithead.
“Also, because I am certified to run this class however I’d like, I get to give you whatever grade that I’d like. I have the power to look the other way on your tests and your assignments if I so choose. Unlike your h
igh school teachers, I have the right to remove you from the class for any reason I want. I can say ‘shit’ all I want. I can even say ‘Jesus was a transgendered pedophile’ if I really want to, and I don’t have to worry about losing my job. No, I’m not above the law, and I can’t slap your faces, no matter how badly I want to, but I also don’t have the Education Board breathing down my neck. So let me say this now, with as much emphasis as I can: If you show me your respect, you will succeed.”
THREE
Connor Knight
“Before I start, I want you all to write down this number on the white board here,” Wade said, pointing to a poorly written phone number. “No, it isn’t my number. It’s the number for the University’s new Safe Walk program. I, the university, and the police strongly discourage anyone here walking home alone—no matter how ‘cool’ or ‘manly’ you think you are,” Wade said, looking right at Kane. “Two university volunteers will come right to the class and walk you home.
“I’ve also been asked to make sure you all know why this is so important–But I feel like everyone here already knows, so I won’t bother.”
“I thought the victims were all teachers,” Andrew said.
“Professors—not teachers. And no, two of them were TA’s.”
“What’s the difference?” Brittany asked.
“TA’s are students trying to get extra credits towards their masters degree. Professors are hired—But that’s irrelevant. Just call the damn number before you go home so that I don’t have to deal with having to give police statements. And so I don’t have to feel guilty because you thought you were too ‘cool’ to get walked home.”
Wade looked around the class at his students—none of whom were writing down the number.
“At least pretend to take the number down—Jesus,” Wade said.
Everyone pulled out their phones to store the Safe Walk phone number.
“Moving on… I can finally introduce myself. My name is Mr. Fenner. I will be your professor. I’ve been teaching University English for fifteen years. I’ve been teaching night classes like this one for five years.