Repeating History - The Eye of Ra

by Dakota Chase

  If he were any more full of himself, he’d be inside out.

  I shrugged mentally. He’s just one more snobby teacher convinced of his own importance, I thought. I can handle him. Piece of cake.

  I realized I was wrong about him when he narrowed his eyes at me, leaned over the desk (as much as his hugely rounded stomach would allow, anyway, which wasn’t all that far), and hissed, “That’s what I tell your parents, and what I tell the newspapers, and the teachers, and the mayor. This is what I tell my students privately: you get one shot, Walsh. I get five thousand bucks from the state per head to take troubled kids in. That money is the school’s to keep regardless of whether you make it in here or not. Personally, I’d be just as happy to kick your butt out after the first day, and get another five grand for taking in the next punk. So go ahead and do me a favor... screw up. It’ll just free up your bed for the next loser.”

  He sat back, glaring at me, daring me to say anything. For once, I was smart and kept my mouth shut.

  He wasn’t in love with himself. Well, he was, but he was also in love with making money, and he’d found his cash cow in the juvenile justice system. I wondered if it might not have been better for me to go to Juvie instead of the Stanton School for Boys. I had the feeling my stay here was not going to be as easy as I’d thought.

  One thick finger stabbed the intercom button on his telephone console. “Mrs. Robeson? Kindly give our new boy, Mr. Walsh, his schedule and dorm room assignment, will you? Have one of the other students show him around campus before his first class.”

  Mrs. Robeson’s squeaky voice answered. “Of course, Mr. Meek.”

  He sat back in his chair and shuffled a few papers, never looking in my direction again. “Well? What are you waiting for, Walsh, an engraved invitation? Get going.”

  I jumped up from the chair and launched myself out of the door before he could finish his sentence. I was many things, but an idiot wasn’t one of them.

  Okay, maybe I was an idiot at times, most times in fact, but not then.

  I took his hint and got gone, practically sprinting back to the outer office.

  Mrs. Robeson was middle-aged and paper-thin, giving the impression that she had a front and back, but no sides. I got the feeling that if she should turn sideways, she might disappear altogether. Her eyes were sharp, and they scanned me head to foot. She sniffed, obviously displeased with what she saw, then slid a piece of paper toward me. “This is your class schedule. Memorize it. Copy it. Tattoo it to your forehead. Do whatever you need to do to make sure you know where and when your classes are. Do not come to me to ask for a second copy, because you won’t get one. I have better things to do with my time than print out copies of schedules all day long.”

  Somehow, I seriously doubted she had anything better to do, but again, showing tremendous restraint and remarkable good sense, I kept my mouth shut.

  She made a phone call and asked someone named Mr. Hoovers to send someone named Mr. Peters down to the office, then looked at me. “Mr. Peters will be here directly to show you to your dorm room.” She glanced at my schedule. “You have history with Mr. Ambrosius at one-fifteen in Room 110. Don’t be late.” With one last disdainful sniff, she turned her back on me.

  I resisted the urge to wad up the schedule and ping it off the back of her head. Two points! The crowd goes wild! I thought, laughing on the inside.

  What a witch. She seemed to be nothing but a slender, feminine version of the principal. Meek-Lite, I thought.

  Well, I was two-for-oh. I’d met two people at my new school so far, and detested both on sight.

  “Mr. Peters” turned out to be a tall, skinny boy my own age, with bad skin and a shock of hair so orangey-red it made him look like a lit match. He also didn’t look happy to be appointed as Chief Tour Guide for New Guys at the Stanton School for Boys. His lip curled when he looked at me. “Come on,” he said, “I don’t have all day.”

  I followed the Human Torch out of the office, down a long corridor, and outside. We crossed a perfect square of neatly cut, emerald green grass. There were six buildings clustered around the Green, and all of them looked almost exactly alike. They were each three stories tall, with red brick walls and gray-tiled roofs.

  My dorm room, 337A, was a tiny square painted stark white, with dark gray carpeting, and reminded me more of a cell than a bedroom. It was filled with two beds minus headboards, two four-drawer dressers, and two writing desks. The communal bathroom was located out in the hall. I half-expected to see bars on the single, narrow window, but all that covered it was a tan, roll-down shade.

  My new roommate was nowhere in sight, although his suitcases were lined up neatly by one of the beds. They all matched, looked brand new, and were monogrammed neatly in gold.

  G.R.W.V.

  Those initials rang a bell, and I suddenly knew who owned the luggage.

  Grant Reginald William Vaughn.

  Mr. Four-Name-Blue-Suit-Private-Attorney from court was my new roommate. Well, I thought. Lucky, lucky me.

  “You’ve got five minutes to make it to Mr. Ambrosius’ World History class. It’s in that building,” Peters said, interrupting my train of thought. He was standing at the window, pulling the shade to the side and pointing a long, skinny finger across the Green at one of the other buildings. His lip curled in a sneer. “You’d better get the lead out or you’ll be late, and Ambrosius hates students who are tardy.”

  My running total of people met and disliked on sight went up to three. So far, my day was shaping up to be a shut-out.

  I was only slightly out of breath by the time I ran outside and across the Green to the building on the far side. I flung open the door and dashed down the hall, skidding to a stop in front of Room 110. Gathering my courage and pasting on my game face—my patented, slightly sour, slightly bored, slightly don’t-want-to-be-here-but-they’re-making-me face—I stepped inside.

  “And you are...?” The voice was strong and sure, and at odds with the old man to whom it belonged. His skin was so thin it appeared transparent, dotted with brown spots and creased with age. A shock of white hair covered his scalp like a snowfall that matched his full beard, but he had clear, brilliant blue eyes, and his intense gaze pinned me in place. I couldn’t have moved had I wanted to. His glare was so sharp I was sure it was drawing blood wherever it touched my skin.

  “Uh...”

  “Heavens, that’s quite an unusual name. Your parents must’ve disliked you on sight. Class, please welcome Mr. Uh. Well, Uh, I suggest you take a seat. Back there, next to Mr. Vaughn.”

  I frowned as Ambrosius unconsciously threw my own thoughts back at me. Hadn’t I thought the same thing about Meek, Robeson, and Peters? That I disliked them on sight? Weird, I thought, as I made my way to the back of the classroom and took a seat next to a vaguely familiar, dark-haired boy. It was Vaughn, he of the four names, suit, lawyer, and luggage.

  We weren’t only roommates—we probably had the same class schedule as well.

  Terrific. We were going to be joined at the freaking hip.

  I felt a little smug as I cast a vindictive little glare in his direction. All the money in the world hadn’t kept him from ending up in exactly the same dump as me.

  He returned my gaze with a surly one of his own.

  Jerk.

  I turned my attention back to Ambrosius.

  “Since you, Mr. Uh, do not have a textbook, and I have given my last extra book to Mr. Vaughn, who came in just before you, you may share with him,” Ambrosius said. “Please turn to page sixty-three of our texts. Yesterday, I believe we were reading about the Phoenicians.” He scanned the room and, much to my relief, chose someone on the other side of it to begin reading.

  I wondered how long the “Mr. Uh” thing would last before Ambrosius grew tired of his weak, little joke. Knowing my luck, I was probably doomed to be “Mr. Uh” for the rest of the school year.

  Vaughn didn’t seem any more enthusiastic about sharing with me than I felt, but I
wasn’t going to argue with Ambrosius on my first day in class. I’d already been labeled “Mr. Uh.” I didn’t want Ambrosius to add “The Pain in the Rump” to the title, which I was sure he’d do instantly if I asked to be moved.

  Ambrosius launched into a long lecture about the Phoenicians, which I tuned out after about two and a half seconds. I picked at my nails and glanced periodically at the clock. I noticed Vaughn was paying no more attention than me. He was fiddling with a button on his Rolex.

  Rolex? Jeez.

  What teenager has a freaking Rolex? I wondered if it was real, then remembered his four names and his private attorney, and figured it was.

  Life just wasn’t fair.

  Then Vaughn’s elbow dug into my side. I began to snarl at him before I realized Ambrosius was talking to me.

  “Mr. Uh, perhaps you would care to share with us two of the most significant contributions of the Phoenicians to civilization?”

  “Uh...”

  “Yes, we’ve already established that as your name.” There was a twittering among the other students, and I felt my ears and cheeks grow hot. I hated to be laughed at.

  At least, I did when the joke was on me and not of my own making.

  “Mr. Casey,” Ambrosius said, nodding toward a boy on the opposite side of the classroom, “perhaps you can tell us?”

  I noticed Casey sat up straight and smiled, as if pleased to be called on.

  Suck up.

  “The alphabet and circumnavigation.”

  “Very good, Mr. Casey.” Ambrosius directed his fiery blue gaze at me again. “You will find that I take history very seriously, Mr. Uh. Only by understanding the lessons of the past can we succeed in the future.”

  My cheeks blazed. I hated being the brunt of a joke, hated more being singled out in front of the class. I was new, for corn’s sake! You’d think he’d have a little pity and cut me some slack on my first day. At that moment, all the good intentions I’d had went sailing out of my head. I opened my mouth and my tongue started flapping. “The past is gone, man. Now is all that matters. There’s nothing I need to learn from a bunch of old dead guys. They didn’t have cars or computers, and since I don’t think I’ll be in a swordfight or trying to sail around the world anytime soon, there’s nothing they can teach me.”

  “Truth, dude,” Vaughn said. I hadn’t expected him to be a supporter, but was grateful I wasn’t alone. We knuckle-bumped to celebrate our newfound camaraderie. Maybe Mr. Blue Suit wasn’t going to be such a bad roomie after all.

  It wasn’t until I looked back at Ambrosius that the thought occurred to me that I might have just made a big mistake. His eyes were crackling with fury, his bushy white eyebrows knit in a frown. “Poet and philosopher George Santayana once said, ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’ Those are wise words, gentlemen. I’d suggest you both ponder their meaning while you wait for me in my office.” His eyes narrowed and pointed toward the door. “Go. Now.”

  Oh, man. I’m not in class fifteen minutes, and I’ve already managed to get myself thrown out. Meek’s words rang in my head as I made my way out of the classroom, Vaughn at my heels. “You get one shot, Walsh.”

  Well, I’d had my shot, and I’d blown it on the first day. I could almost hear the door of my prison cell sliding shut on my future with a metallic clang.

  Chapter Three

  We walked in silence all the way from the classroom to the Administrative Building where the teacher offices were, both of us lost in thought. Mine were on my future, or lack thereof. I’d sworn I would make a go of my stay of execution, get through the year at Stanton, and get my diploma. Maybe I would even go on to college, get a degree and a good job, move out of my dad’s house. Now, all I had to look forward to was a year on the Juvie work farm, and that would be only if I was lucky. If not, my next address would be Cellblock B at the pen. I had no idea if the judge would seal my record after I was released, either, not after getting thrown out of school on Day One. It might haunt me for the rest of my days, and I couldn’t help but think that my life, such as it was, was over.

  Ambrosius’ office was the third down on the left past Admissions. It was marked by a small brass plaque to the right of the door that read, “M. Ambrosius.” The door was unlocked, and we let ourselves in.

  The instant I entered the office, all of my worries were shocked right out of my head. For a moment, all I could do was stand still and stare.

  The drapes hanging on the window behind Ambrosius’ desk were open, flooding the room with light. The entire room—every inch of wall space, every shelf and tabletop, and most of the floor – was covered with odd bits and pieces of history. Swords, flags, statuettes, masks, pins, coins, scrolls, skulls, vases, and many items for which I had no name were on display. It was like walking into an extremely cluttered mini-museum.

  “Wow. Where do you think he got all this stuff?” Vaughn asked, running a finger over a yellowed skull. It looked human but deformed. The forehead was sharply sloped and ended in a bulging brow. H. neanderthalensis, Neolithic was hand-printed in neat lettering on a small tag attached to the skull.

  “I don’t know,” I answered with a shrug. I was too worried about my future to give a damn about where Ambrosius shopped for his old junk. “What do you think he’s going to do to us?”

  “Us? What us? You’re the one who mouthed off. I just got caught up in the fall out. I’m out of here as soon as I can explain I had nothing to do with it,” he sniffed.

  “You agreed with me!” I argued.

  “Did not. This is all your fault.”

  A sudden rush of anger clouded my vision. I was already stressed out knowing Principal Meek would welcome any excuse to throw me out because I’d screwed up my one chance at staying out of Juvie or worse, prison. Even if I’d done it to myself, I was looking for somebody else to blame, and Vaughn was in my direct line of fire. Plus, I was still a little jealous over his Rolex, matching luggage, and obvious money.

  He’d agreed with me... we’d knuckle-bumped on it and everything. As far as I was concerned, he was just as much at fault for Ambrosius losing his temper as me.

  Suddenly, my last nerve stretched too thin and snapped. I reached out and gave him a little shove. “You’re such a jerk off!” I yelled.

  “Hey! Keep your hands off of me! Do you know who my father is?” He shoved back, rocking me on my feet.

  “Jerk Off, Senior?” I snidely shot back, and gave him another poke. “Did he buy your girlfriend for you, too?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The chick sitting with you in court. She was your girlfriend, right? Did Daddy gift-wrap her for you, or is she a hand-me-down?” Mean, I know, but I was pretty angry, and when I got mad, my mouth tended to get verbal diarrhea.

  His face turned beet red, and he launched himself at me, tackling me to the floor. A small, spindly table fell over with us. “That was my stepmom!”

  Oh. Well... guess I read that one wrong, huh?

  The Neanderthal skull fell, splintering into a dozen pieces. A plaster bust of some ancient Greek dude exploded into a shower of sharp shards and white dust.

  We were so caught up in trying to beat the blame into one another that we barely noticed.

  He banged my head on the floor, and I caught him in the ribs with an elbow. We rolled to one side, knocking over another table, and a rain of tiny, fossilized shells and teeth sprayed the floor. I was on top and popped him a good one in the jaw. I thought I had him until he heaved, and I suddenly found myself on the bottom. His fist connected with my mouth, and I saw stars.

  My foot hit the wall, rattling several framed paintings hanging there. One fell off, hitting a shelf holding several Egyptian-looking jars with funky animal-head stoppers. They toppled, clinking together, and fell to the floor in pieces.

  I pushed hard, and we rolled across the floor, taking out several more tables, until my shoulder hit the wall under the window. We twisted and scuffled, knocki
ng over a delicate blue floor vase with golden dragons painted on it. It was full of fresh flowers, pale white blossoms that I had no name for. The vase cracked in half, and the water inside gushed out, flooding the floor. A good deal of it splashed the wall, dripping into the electrical outlet. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a brief spark and a curling wisp of smoke. Small flames began licking at the drapes hanging over the window. The curtains caught quickly, charring black as the fire ate its way through the heavy fabric.

  The sight and smell of the fire were enough to break up our fight. We gasped and exchanged a terrified look. If we weren’t in enough trouble before, we sure as heck were now. Vaughn grabbed a seat cushion from Ambrosius’ chair and tried to beat out the flames, but it only made things worse. The cushion caught fire, too, and when he dropped it, the flames spread to the oval rug under his desk.

  “Come on!” I yelled, grabbing his arm and tugging. The smoke was getting thick, and the fire was spreading. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

  We fled the office into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind us as if it could contain the fire. There was no one in sight as I rushed to the opposite wall and broke the glass on the small red box labeled “In Case of Emergency.” I hit the button inside, and a siren instantly began to wail.

  Vaughn tugged frantically on my elbow. “Hurry up, before somebody sees us!”

  I took one last look at the pitch-black smoke puffing out from under Ambrosius’ office door, then nodded and followed him outside.

  We reached the Green just in time to hear the musical sound of glass breaking as the window of Ambrosius’ office imploded from the heat. Smoke billowed outward in a thick, black column, and I could see tongues of flame licking at the exterior of the building.