At twelve, Tom Collins is a full anarchist, or so he thinks. He goes by "Collins," aggravating his brother and sister to no end in his insistance upon using his last name. Defiant and nonconforming, he frustrates his classmates and teachers when he refuses first to follow the dress code (which would force him to remove his beanie cap) and then, even more horrifying, to follow the other school rules, one of which, he claims, infringes on his right to free speech.
"Excuse me," says Collins loudly, waving his hand in the air. But the teacher merely flocks from one student's desk to another's, decisively ignoring Collins. "Mrs. Jackson! Can you please help me with my work?" When he recieves no answer for the third time, Collins does not hesitate to push his chair back, jump onto his desk, shove two fingers in his mouth, and whistle. When he is certain that he has everyone's attention, Tom calls, "Hey, Dinah! You keep ignoring me, teach! What gives?"
Put on the spot, cheeks red as the medical research ribbon on Collins' chest, Mrs. Jackson quietly bustles over to her loudest student. "What do you need, Thomas?" she asks, exhaling deeply.
"Nothing," says Collins dryly. "I just thought it was rude of you to ignore me like that."
Mrs. Jackson sighs again. "I trust you know your way to the dean's office by now, Thomas?" she asks resignedly.
Collins smiles charmingly. "Better than anyone else in the school, Dinah." He gathers his belongings and, in perfect synchronization with his teacher, raises a finger and instructs, in a falsetto, "Don't call me Dinah." Back in his ordinary voice, he chuckles. "Yeah, yeah, teach. I know."
Mrs. Jackson watches him leave and wonders what the hell this kid is going to do with his life.
---
Collins is proud to note that the folder on the dean's desk is roughly the thickness of the Encyclopedia Brittanica. He knows this because he is familiar with said encyclopedia, having tried to read it once or twice while seated comfortably on the toilet. He's never succeeded, but has been amused with the complexity of the definitions. For Collins, a definition can be simple, straightforward, and still perfectly informative. The only case where he finds this does not apply is in reference to himself, because "anarchist" doesn't even begin to cover it.
"Mr. Collins," says the dean in his weary voice, "do you know why you are here?"
With a smirk, Collins shrugs. "I have a pretty good idea," he says lightly. "I mean, I don't get why it's against the rules, but…"
"No," says the dean with a sigh, "you never do, do you?" It is a rhetorical question, and millions of sarcastic answers spring to Collins' mind. "Please don't," the dean instructs. "I don't really care what you have to say on the subject."
He flips through pages in the folder, musing aloud to himself as he does so. "Wait," says the dean in a moment of utter perplexity, stumbling across a particularly puzzling student report. "You set a fire hydrant on fire?"
"Tried to," says Collins unfazedly. "Fourth grade. Oh, come on, Carl, don't tell me you don't remember that. It was January, and you kept giving us fire dri – "
"Don't," says the dean between gritted teeth, "call me Carl."
Collins raises his hands in the air. "Hey, don't kill me. It's your name, isn't it?"
"I am an authority figure," the dean insists, and Collins longs to mock him with jerky hand movements and a falsetto, but senses that it might not be a good time for that right now. "I," the dean continues, "should be addressed with respect."
"Yeah," says Collins with a laugh. "And so should I. But you don't ask me what name I want to be called, do you, Carl?"
The dean, frustrated beyond belief, wipes the sweat of his forehead on his sleeve. Collins winces. The sleeve in question, along with the shirt it belongs to, is white. Or was white. Now it's a putrid shade of yellowing beige. Gray lips form the words "Oh, dear lord," and Collins is right back to his schadenfreudic amusement.
"Have you ever had a student like me before, Carl-o?" he asks cheerfully.
"Never," the dean replies dryly. "And I never will again, actually."
With an impossibly wide smile, Collins points out, "You keep saying that. And yet I come back every day, don't I?"
"Unfortunately," the dean mumbles.
Such is the casual, hate-is-a-strong-word-but-we-really-don't-like-each-other relationship that is very dear to both Tom Collins and the dean of behavior, Carl Howard. Much as he will whine about his most "demanding" student, Carl secretly adores the challenge presented to him by Tom – even though he would never admit it, even to himself. Similarly, a rebel is not a rebel with nothing to rebel against; without the blockade of the dean in his path, Collins would have no credability as an offender.
"Look, Carl," says Collins to his rival. "I appreciate the way you put up with me, I really do. But look. I'm an anarchist. We're never gonna be buddies, you know? I'm always going to be causing trouble for you. Like…" He searches his mind for an appropriate example. "Like that time in October," he says at last, "when I disconnected all the phones in the school and nobody could figure out what was going on."
The dean shudders. He remembers that day well, and occasionally is still compelled to lift his telephone and raise it to his ear, checking for a dial tone. It truly says something about a student's ability to offend others when he leaves a lasting impression on anyone – particularly the intended victim of his pranks.
"Yes, Thomas," says the dean. "I do remember that." He takes a long sip of coffee. "I have never had a student like you in all my years of teaching," he says after a moment. "I have had challenging students, certainly, but never one who was educated and difficult."
Collins smirks. "A compliment of the highest order from someone as educated and difficult as yourself, Captain Carlos," he observes.
Ignoring the irritating pupil, the dean continues, "I have never come across a student I could not cure of his or her tendencies to slack off. You will not be an exception to this." As he says these words, however, he is beginning to feel an ounce of regret. Minds that truly think, that whirl concepts around and turn ideals on their ears, are rare. Collins is one of these thinkers, an active participant in the game of life, even at twelve years old.
The problem is, he plays fair. He doesn't cheat like everyone else, biding his time to speak his mind. No. Collins speaks out, defiant and nonconforming until he reaches the finish line.
Roadblocks? Frequent, irritating. Insignificant. He's twelve. What roadblocks could he possibly have?
"I am, however," says the dean, "going to give you a choice."
Collins likes choices. He likes being able to make decisions. He isn't stupid, though. He knows he can make a choice at any second in life. It is, to him, the mark of a truly ignorant individual who will actually announce that a choice is available to be made.
"Go on," he says.
The dean sighs. "Do you want to leave this school, or stay?"
"You kicking me out?" says Collins, impressed. He never would have thought that Carl had the balls.
The dean, however, merely laughs. "I wouldn't do that," he says, and actually sounds horrified by the prospect. "I would, however, be so kind as to make it look like I was expelling you if what you wanted to do was to leave."
Collins smirks. "'Cause you trust my judgement?"
"Yes," says the dean, and it's fine that he's being mocked, because he likes to think that he is shaping the course of this student's life.
Collins, twelve and already an expert negotiator, crosses his arms over his chest. "If you 'kick me out,' can you write me a reccomendation for a private school?"
"Why?" asks the dean, bewildered. The boy who hates conforming wants to go to a private school? "You want to go to one?"
Deeply amused, the boy bursts out laughing. "No," he says, obviously taken aback. "No way. I just want to see if I could get in."
Of course he does.
"Of course you do," says the dean with a low chuckle. "You're really something."
Collins grins. "I've been told that."
"Well, then," says the dean, struck by a Hallmark sort of urge, "let me tell you something you've definitely never been told."
"I'm listening," says Collins, which is a first. He sounds genuinely curious, too.
The dean takes his time, fiddling with objects on his desk. When he raises his eyes to meet his student's, he calmly proclaims, "When you grow up, you're going to be a teacher, kid."
Collins' roar of laughter is enough to wake up an entire sleeping ant farm. He isn't quite sure how he knows this – probably as a result of his studying that damn encyclopedia so much when he was younger.
"Impossible," says the student to his dean.
A slow smile spreads across the dean's face. "Don't believe me, then," he says, and for once, he gets to be smug in the presence of this overly-cocky, too-snarky, sarcastic young anarchist.