A new student transferring into his class midway through the school year is arguably as exciting for Will as it is for his students. Even teaching in all it's awe-inspiring, arts and crafts, underpaid glory can become monotonous, and a new student is a welcome break from the repetition. The fluorescent lights offset Will's view, compelling him to concentrate on the light switch behind Principal Crawford's receding hairline. They're discussing the new addition to Baltimore's public school district.
When he exits a little boy slides into the classroom from behind him like a knife skating through butter. Short for his age with a wicked smile, he introduces himself with flourish and finality. His clothes are standard uniform: navy shorts and white socks, sleek black loafers and a white blouse. Will finds his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, eyes unflinching. He presses his fingertips together in a silent prayer before standing.
"My name is Hannibal Lecter," he announces before Will can open his mouth. The new student wastes no time, surveying the classroom behind a hollow smile and guarded eyes. "I'll be your classmate during my stay in America."
Will manages a nod. Most kids chew on their lips and pull at their cuticles until Will does the introduction for them. Hannibal faces the class with no such look of insecurity. "Does anyone have any questions for Hannibal?"
A taller boy in the back doesn't bother raising his hand. "Does everyone talk weird where you're from?"
Hannibal's gaze could pierce stone. "In Lithuania, teachers slap rulers on our knuckles for talking out of turn."
He leans forward and shows off two rows of scars an inch apart on both hands. More like bragging rights than a confessional. Will counts the tiles on the ceiling when the students lean forward collectively, eager for an eyeful of the brutality. Hannibal's confidence is staggering. Sweat pools around the collar of Will's shirt.
"Thank you, Hannibal," Will says, forcing a tight smile. A portion of the insulation board above Hannibal's desk is coming loose. "Marcel, there are many ways to speak the same language."
Hannibal takes his seat and Will tries to direct his attention to the class. He forces his vision to unfocus until the children blur together. Hannibal's impossibly red eyes cut through the haze like a lighthouse at sea.
Will swallows. "I know adjusting to a new school can be hard, so let's all try to welcome our new classmate."
Although Hannibal is hardly a chatterbox, he charms his way into the hearts of the entire faculty before Will can learn much about him. Despite his oft talked about grand displays of generosity, Hannibal remains a beast of a different breed in Will's presence. Twice, Will catches him shoving other children during recess, and twice, Hannibal feigns innocence. By the second week Will decides he's given Hannibal a long enough adjustment period to qualify as a bully.
"That was an accident," Hannibal says when Will corners him the following afternoon.
The excuse rings like the chorus in his favorite song, but Will has heard it all before. He wants to chalk it up to culture shock but something in his gut twists at the transparency of his own denial. Hannibal doesn't treat his classmates like peers, he treats them like tools to be used at his own discretion.
"She slipped," Hannibal adds after further interrogation.
Unsurprisingly, the discussion after school doesn't fare much better. Will wonders how previous teachers would describe him. He dodges questions and snakes around explanations like he's been doing it longer than he's been out of diapers. Will takes a seat and gestures toward the chair on the other side for Hannibal to follow in suit. Instead, Hannibal stretches out on Will's desk and rests his chin on his arm. With only a meter between them, Hannibal squints his eyes and smiles widely.
"A lot of people look at you every day, Mr. Graham," Hannibal says, while Will fights the urge to avoid eye contact with a boy over the rim of his glasses. "But not many people see you."
That suits Will just fine. He leans back in his chair to widen the distance between them. He doesn't need a brat with a bad attitude thinking he can pull one over on him.
Will levels his eyes. "Most people don't like what they see."
Hannibal shrugs, self-assured. "I'm not most people."
For a moment, it feels like Hannibal knows. Will feels like he's been cracked open and set ablaze like an ant under a magnifying glass. Will feels himself becoming undone from the scrutiny of a student. Hannibal disappears between the massive double doors before Will can think up a proper punishment.
The next day is unusual.
Two students end up in tears by noon, and a third is in the nurse's office before the end of the day. The strangest thing of all, however, is the note Will finds in his desk, indiscriminately stuffed into a stack of papers he's already graded. Immediately, he can recollect the steps Hannibal has taken before placing it here, but up against no evidence it's all hearsay. His thumbs tremble and the paper wrinkles around the edges.
When the light turns green, you go. When the light turns red, you stop. But what do you do when the light turns blue with orange and lavender spots?
Will recognizes the rhyme scheme immediately. It brings him back to the first time he read Shel Silverstein with Molly's son, and how not long after he couldn't trust himself reading Walter bedtime stories anymore. He didn't see either of them after that.
"Marcel had an accident," Hannibal says, interrupting his thoughts.
The lunch period is only half over, but already there's trouble. Will idly wonders what Hannibal's host family is like, if they send him to school with enough food, and if they really make sure he cleans behind his ears. For all his criticisms Hannibal is impeccably well dressed and cared for.
Will's eyes zero in on Hannibal's quirked lips. "What kind of accident?"
Smile hidden, Hannibal shrugs. "I helped him to the nurse's office."
Will has had enough of Hannibal's games. This isn't Will's first time at the rodeo, and in his years teaching he's come across children of every possible pathology.
"What if I don't believe you?"
"Then what do you believe?" His manner of speech is ridiculously refined for a child his age, almost as pressed as his school uniform.
"That you're a little bully-and a coward. A child trying to hide soaked sheets after wetting the bed."
When Hannibal's eyes widen the smallest increment, it's enough to sell Will's bluff. Bull's eye. Maybe Daddy beats him at home, or maybe Daddy is never home at all. Or maybe Mommy is the bad guy. Will's seen it all before.
Hannibal swallows, seemingly unshaken. "Isn't that what you've been doing behind that big desk?" The skip in the space feels like more than seconds. "Hiding dirty laundry?"
Will feels exposed. Caught and trapped in his own mind, for all the things he's never been able to do. Breathless, Will points to the door. Hannibal smiles after being dismissed, but Will requires no grand display of victory, he can taste defeat in the back of his throat.