I arrived at Little Creek just a few minutes past seven o'clock. The school was situated in a somewhat-rural area in the Little Creek suburb. It was off the main road a bit, yet I located it with relative ease. As I was pulling into the space in which Midgardians rest their vehicles, I took a gander at the school itself. It was mid-sized, and it looked to be able to hold around a thousand students. The brick building's square perimeter found itself to be surrounded by a thin forest on three sides, with only the front be exposed to any large amount of open space.
I parked my Maserati in a space closer to the plexiglass entrance with relative ease. I'd never done it before then, but really, any person with even a single iota of common sense could figure out how to park. I only made sure I wasn't outrageously slanted to one side.
As I entered in the warm building—from the canvas of brown, orange, and yellow, it looked to be autumn—I became slightly unsure of myself, though I didn't show it. There was a large common area before me, and a courtyard was beyond that, separated by ceiling-high windows. There was a room to my left labeled 'Administration', so I didn't remain clueless for long.
"Hello," I greeted the secretary with warmness, "I'm here for an interview with Mr. Parkson? I'm Joel Samson." That false name could be found on my ID.
The older woman peered up at me from under her hot-pink spectacles. "Um, yes, he's expecting you. His office is just down the hall behind me and to the left," she said. Once I thanked her, I started to walk past her large, oak desk, but she called out, "Oh! My apologies. I'm Ms. Donna, but you can call me Ellie."
I turned around and donned my signature smile—a little grin that only promised politeness and respect, but its outward appearance, of course, belied my innermost intentions. "No worries, Donna!" I called back out to her. "Thanks!"
With a swish, I made my way down the short hallway. The carpet was a subtle shade of dark blue; its walls were beige with miscellaneous etchings—photographs, I assumed—scattered all about. In accordance with what the secretary had just told me, I made a left, and I found myself facing a small office veiled by white shades. I knocked on the door.
A muffled voice called out, "Come in!"
My right hand pushed the door, and with my Asgardian strength, it swung open. The office inside was a clashing mixture of quaintness and professionality. The portly man—Mr. Parkson—sat at a cluttered desk. Overturned documents and useless paperweights were littered everywhere, but in spite of that, the room still seemed to be organized. Windows allowed natural light to come in, illuminating the entire room.
"Mr. Samson!" greeted Parkson with an enthusiastic smile. He stood up and extended his hand, to which I did nothing—quite odd indeed. My inaction—perhaps I had forgotten a custom—seemed to befuddle the principal momentarily, but within the minute, he had regained his effervescence and energy.
"Hello, sir. It's a pleasure to meet you," I said, sitting down once he had as well.
"It's a mutual feeling, that I can assure you. Now, like I said in my email, this interview is purely formal, as you've already been accepted," he said with a wink, and oddly enough—I swear this to be true—his handlebar mustache twitched simultaneously. Suddenly, the ridiculousness of the entire situation came onto me like an oceanic wave—here I was, in some nondescript high school on Midgard, conversing with a man who had just twitched his ludicrous mustache. I held in my chuckles, too fed up with everything to truly be upset.
"Yes, yes, of course. I am looking forward to enlightening Massachusetts' youth. Astronomy not ever failed to interest me, and hopefully, I can perhaps inspire my students to discover something similar about themselves—but I digress," I said back to the man.
"No, no, I really enjoy it when I hear teachers expressing similar reasons and ideas"—ugh—"but first, as a part of this 'interview,'" cue the wink, "where do you see yourself in five years?"
Needless to say, I wasn't going to answer truthfully; I saw myself charging at enemies of the Crown, turning my own body into a bulwark against barbarity and turpitude—as hypocritical as it may seem for me to duel with wickedness, aside from manipulation, it was what I was best at.
Instead of those notions, I told him, "Well, you know, I intend to keep working here for the foreseeable future. I've also thought of traveling the world more frequently."
"An admirable goal, Mr. Samson," Parkson responded. He then looked down at one of the many documents on his desk, his eyes jumping around, seemingly trying to find something. "Yes, uh, let me just... ah! Here it is: do you expect a raise within the first year?" he asked after a second of searching.
Truthfully, I hadn't really considered that aspect of the job—my packet had just told me the pay was monthly, so I shrugged. "Not really, no. I teach because it's enjoyable; but that said, a raise is always nice."
Parkson looked at me for a second then chuckled, his stomach bouncing around as if it were gelatin. "My, my, you're an unusual one—but I like it!" he exclaimed.
Parkson continued to question me for a few more minutes, but his inquiries were relatively superficial and shallow. They weren't necessarily bad, just not very exciting. I deliberately answered his questions with increasingly-short responses, hoping he'd grow bored of the interview. The autumn avians were fluttering around outside, just past Parkson's windows. I forced myself not to get distracted by the vibrant image they collectively created.
After final exchanges were made, Parkson and I stood up. "It was nice talking," I said with a smile—and this time, it wasn't completely fake. He was still a Midgardian, though, and his inferiority, even if he couldn't control it, showed itself.
He extended his hand again, and this time, I reluctantly extended my own. With a firm grasp and a small smile, I walked out of Parkson's office.
Ms. Donna—Ellie—was still at her desk. I approached her and asked, "Ellie, Mr. Parkson said you had my curriculum for me?"
She looked at me and readjusted her glasses. "Yep! I do. I had the science department hand it to me. They said it should cover the first couple units—ask them if you have any questions."
"Thanks." I reached over and grabbed the folder, in which were the universally taught lessons regarding astronomy. I would just skim it to discover the order by which I had to teach—I knew all the content, undoubtedly.
The school's hallways were different, to put it lightly. The carpeting was identical to the office's, but the walls were composed of dull, metallic boxes, in which many students were storing things as I walked past.
The young Midgardians—the students, I presumed—large in number. They had all sorts of ridiculous fashion choices on themselves; a minority of them had even altered the color of their hair into some sort of obnoxious hue—hot pink, neon green, etc. Even though I was aware that, to them, I was nothing more than some new adult, I was still the God of Mischief. The dismissive way by which they shoved into me in the hallway was intolerable. Had I been treated with such insolence on Asgard, heads would've rolled and innards would've splattered. Yet, I forced my expression to retain its normalcy and calmness—I needed to, for I suspected this disrespectful attack on my person would not be the last. My anger boiled.
The ocean of students was perpetual and irksome, and that was only heightened by the subjects of their stupid conversations—lovers, vehicles, illicit substances, and so on and so forth. I don't believe I heard anything of merit. I realized I was closing in on my classroom—which was designated to be Room 131—according to Parkson's instructions. I wasn't too sure what to expect when I walked in, but once I did, I was slightly put off by its mundane nature. It wasn't too bad though, and really, what could you expect from some Midgardian schooling room? There were five rows of five desks with a machine similar to that of the secretary's at the front.
I was a bit early to my first class of the day—or 'period', as Parkson had called it, and it was only then that I realized I didn't know the usual modus operandi of Midgardian teaching, but I quickly brushed that off. If I was there, I might as well have educated the rascals, and the Asgardian method was surely superior—lectures and note-taking. That's how I was taught by Odin's tutors, anyway.
I also noticed a large piece of slate at the front—they looked like the strategical planning boards on Asgard, and I quickly deduced they were for writing. Given that my students were still trickling in, I didn't want to commence my first-ever class just yet, so I grabbed one of the white and flaky writing utensils and wrote my false name in an elegant script.
When I turned around, most of the seats were occupied. Although I had given speeches in the past to larger groups of people, this time, I felt slightly out of my element. As usual, though, that didn't show.
"Hello, everyone. I'm Mr. Samson, and I'll be your astronomy teacher for this school year. This is my first ever time teaching, so I'm very excited. This class' syllabus can be found in the science department," I said, in accordance with my packet from Ms. Donna. "We have a ton to cover, so we're going to be starting on our first unit, history of astronomy, right now—"
"Mr. Samson, I know you're new, but you're supposed to take attendance first; it's school policy," interrupted a red-headed girl in the first row. When I looked down at her past my nose, everyone else silent, she continued to stare back at me. The little brat flipped her hair, even.
Attendance—I vaguely remembered it being a head count, essentially—I'd already done mentally.
I cocked a sable eyebrow at her. "Interruption, is rude, my student, and everyone is here; I counted." The disrespectful red-head rolled her eyes, but I ignored her for the time being.
I walked back up to the front of the room, cleared my throat loudly, and began to speak again. I made sure everyone was listening. "As I was saying, I'm going to introduce you all to the history of astronomy. I believe the class schoolbooks have a section dedicated to it. Now, if you'd all..."
LINE BREAK
Just as I was about to answer a student's—I should try to memorize their names, as other teachers do, apparently—an obnoxious sound vibrated throughout the room, and presumably, throughout the rest of the school.
All my students began to get up and leave, not paying attention to me any longer. That sound must've been their dismissal. I didn't bar them from leaving this time—I'd talk to them about leaving without my permission next can—but I did have a bone to pick with a certain red-head that was about to leave.
I walked up to the Midgardian female, saying, "We need to talk about your behavior toward me earlier."
"Excuse me?" she asked back at me, her tone dripping with teenage sass and insubordination.
"As your teacher, you ought to show me respect and deference. Your interruption and subsequent eye-roll are neither respectful nor deferential. You're staying with me after school tomorrow for an hour"—at this, her face and neck began to turn red with her blood—"and then you can leave. Have a nice day," I finished then sauntered back to my desk, not looking at her once.
I ignored her stomping, but before she reached the door, she turned back around. "You know, Mr. Samson, you can at least call me by my name, Natasha." I paid her no attention.
"Ugh, unbelievable," she muttered under her breath, not knowing my superior aural capabilities made me privy to every sound, loud or quiet. I smirked as she walked out.
That particular student was unbelievable. In retrospect, it wasn't too good of an idea to give her detention with myself. She'd only annoy me. Mentally groaning, I cursed my mistake. Jotunheim's gelid planes would be less grating.
I didn't have another class until the very end of the day, but by law, I was required to stay at school. I suspected it would get boring, but that meant I only had an abundance of time to think, plan, and grade.
Apparently, the students didn't like teachers who assigned homework on the first day. I didn't care, and besides, it was relatively easy. I gave them paper texts, from which they were to write a one-page, hand-written summary. And more than that, it pertained to a topic only the most moronic of idiots wouldn't already be aware of—this solar system's sun.
Sighing, I looked over the document Ms. Donna handed to me. From it, I gathered that the first month would be relatively rudimentary—the history of astronomy, the sun, etc. The science department's room number was listed there. I figured I might as well talk to the other teachers. There was nothing to entertain myself with at my desk. Perhaps I'd have conjure a book from Asgard to sate my boredom. Not here, of course.
The science department had food, at least. When I walked in, there was no one there, save one other person—a somewhat young teacher with tan slacks and a beard. When he saw me, he stood up and grinned.
"So you must be Joel—or Mr. Samson, whichever one you prefer," the man said. "I'm Josh Trines, but you can call me Josh."
"I don't care what you call me, but 'Joel' is fine," I responded, "and it's nice to meet you."
"So you're new here, huh?" Josh inquired.
"Indeed, I am. How long've you been teaching, Josh?"
"I only started last year." I nodded and took a seat at the triangular table. "Say, are you thirsty? There's a vending machine behind the back corner."
I looked at the Midgardian in confusion. The packet never mentioned what a 'vending machine' was, but I suspected it'd look odd if I asked into it. That said, I'd probably need to know what one was eventually, and from then on, I decided I'd ask a human about their culture whenever I wasn't sure, regardless of how odd it was.
"Well, you see, I grew up in a rural, forlorn area, so I'm not exactly sure what a vending machine is..." I trailed off, intentionally rubbing my neck in faux embarrassment.
Josh looked at me incredulously. "Where the hell were you raised?" he asked in disbelief before he collected himself after my pointed look. "And, uh, a vending machine is just a thing from which you can get, uh, drinks and such," he answered.
"I hail from the west," I fibbed effortlessly. "And no, I'm not particularly hungry."
Josh nodded, and took my further silence as a hint. I sighed, ready for the day to be over with.
Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed this. I'm aware my chapters are very short, but if I write for too long, I get burnt out. Hopefully the speediness with which I update makes up for it—only five days between chapters is pretty good, right? Anyways, thanks! Also, yeah, I don't own any unoriginal content—Marvel does. Oh, and thanks for the review!