Chapter 2: Kindness and a Scary Irishman
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Registration: (9:40am)
Day Two of the first week back from Summer Hols. To be fair, I was feeling much better about this than usual. The second day was when it really hit home that, yes, you were going to go through this for another godforsaken year, and also when the depression kicked in for me. Not this time, though, despite the 'incident' the day before. Maybe it was Dr. Yao's unexpected, but certainly very much appreciated, hug afterwards, or maybe Mr. Feliks' gay preview of Christ's Passion in R.E. Probably both.
In any case, my spirits were far higher than I expected, and I entered my form room smiling.
The smile dropped from my face when I saw everybody looking at me and snickering. Shit. Should've known. The incident in the Science lab with the orange substance had gone round like wildfire thanks to this damn form of mine, and it was raging at its peak now. I just had to deal with the none-too-subtle whispers behind my head for the next week or so.
They knew all about it because they had been there when it happened. Every single one of the bastards had been sitting there and laughing while I bled and cried on the floor. A warm pressure pushed up from the back of my head, and I seethed quietly.
Oh universe, you just loved to screw me over back then.
Just as I took my seat alone at the front of the class (the taboo area, for some inexplicable reason), Mr. Beilschmidt marched in. He never walked, that man. Only marched; and, like a storm-trooper, would plough through anyone in his way like a tank. Kids would bounce off him left and right and lie dazed in a heap on either side of the corridors in his wake.
Scanning the room for ill-doers, and satisfied with finding everyone standing up behind their desks as usual, he went through the standard registration procedure, and dismissed us in the usual German manner—loudly, and like a military commander sending us off into No-Man's-Land.
Which, in a way, he was.
However, just as we were all filing out of the room, the stern man reached out and took hold of my shoulder, muttering into my ear.
"I'd like a quick werd wizh you."
Inside, I groaned. Oh God. Here it comes...
Although I was so glad he hadn't bellowed it out for the whole world to hear, and for my classmates to have another reason to sneer.
I broke away from the line and moved to Mr. Beilschmidt's orderly desk.
He waited until the very last kid had exited the room and shut the door behind him before addressing me with serious, piercing eyes. The German pulled up a chair so I could sit down and we could have a face-to-face conversation with no divide barring us.
"Now," he said. "I'm sure you alreazy know what I am going to say, but hear me out. Dr. Yao yesterday informed me of an incident in the Science lab where you were injured and ran out of the classroom. That class consists of this very form."
He paused a moment.
"I think I know you vell enough, Amber," he continued, "to know that you are not as clumzy as to trip over your own feet, and I know Dr. Yao enough that he would never allow a pupil's bag to obstruct the single path in between the two separate columns of desks in his classroom. It is therefore not so far-fetched to assume that you vere tripped. Am I correct?"
I nodded.
"Yes, sir. I remember feeling something force my foot back before I fell."
Mr. Beilschmidt frowned gravely.
"I am disgusted that one from my form would do such a zhing. And that the ozhers would mock you as they did. I intend to punish them severely. But that is not all I want to talk to you about. I vish to ask you somezing."
I blinked.
Mr. Beilschmidt's serious, hawk-like blue eyes never left mine. They delved into my mind, and considerately took in my most secret thoughts and emotions. It didn't feel like an interrogation, but a revelation. Someone was actually considering how I felt. It was the best feeling in the world.
Then he asked a question I would never have imagined he'd utter...
"Are you happy here?"
My mouth opened, like a dumb fish, unable to respond.
"I..."
What could I say?
I stared at my form tutor, at a loss.
"You don't have to ansver now," Mr. Beilschmidt assured, smiling. "I'm sorry for prezzuring you. Please, go to your Geography lesson. I'll write a note to inform Mr. Braginski vhy you were late."
I sat motionless, stunned, as he wrote on a small slip of paper. He handed it to me, and I took it silently.
"Now...I have those crazy Year Seven's to take care of," my form tutor said presently, standing up. Looking out the row of windows behind us on the other side of the room at the chattering crowd of kids gathering, he muttered: "Zhere they are...the little devils, all raring to drive me stark mad."
He chuckled despite himself.
I grinned shakily, got up, and collected my bag and coat from my desk.
"Thanks, Mr. Beilschmidt," I mumbled in a near-whisper, which was my usual audio level when speaking to others. Even Mr. Honda had trouble hearing me sometimes, and that said a lot.
Mr. Beilschmidt nodded politely, his expression softened. It really warmed your heart when a teacher like Mr. Beilschmidt let go of all his restraints and relaxed enough to smile like that.
"It was nozhing. You are my student—I do my best to ensure my all my students' contentment."
I smiled awkwardly, and made my way to the door.
"And Amber," he called after me. I turned my head round to listen.
"Yessir?"
"Think about vhat I said," he requested earnestly, looking me right in the eye.
I managed a small smile.
"Yes, sir."
Without another word, I left him and made my way to my Geography class.
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As I neared the classroom, I jumped as an almighty yell rang out: "FECKIN' KIDS, STAY AWAY FROM ME DRINK YA LITTLE SHITES!"
Who the hell is that? I remember thinking. Christ, we never had anyone with an Irish accent before. And certainly no-one who shouted at people for touching his drinks...well, except Mr. Beilschmidt's alcoholic albino brother Gilbert, but at least he didn't call us 'little shites'.
He called us 'little fuckers' instead. In German.
Much nicer.
At any rate, I had no clue of who the angry Irish man was. He could've been Winston Churchill himself and I wouldn't know. This wasn't surprising; since I had literally no-one to talk to in school I had zero clue of the goings on within it unless it was announced in form. Plus I was nigh-constantly confined to the library during break and lunch. So if a new teacher just so happened to waltz into the school, I wouldn't know about it until I heard he/she either yelling at someone or if she/he was teaching me. Heck, a horde of stampeding wildebeest could have rampaged through the school and I would be none the wiser.
I figured I had time to find out soon though.
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First Period: Geography (10:00 am)
"Privet! Welcome back everyone! I hope you enjoyed your holidays in nice warm places! I missed you in Russia, da!" jingled the thick, bouncing Russian from the front of the classroom. His lilac suit was more casually donned than Mr. Beilschmidt; buttons undone and white shirt showing in a broad horizontal stripe down, his trousers a touch too small. The curse of being frickin' huge. He wasn't fat, mind you—he would say so frequently when such was implied, and ate a strict amount each day to make his point—just very broad at the shoulders...and in general.
The cream scarf permanently wrapped around his neck didn't help things. He wore that thing day-in, day-out. It was his trademark. Hell, a heat-wave wouldn't deter this man from wearing that scarf. If he was being pulled into a weed-trimmer, he still wouldn't take it off.
Ah well, I didn't mind. I was more concerned about his personality than his dress code. The majority of the time, he was a sweetheart. Always helpful, always concerned with how you were doing both in and out of class, and more than happy for one-to-one tutoring. I'd seen him give people random hugs as he passed them in the corridor. Nearly crushed the life out of them, but it's the thought that counts. The last day of school, he enveloped every one of us in his bone-crushing embrace as we left the classroom. I swore I punctured a lung.
There was a kind of sadness in the way he hugged us so tightly to his big chest, as if letting us go was more than he could bear. I don't think he had any friends either. The other teachers avoided him when possible, and he sat alone at lunchtime, eating whatever his older sister had prepared for him. He and I were very much alike in that respect, which is probably another reason I liked him. Mr Braginski always gave the impression of being unflinchingly eager to please, but always coming off as suffocating so that you wanted to haul ass away the moment he leaned over your desk, broad nose inches from your face. I personally didn't mind; I liked the closeness of human contact despite lacking it utterly.
However, Mr. Braginski's anger was like nothing on this earth. It was terrifying in its cold, brewing darkness, hanging about his smiling form like an aura of doom. He could smile even when seething with rage, and that scared the crap out of us.
When Mr. Braginski smiled in that cold, false way—we all took cover. Hell would be a picnic compared to the day that he finally snapped, which, thankfully, hadn't happened yet.
Yet.
You just had to be so, so very careful with your words and actions, it was almost scary. Anything could set the bomb ticking...
"Now, we will have a lot of fun with this topic, da!" the sandy-haired Russian went on cheerfully. "It's about how countries evolve over time and how they move! Obviously, everyone is being magnetically pulled towards Russia, and they will one day become one with it!"
Oh, yes, and he was obsessed with everything becoming one with his homeland. Nationalistic, much?
We just smiled and nodded. Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full, sir. That was the way it went in Mr. Braginski's class.
Or else.
And so the lesson went on, which Mr. Braginski mentioning how nicely everyone would fit into Russia three or four times a minute. We just sat there and smiled and said things like, "Oh yeah, Sir, definitely!", "Why bother being Spanish when I can become one with Russia?" and "MASS COUNTRY FUSION FOR THE WIN!". Ah, sarcasm. So glad Mr. Braginski knows nothing of you thus far.
Because if he did, we would probably be dead.
Suddenly the door burst open to reveal Mr. Braginski's crazy younger sister in all her raging hormonal glory.
"BROTHER!" she bellowed, "ALL THIS TALK OF BECOMING ONE MAKE ME HORNY! HAVE MY BABIES AT LUNCHTIME!"
"GO AWAY, GO AWAY, GO AWAY!" Mr. Braginski wailed, throwing himself under the desk and huddling there, trembling.
One of the bolder boys in our class stood up to defend our terrorised, childlike Geography teacher.
"Hey, bitch!" he yelled, "Why don't you leave him alone? He's freakin' terrified of you!"
At that Miss Arlovskaya brandished a freakishly huge steel compass (the ones used for studying maps) and aimed the razor point at the boy's head.
"I VILL CUT YOU, BOY!" she hissed with such feral viciousness my poor bold classmate shot right down and hid under the table, mimicking his terrified teacher.
"Natalya, do not threaten my students!" Mr. Braginski cried feebly, clumsily emerging from under his desk to confront his sister.
"Brother!" his crazy sister pleaded. "I am merely defending the sanctity of our union!"
"What union?" the terrorised Russian wailed. "We are not married!"
Miss. Arlovskaya grinned manically.
"Not yet, big brother," she purred, "but one day. Oneeee daaaaay...!"
Drawing out those raspy last words, demonic and bone-chilling, Mr. Braginski's younger sister slid the door shut, dark blue eyes alive with a rampant lust.
Click.
She was gone.
Everyone stared at the door for a few moments, sharing a collective stunned silence. We were half-afraid she would burst through the door again and massacre us all with that damned compass of hers...
When several minutes passed without any such incident, Mr. Braginski deemed it safe for himself and my classmate to emerge from their hiding places, and resumed the introductory lesson as normal...or as normal as one could do after being verbally and almost physically violated by your psychopathic nymphomaniac of a sister carrying an oversized metal compass.
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After class had ended, and we all filed out of the room, I noticed Mr. Braginski looking curiously at me. I stopped and looked at him.
"Are you alright, Yantarʹ?[1]"
Seriously, what was with teachers calling their students by the literal translation of their names?
"You look a little sad," the Russian continued, peering at me with those large violet eyes.
I grinned awkwardly.
"Oh no, I-I'm fine, sir, thanks," I stammered, flushing self-consciously. The others behind me muttered irritably, eager to leave, and to be honest I couldn't blame them.
Mr. Braginski looked unconvinced, but was reluctant to press the issue.
"...O-K...but you must promise to come and talk to me if anything is bothering you, da?"
He looked genuinely concerned, and seemed to open himself up to me—to crush or embrace if I chose.
The wave of feelings washed over me in a horrible overwhelming mass of confusion and sudden rush of anxiety. Such affection, such care, so nakedly frank...So impossibly unnerving. A sickening pressure rose up from my gut. I couldn't deal with this. This was...wrong. What was this?
"I don't think that will be necessary," I whispered, before rushing out the door and not looking back.
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Second Period: Drama (10.40am)
I hurried to Drama class in an effort to drive the myriad writhing mess of emotions warring within me. Aching remorse for my rejection, rage at my aversion to affection...everything. I didn't know what to think anymore.
"Are you happy here?"
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I...
"HALLO, MEINE KLEINE KÜKEN![2]" shouted a voice, jerking me violently out of my thoughts and right into the face of a albino German man, red eyes alive with mischievous intent, grinning fiendishly. He stood outside the Drama room as if he were the greatest being ever to grace our pathetic sorry lives. His ego rivalled Mel Gibson.
This was Mr. Beilschmidt's alcoholic brother, Gilbert, whom we called Mr. G to avoid confusion between the two.
They couldn't have been more different. Mr. Beilschmidt was the wooden block next to the psychedelic ooze in a lava lamp that was Mr. G; a raving, drunken hooligan of a man who quite frankly owned the drama department despite being subordinate to Mr. Bonnefoy. Wearing a loose black shirt with the words 'ICH MAG ES HART![3]' emblazoned across the front in bright glaring red capital letters, jeans and trainers, he was the epitome of a nutty teenager...or at least, a (self-proclaimed) Prussian nutty teenager.
He and Mr. Honda often clashed on the subject of how Prussia literally did not exist and was therefore ridiculous to call oneself a native of a country that wasn't even on the map, and had not been for centuries. Mr. G would just deny everything and go back to jamming on his Ipod while Mr. Honda prayed for patience.
I did the same now. With my choppy emotional state I really could not take the infuriatingly loud gusto of the albino man blaring incessantly in my ears the entire lesson.
But that's exactly what I got. Mr. G. Shouting. Loudly. About. Himself. The lesson didn't actually happen; it was just Mr. G going on about how bloody AWESOME his holiday was and the AWESOME things he did there, describing in detail his sexual exploits and drunken rampages through the city of Berlin, most of which I was convinced were the biggest lies since Mr. Bonnefoy proclaimed sexual abstinence.
I blocked him out as best I could, and instead focused on the question his more considerate brother had asked me earlier.
"Are you happy here?"
Was I? I didn't really know. I liked being by myself. I was better of that way. No hassle, no irritating loud voices to bombard me with confusing mixed signals and betrayal. Alone, I could listen to my own thoughts and decide things by my own volition, rather than be manipulated by others. Alone, I was free to be myself instead of who they wanted me to be. Alone, I was safe from harm. Alone, I was...
"He, Amber! Earth to Ruhiges Mädchen[4]!" a loud, brash voice yelled in my ears, or so it seemed.
I jumped and looked up at Mr. G sitting across from me, frowning slightly. We'd formed a circle of chairs for discussion, and after that I'd pretty much let my mind wander.
I hadn't a clue how to respond. My classmates sniggered amongst themselves.
"...Yes, sir?"
Some boys burst out laughing.
"How did your holiday go, I said!" Mr. G informed, somewhat huffily, as if I'd somehow offended him.
Wow, that was interesting. Mr. G had actually been asking everyone how their holidays went instead of boring us all barking mad with his own outrageous fibs of his own.
I fidgeted, not meeting anyone's gaze.
"Um, well..."
More giggles.
"I...I went to Garmisch Partenkirchen for three weeks...My dad's German and all..." I mumbled.
You'd think someone had detonated a nuclear bomb under Mr. G's crotch with the speed he vaulted off his chair and grabbed me by the shoulders, face inches away from mine.
"OH MEIN GOTT, YOU VENT TO GERMANY TOO?" he shouted, like I'd said I'd been to the Forbidden Planet or something. Ew. German spit. Cheers, sir, I needed a shower.
"Y—yes sir!" I stammered. Too close, too close...!
"SCHEIβE VE VERE THERE TOO!"
"I KNOW, I FIGURED AS MUCH!" I yelled back. Christ, what was his problem?
"YOU LIKE IT?"
"LIKE WHAT?" I cried, thinking he was referring to how he was violating my personal space.
"GARMISCH, YA SILLY GIRL!" he screeched excitedly, shaking me. "IT'S ROCKIN', JA?"
'Rockin', ja?'? What kind of messed up phrase was that? Was he completely insane?
"YES! MOUNTAINS, SHEEP, NICE AIR, NICE SHOPS—ALL GOOD!" I shouted, desperate to get this crazy Prussian man off me.
Meanwhile everyone was laughing. To be honest, the sheer insanity of the albino man practically on top of me in his enthusiasm made me laugh too. Made me feel less humiliated than I would have been otherwise.
Mr. G grinned hugely.
"AWEZOME!" he bellowed, jumping back into his seat again. If I had a pound/Euro/Yen/Rouble or whatever for every time that man uttered that one word, I could buy out every single country on the planet and put them up for rent. Not even kidding.
The crazy Drama teacher went on to completely change the subject and finally talk about what this year's Drama topic would entail for the last five minutes of the lesson: Expression and Emotions.
Hmm. Now this was my element. A chance to vent without causing grievous bodily harm to anything within a five-hundred-yard radius. I never actually did that. Hell, I never even got angry. I just satisfied myself by merely imagining what I could do if I ever did let the years of pent-up rage take hold.
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Break: (11:00 am)
I wandered back to the library and sat there for the remaining few minutes, awash in thoughts.
I felt Mr. Kirkland's frowning gaze on me, but again didn't utter a word.
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Third Period: P.E (11.40am)
Shit. Why, God, why? Why give me the lesson of the teacher I'd only yesterday yelled at and insulted horribly? Why? Ok, I admit I may have called the old bat down the street an old bitch, but...she'd called me a social reject! I didn't deserve this...!
"Hey, Amber! Come join us, we're warming up!" called a cheery American voice. I looked up to see Mr. Jones waving furiously at me from a few yards away where everyone was already lined up doing wildly exaggerated star-jumps. That was the only type of exercise Mr. Jones permitted, since it reminded him of the stars on the American Flag, and it was thus the most patriotic form of physical exertion in the world.
He was smiling all over his almost scarily-happy face.
I blinked. Wow. He wasn't even huffy. Shit, if he was Mr. Kirkland...
Thank God for the opposites of the world. I mean that.
I jogged over quick-smart and joined in with the rest of the class.
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After I'd changed, I ran to find Mr. Jones, and saw him warming up for his next lesson (star-jumps, yet again) outside in the playground.
I swallowed and clenched my teeth. I had to say something. I wouldn't forgive myself if I let it alone forever. I'd always kick myself for never setting things straight when I had the chance.
I approached him, wrestling with the part of me (called Inner Wimp) screaming at me to haul ass away before it was too late.
"Um...sir?"
"Yeah?" Mr. Jones panted cheerfully, not stopping his wild star-jumping routine.
"Um...I...I just wanted to say..."
Oh God...anxiety...pressure...
"I..."
I saw Mr. Beilschmidt and Mr. Gilbert smiling at me. They paid attention. They cared. Their voices floated back to my mind.
"You are my student— I do my best to ensure my all my students' contentment."
"How was your holiday?"
Something surged within me, something powerful.
"I'M SORRY I WAS SO RUDE TO YOU THE OTHER DAY!" I practically shouted out.
Mr. Jones abruptly stopped dead, and turned to stare at me with wide crystal-blue eyes.
"...You were worried about that?" he asked, grinning. "Don't sweat it! I was in the wrong, I pushed you when you were obviously not in the mood to talk. Just like Arth—I mean, Mr. Kirkland!" He laughed. "Yeah, I'm sorry!"
I stared.
Wow. Mr. Jones was amazing. He'd just forgotten about it and forgiven me completely. He'd apologized. No teacher apologised...at least, not to me...
I smiled.
"Thank you, sir."
He beamed.
"No probs! Now, quickly get ta lesson, or your teacher'll chew you out!"
Oh crap. I'd forgotten about the next lesson! Shit!
I thanked him again and rushed off.
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Fourth Period: R.E (12.20pm)
"Okay, people, we're, like, gonna start with class prayers!" Mr. Feliks announced. "So stand up!"
We did so, grinning with anticipation.
Without another word, Mr. Feliks clasped his hands together, looked up to the heavens with the most hilariously distant and holy expression on his face, as if witnessing an exclusive edition of the Gay Times right before his eyes, and began.
"In the name of the FAATHER and the Son and the totally Holy Ghost, EH-men!" he drawled, rolling his eyes. We spluttered and hid our faces in our clasped hands.
"Today we're like, gonna thank you, Lord, for keeping these kids dozed up with enough drugs to stay calm throughout this totally stressful week. We pray said drugs won't kill them or get 'em addicted and stuff. We pray for inspiration to work like hell, or else have someone to beat our asses into working hard...or at least have the damn sense to remember homework last minute and do it right!...And finally, we pray that Liet's piles goes away soon, since it's like, totally dragging on my purse having him around my house and carin' for him! Okay, in the name of the FAATHER and the Son and the totally Holy Ghost, EH-men!"
Doing the sign of the cross, he sat down. We'd sat down way before him, since we were laughing too hard to remain upright and control our bladders at the same time.
Ah, Mr. Feliks. We loved you so much.
"Hey, like, calm down, guys!" the blond, green-eyed man scolded. "Lesson's started, let's do this!"
And so it began. I tell you, none of us ever read the Bible the same way again.
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Lunch(13:20pm)/b
Chef Romano and Mr. Beilschmidt were going at it again. ("FUCKING COME AT ME YOU NAZI GERMAN SAUSAGE!", "ARSCHLOCH[5], GET BACK TO YOUR TOMATOES AND YOUR CREEPY OLD FOLK!", "FUCK YOU, YOU GO BACK TO YOUR ROBOT STIFF PIECE'O'CRAPOLA BASTARD POTATO-SUCKING KRAUT CESS-POOL OF ARROGANT PIECES OF SHIT!", "BASTARD, I VILL RIP YOUR WEAK HAIRY PENIS CLEAN OFF AND FEED IT TO MY DACHSHUND POODLES!", "I HOPE THE DEVIL CHOKES ON IT!", "AAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGHHHH!"[then Mr. Beilschmidt lunged at the red-faced Italian, everyone cheering and placing bets, Mr. G shouting in the background: "GET 'IM VEST! SHOW HIM WHAT OF 10-YEARS BODY-TRAINING VITH ME CAN ACCOMPLISH!")
Yeah.
I got out of there in quite a hurry.
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As I made my way to the library, Mr. Veneziano (AKA, Mr. Feli for short, since the sweet Art teacher wanted everyone to be friendly with him and vice versa), came up to me.
"Ve~! Long time no see, Amber!" he cried, hugging me. I stiffened a little, and remained thus until he let go.
I smiled. His face was always practically glowing with kindness and openness it was impossible not to open your heart to him too. He was so unlike his hot-heated, foul-mouthed nut of a brother, Chef Romano.
"Hi, Mr. Feli," I said. But before either of us could say anything more, a slurring loud Irish voice bellowed across the front of the school.
"FECKIN' KIDS, FECK OFF MY LAWN...I JUST...C-CLEEEN'D THARR YA BASTARDS...DAMNNN YEH ALLLL...TA...HELLLL...!"
A thump, and we ran over to see a collapsed red-haired man with probably the world's second-largest eyebrows (next to Mr. Kirkland, the reigning champion) lying against the wall next to a broom and other cleaning equipment and discarded bottles of whiskey. Dressed in loose labouring garb, he looked like a...
"Don't tell me he's...?"
"Yup. This is Colin McCarthy, Mr. Kirkland's Irish brother, and the new caretaker," Mr. Feli explained sheepishly.
"This drunken nut?" I cried incredulously. "He's crazy, he yells and swears and collapses from alcohol excess! How the hell'd he get the job?"
The unconcious Irishman muttered and fumbled in his sleep, words sounding like "Feck...women...g-gimmie...booze...feck off, Arthur...ya...little...twat...!"
"Lord knows," the young Italian admitted. "Maybe Mr. Kirkland pulled some strings."
I stared incredulously. It was beggar's belief that a stiff, rule-abiding and no-nonsense man like Mr. Kirkland would do such a thing. But what else could get a person like the man lying snoring loudly at our feet a demanding job like this...?
Mr. Feli shrugged, smiling awkwardly.
The bell rang, we said our goodbyes, and went to our next lessons. Him to teach, me to learn.
...Hopefully.
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Fifth Period: Maths (14:20pm)
Mr. Beilschmidt greeted us all in his typical commander-like fashion, and ran through the lesson. Algebra. Hooray. Thank you, Life, I couldn't go another minute without having more shit shoved in my brain. Maths was and always will be the bane of my existence. My brain just refuses to work with numbers. My eyes see numbers, and my brain instantly switches off and switches on the telly to watch soaps and eat junk.
Thank God Mr. Beilschmidt is one of the most methodical and enduring teachers known to man or he would have despaired with kids like me long ago. It made you feel so much relief when a teacher treated you like someone who could achieve rather than a hopeless case in whatever subject you were bad at. As he had done the previous year, Mr. Beilschmidt patiently ran me through everything one-to-one with the calm of one who had been through so much (*cough*Mr. Feli*cough*) nothing fazed him anymore. This was a frolic in the park compared to having the needy Italian hanging around his legs throughout the day.
But, regrettably, even with the best teachers, there are dicks who will take the piss. One such dick was a boy named Gary Hartman. Big, piss-yourself-ugly, and a giant douche all-round. It was a miracle he even turned up. Probably because he enjoyed shitting on everybody's education. Unfortunately for him, he picked the wrong man to piss off.
Not even fifteen-minutes through the lesson, Gary had crossed the line. He told one joke too many, and disrupted one minute too long. Mr. Beilschmidt had had enough. So, out of nowhere, and with such furious violence of movement that we all jumped back in our seats, the tall German man whirled round, face bright scarlet, and bellowed at the boy at the top of his lungs:
"GET OUT! I HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR FOOLING! IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO LEARN AND LET OZHERS LEARN, GET YOUR IGNORANT, GOOD-FOR-NOTHING ASS OUT OF MY CLASSROOM!"
Gary stared, bewildered, but then grinned.
"Ooooh, old Sour-Kraut's angry! Sour-Kraut's—!"
Before the stupid boy had even finished his taunt, Mr. Beilschmidt, livid with rage, lunged forwards, seized Gary by the hair, yanked him out of his seat, dragged him kicking and screaming across the room, threw him bodily out of the door, slammed it shut with an almighty BANG with a roar of "AND STAY OUT!", stormed back to the front of the class, collected himself, and carried on the lesson as if nothing of the above had just taken place in the last whirling few minutes.
The moral: DO NOT FUCK WITH MR. BEILSCHMIDT.
HE WILL OWN YOUR SORRY ASS.
Class ended with a buzz and a cheer for our good old no-nonsense maths teacher. Even though he tried to dismiss our praise, everyone could tell by his grudging smile that he was pleased.
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End of day: (15:00pm)
Walking out of the school gates, a classmate of mine whose name I later found to be Janice approached me somewhat awkwardly. I stared at her warily.
"Yeah?"
She was a slight girl with bouncy brown plaits and freckles. Fumbling a little, she spoke.
"Um...just thought I'd let you know, in Drama...Mr. G didn't discuss any of our holidays at all."
I stared.
"What? You mean...I was the only one he asked?"
"Yup."
"Uh...how come?" I asked, completely flabbergasted.
She shrugged.
"God knows. He was in the middle of going on about his 'uber-awesome' rampage through Berlin when he stopped and saw you kinda staring into space and looking, y'know...a bit out of it. Then he asked you about your holiday. Thank God he did, or else I think I'd've died right there."
I laughed.
"So I actually inadvertently saved all your asses," I said, grinning.
Janice returned the gesture.
"Yeah...Well, see ya!"
She waved, and ran off to join her friends.
I smiled, and felt a strange warm feeling come over me all at once. It was so foreign a sensation I was more than taken aback by it, but I let it stay.
Things were looking up, apparently.
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TO BE CONTINUED!
TRANSLATION NOTES:
[1]"Yantar'": Russian for 'Amber'. If I'm wrong, please someone correct me on this please ^^
[2]"MEINE KLEINE KÜKEN!": German for "My little chicks!"
[3] 'ICH MAG ES HART!': "I Like It Hard"
[4] "...Ruhiges Mädchen!": "Silent Girl"
[5] "Arschloch": "Asshole"