(Two months later)
Dear Mr. Robert Simmons,
After reviewing your resume and meeting with you earlier this week, we are delighted to inform you that we have accepted your application for for the position of principal at Regional School 59 beginning this September...
(Present Day)
The initial novelty of Robert's acceptance kept him and his husband afloat all summer. But as Mr. Simmons seated himself in the principal's chair, all the fear of his last tenure as principal came back to him in spades; Helga swinging from the flagpole, his failed debut of the new PS 118 school song, and of course Curly sailing out the window on a makeshift jet pack made from a fire extinguisher.
"EEP!" He said suddenly. And with a glance around his new office, Robert let out a sigh and decided that a drink of water was in order.
Under any normal set of circumstances, Robert would have appreciated the silence which filled the halls of RS 59, and how it stood in deep contrast to the bustling antechamber of his former school. But as the space between him and his office decreased with each step forward, Robert began to feel a ethereal and suffocating chill envelope the school; the kind reserved for opening a jar of milk you know is spoiled or ascending a staircase in the dark and mistakenly climbing a step that never existed in the first place.
"Excuse me? I'm looking for the water fountain. Can you please help?"
For Robert, an almost familiar figure that crossed his path came to be that invisible step. It wandered in front of his path, also seeking a water fountain to quench his thirst. But something about seeing the deathly pale figure as it turned around slowly to face him took the balding administrator aback. If Mr. Simmons took any emotional refuge in how his oblong-shaped head bought to mind the bright and altruistic boy he once taught, it evaporated once this child greeted his quandary with a dismissive snort and a voice as cold and lifeless as the rest of him.
"Oh. You're our new principal. Follow me."
Mr. Simmons uncertainly followed his new student to the end of the hall.
"So, um…" Mr. Simmons began.
"Arnie." The boy replied. "You came from Hillwood. That's fourteen hours and thirty-five minutes or nine hundred and thirty-nine miles if you took I-90 West. I-84 is a longer drive: seventeen hours and fourteen minutes, or one thousand and fifty-one miles. I like to count things."
"Wow…that's…impressive…" The teacher replied. "Um, you wouldn't happen to know someone named Arnold would you?"
"Yeah. He's my cousin on my mom's side. He lives in Hillwood too. " Arnie replied flatly. "I bet you get a lot of lint from that sweater vest."
"Um…"
"I like collecting lint."
Before Mr. Simmons could formulate any further response, Arnold stopped beside an antiquated ceramic dispenser. Every other sip he took was greeted with a hearty snort, expulsions which made the new administrator's insides churn and decline his opportunity to drink.
"So...which class are you in?"
"Room 213 with Ms. Czek." Arnie replied gesturing to a door bearing the numbers 213.
Upon returning to their respective destinations, a Arnie unceremoniously heaved the aforementioned doorway open and returned to his seat. Mr. Simmons took the opportunity to peer through the window on the entrance; barely hiding the look of abject horror at the sight before him.