Chapter Two, mis amigos. Special thanks to Sparknotes for providing that lovely essay I was too lazy to write myself. Additional thanks to all who have reviewed so far. I'm well-aware my writing has plenty of room for improvement, and it helps when y'all provide criticisms.

All standard disclaimers apply.

Vernon stared down at the enormous piles of papers to grade and sighed profusely. It wasn't the first time he'd emitted a similar sound, especially when trying to decipher the crabbed scribblings of careless high school students. Weren't they supposed to learn good penmanship in...oh...elementary school? He was going to go cross-eyed one of these days, and the optometrist would never believe him if he told the good docter that he'd gone cross-eyed because of bad handwriting.

Sigh. Might was well get started. He picked up the first paper on the pile, unable to restrain the ominous opening of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony from marching through his head. Two months. Two thrice-bedamned, hellish months into the school year, and he was already considering a resignation. Or mass homicide. He stared hopelessly at the paper, wondering if all that hair spray had really absorbed into this particular cheerleader's head, causing her to write such an atrocious opening paragraph. Weren't they supposed to learn the basics of spelling and grammar in...oh...elementary school? Worse, it was in that loopy, curlicued handwriting he hated so much. She'd started decorating everything with little hearts and stars.

Gah. Richard was sorely tempted to toss the whole stack in the trash, before he remembered that teachers weren't supposed to do that. It was part of the job description: Do Not Throw Away Stacks of Essays On A Whim.

Mrs. Nesbitt was nearly right, damn her. Apparently there was no grace period for new teachers, not even for teachers just a few years older than the students themselves. Honestly, he'd thought that maybe being so young would be an advantage, seeing as he could relate better to the students than some of the old dinosaurs still inexplicably hanging on in the English department. But no. No, just because he was on the other side of the scratched, banged up old desk meant he was more than fair game for the little shitheads.

Insolent didn't begin to describe it. Just last week, one of his oh-so-gracious students had informed him with undisguised glee that even Mrs. Bachentass, the previously most hated teacher in the school, was more popular than he. Well, except for the coaches. Thank god for the coaches, Richard thought sarcastically, and their pompous, bombastic, interfering, meddling, godforsaken ignorant ways...two months, and he'd already had his run-ins with the wrestling coach, over the dismal English grade of one of his star wrestlers. Apparently the little punk was entirely too valuable to the team to be subject to such petty standards as grades.

At this point, Vernon decided he was sighing entirely too much for a twenty-five-year-old and picked up the next paper (but not before taking inordinate pleasure in writing a large red "F" on the cheerleader's paper). This second one began,

Due to practice on Friday and a tournament on the weekend, Tony Clark was unable to complete his assignment. Please excuse my son from this grade. I'm sure you'll understand. Sincerely, Andrew Clark.

Richard growled under his breath. Parents. Even the parents were against him. It was some kind of conspiracy, he was sure of it. Andrew Clark was as much an asshole as Coach Garfield was, always protecting his goddamned son and making sure the school's star wrestler got away with bloody murder. Like missing half his assignments. And whenever Vernon attempted to inform him of Tony's rapidly declining grades, the smug bastard usually said something vague about keeping up Shermer's "tradition of champions" and then proceeded to make sure Richard Vernon knew exactly how low on the totem pole he was. Which was very low indeed.

Vernon wrote another large red "F" on the paper (damn Clarks) and glanced over the rest of the stacks. He really, really did not want to do this. Teaching wasn't supposed to be so much fucking...work. He was supposed to guide the next generation through the hallowed halls of English Education and send them on their way to bright and shining futures—and then proceed to enjoy the well-earned benefits of a two month vacation. Well, the calendar on the wall said otherwise. It solemnly informed him with ill-disguised malice (all right, so calendars weren't usually malicious, but Richard was certain to his bones that this one was) that he had eight more months of hell to survive before finally being allowed to collapse in exhaustion. Bloody, bloody hell.

The red pen he'd been using dropped as Vernon leaned tiredly against the wooden desk, absentmindedly running a hand through his longish hair. Hair he was certain was starting to turn gray just from being trapped in this goddamned school. He snorted softly and his thoughts took a pensive turn, recalling how eager he'd been to get this job in August. What had he been thinking? It wasn't so much the work, actually, as the severe lack of appreciation. He tried his best. He was fair with grading. He came up with new and previously unthought-of ways to present Hamlet. He personally tutored kids falling behind—or attempted to, anyway. And they still hated him. Goddamned, immature kids. Even the old dinosaurs looked down on him.

And so I wallow in self-pity as usual, Richard thought cynically (dear god, two months and he was already cynical about life, as opposed to the twenty-five years he'd spent trying not to be) and made a concerted effort to get back to work. Which surely meant more stupefying plot summaries of Shakespeare, when he'd specifically instructed them not to write plot summaries. He picked up the next paper.

Hamlet

Hamlet has fascinated audiences and readers for centuries, and the first thing to point out about him is that he is enigmatic. There is always more to him than the other characters in the play can figure out; even the most careful and clever readers come away with the sense that they don't know everything there is to know about this character. Hamlet actually tells other characters that there is more to him than meets the eye—notably, his mother, and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern—but his fascination involves much more than this.

Now this was more like it. He did have a few gems wandering around in the muck of the student body, and by this point they were the only relief he had from all the other hellions who populated his class. No, worse than just hellions: they were stupid hellions.

When he speaks, he sounds as if there's something important he's not saying, maybe something even he is not aware of. The ability to write soliloquies and dialogues that create this effect is one of Shakespeare's most impressive achievements.

Ah, well constructed sentences and insightful commentary. Richard fought the urge to close his eyes in sheer bliss. Such a relief to encounter intelligent life forms.

A university student whose studies are interrupted by his father's death, Hamlet is extremely philosophical and contemplative. He is particularly drawn to difficult questions or questions that cannot be answered with any certainty. Faced with evidence that his uncle murdered his father, evidence that any other character in a play would believe, Hamlet becomes obsessed with

What? Obsessed with what? Puzzled, Vernon flipped the paper over to check that the writer hadn't started on the back. Then he checked the pile, but there was no second page. It was as if this student had started this excellent essay, then abandoned it in the middle of a sentence. He glanced at the name scrawled the upper corner—ah, it figured. One of those "brilliant, but lazy" ones. He stared at the defiant dangling sentence, tapping the red pen in annoyance. If possible, this particular group of students frustrated him more than all the stupid ones put together. So much wasted potential.

They usually sat in the back. The guys sported long hair, the girls sported longer hair, and every one of them seemed to take peculiar pride in flouting the dress code in every way possible: ripped jeans and peasant blouses, blindingly tie-dyed shirts, fringed unidentifiable beaded things, and the haze of marijuana smoke that was almost a second garment. Skirts rarely appeared, and when they did, were more likely to be adorning one of the males ("Kilts offer so much more blessed freedom than constricting and oppressive pants," the male in question had proclaimed before accidentally flashing half the females in the class and subsequently getting hauled off to the principal's office—again). And they utterly failed to pay attention to anything Vernon might have said over the course of 55 minutes, interesting or otherwise.

Though, considering his track record so far, that wasn't surprising.

"Dick! Ah...Rich."

Richard glanced up and sighed. Speak of the devil, indeed.