Eleanor: Yeah, update stuff!
...I should probably put disclaimers in here, but I'm too lazy. Let's just say I don't own anything but a computer, 43 cents, and a broken stapler. Anything else, whatevs.
Read on!
"Waaaaaaaaaaait!"
Several of the students on the school bus starting laughing at Angie, who was pathetically trying to catch up with the moving vehicle.
"SOMEBODY'S not joining the track team!" one jeered.
"SOMEBODY shouldn't have spent so much time on her hair this morning!"
"SOMEBODY tooooo looooove!" sang another. He received a few stares. "Uh… GENERIC RANDOM INSULT!" The others on the bus approved with a round of applause.
This last jab almost made Angie cry. But she would not cry. Not today. Not tomorrow. She had a mission to accomplish and a reputation to uphold. She would stand and fight!
Or run after the bus wailing for the air-headed Korean bus driver to slow down. Same difference.
But her new frame of mind helped her through; she even ran the whole rest of the way to school! (Let's not mention she only lived a block away, yes?)
With her purple knapsack (full of folders and paper) secured to her back and a large pink purse (full of pencils, pens, and erasers to make up for all the pencils being topped with large, feathery endings) on her elbow, Angie arrived at the front door panting, but her mission wasn't done yet. It was 106 feet to the classroom, she had a full stomach from breakfast, it wasn't dark, and she wasn't wearing sunglasses.
(Hit it.)
Angie kept running. A school clock passed overhead—it was 7:59. With a dramatic gasp, she (Angie, not the clock) picked up the speed. The pressure made it as if a loud timepiece was ticking away in her head, every second counting down to her doom (or maybe that was just the watch on her backpack)! She pushed herself hard, and finally, Room 206 approached.
"HAAAAAAAHHHHHH!" With a yell, she made a triumphant leap to the doorway, sliding forward onto the classroom's beige tiles just as the starting bell rang. Panting, she stumbled over to the nearest vacant desk/chair and plopped down.
The English Literature teacher looked upon her with a frown.
"Sorry," she breathed, getting out some paper and a pencil with a fluffy orange top.
"Ignoring the distraction," the teacher said, walking back toward the blackboard, "welcome to the English Literature classroom. I am your teacher, and you will address me as Professor Kirkland." He wrote this on the board as he announced it.
"Why 'professor'?" one student asked.
"Because I'm SUPPOSED to be teaching at a bloody university in this country," Prof. Kirkland grumbled, finishing his name and putting the chalk back down.
"…Isn't 'bloody', like, a hardcore cuss word in England?" a student responded.
"Enough chatter," the teacher decided, pulling down a retractable sheet of plastic. After taking another sip of his tea, he stepped over a bit and turned on an overhead projector. A sheet with way too many words for all but the kiss-up students to read appeared on the screen.
"Now we will cover the rules and curriculum."
After a grueling fifty minutes, only the strongest remained attentive and/or awake and/or un-traumatised and responsive.
Not quite worn down enough to chew out the class for this, Prof. Kirkland leant against his metal teacher's desk and set his cup down.
"Any questions?" started he.
The students whose foci (because "focuses" doesn't sound kewl enough) hadn't drifted had nothing to ask. Then a few students, sensing the lecture had ended, drifted back to a vaguely attentive state. One of these students was named Katie.
Katie raised her hand.
"Yes?"
With an innocent but stupid-sounding voice, Katie asked, "Are you really British?"
The teacher shifted his legs. "No; I talk in an accent for my own amusement."
Katie paused, mouth open a little bit.
"Was that sarcasm?"
"We'll cover that in a later unit." The teacher took another sip out of his cup.
Another student raised his hand.
"Yes?"
"So do all British people love tea?"
Prof. Kirkland scowled. "Do all Americans love shoving unearthly amounts of hamburgers down their throats?"
"Yes."
…
"All right, then."
The other classes were doing about as well.
"Welcome to Spanish class, you little b*stards," the oldest in Room 203 grouched, sitting on the teacher's desk. The students fell silent.
"Uh…" finally started George (a student [yes, I had to clarify that {in case you thought it was the classroom dog or something (How many parentheses within parentheses can I make?)}]). "Is it legal for you to talk like that to us?"
"D*mned if I know," the teacher replied with a yawn. "I'm just a substitute, anyway. They can't really fire me."
"Wait, a substitute?" interjected Tallie (no, not all of the girls at this school have names that end in "ie". I think). "Where's our actual teacher, then?"
"The d*mned b*stard's off Running With The Bulls."
Edward was the first student to raise a hand to ask a question. The substitute didn't actually call on him, though, so he slackened and asked, anyway. "Is that a euphemism that means he's hung over?"
"No."
"Does it mean he's dead?"
"No! It means he's off in his f*cking homeland actually Running With The Bulls!"
Silence again.
"…So it means he's GOING to be dead?"
"Hope so. I could use a real job."
The class ran out of questions for only a minute.
"So, are you going to actually teach a class?" proposed Yvette.
The substitute scoffed and stomped over to the blackboard. He wrote a sloppy "Spanish Word of the Day" and underlined it.
"Fine! The Spanish Word of the Day is tomato." He wrote "tomato".
…
"So, what is it in Spanish?"
"H*ll if I know! Look it up yourself, lazy*ss!"
Across the hall, in Room 202, the Chemistry class (Yes, the rooms here are as logically arranged as they are in most schools. I think the French and German classes are on the other end of the building.) was going off well enough.
"…And these we call the alkali metals," the teacher continued cheerfully, pointing at the first column of the room's large, hanging Periodic Table.
Suddenly, a large groan came from the audience. The teacher looked over quizzically.
"What is it?" he asked, cheerful smile becoming the slightest bit twisted.
"Mr. Braginski," mumbled Terrance, resting his head sideways on his arms, "when are we ever going to use this?"
"Ah!" Mr. Braginski left his Periodic Table and scurried to the blackboard. "Well," he started energetically, drawing a broken circle, "two of those elements—sodium and potassium—are vital to every cell in the human body." He put in some boxes to fill the breaks in the circle and labelled them "Na" and "K". "All the cells have little pumps that make sure all the potassium and sodium is in the right place, and they're working all the time." Setting the chalk down, he turned to face the class. "So if someone could invent a way to block them, the experimental subject would be painfully killed! It would be a fantastic biological weapon!" he finished.
The class was silent, Eye Takes (if you don't know what this is, you don't get on TV Tropes enough) all over the place.
"Does that answer your question?" Mr. Braginski finally asked, looking at Terrance.
Terrance, face pale, just nodded shakily in the hopes the teacher would stop looking at him.
"All right!" Mr. Braginski started to erase the illustration while checking the clock.
"Well, that's our first lesson! Try to remember all of the groups." Finished erasing, the teacher put his head back against the blackboard and smiled at the class.
"But it's still just the first day! Let's relax the rest of the time. I can answer some questions, if you have any to ask."
Sandra raised her hand shakily.
"Da?"
"Why is it so cold in here?" she whispered, trying to keep her teeth from chattering.
"The thermostat's broken. Always has been." The teacher adjusted his heavy coat with a smile. "I've wanted to move, but…" His face fell (not literally). "Moving classrooms requires the consent of…" His voice dropped to a whisper.
"…the principal."
With a shudder, he shifted his shoulders.
Some students were terribly frightened the principal even scared the teacher who seemed so cheerful about painful mass murder. Others thought it was all just a joke.
One of these others was Jason, who raised his hand now with a smirk (on his face, not his hand).
"Da?"
"Have you ever killed a man?" Jason asked, on the verge on laughter.
Mr. Braginski considered the question for a moment. Smile becoming the slightest bit unnerving, he replied, "Define 'man'."
Jason's smile vanished.
"Because I think," the teacher went on, "some people do things for which they should not be considered men anymore." He tipped his head to the side a little. "So in my view, no, I have never killed a man."
Jason, a sufficient amount of blood finally having drained from his face, nodded bewilderedly and tried to scoot his chair-desk away from the teacher's desk.
A distance away, in Room 213, the French class was underway.
Kind of.
"Um…" Cassie shifted in her chair with a glance back at the clock. It was fifteen minutes past the start of class already. Uncomfortably, she turned to the nearest student—whose name was Joe—and whispered, "Is the teacher going to show up?"
"I've been here for the last thirteen minutes…"
Cassie froze.
"Did you hear something?" Joe started, looking around like he expected a ghost to appear and steal his face for pizza toppings.
"I think I heard SOMETHING," Cassie whispered back, her gaze flitting about nervously.
"Um, class?" the mysterious voice started again. Those talking amongst each other didn't hear, and the others were too busy looking for a ghost/alien/some sort of thing that might be invisible to make out the words.
"Dude, I think this room is haunted," Joe breathed, shivering despite his bright orange jumper.
"What's going to happen to us?" wailed Cassie before shuddering and slamming her head on her desk.
"She's possessed!" shouted Jesse fearfully, scooting his chair/desk away from the girl. At the word "possessed", the rest of the classroom broke out screaming and (for reasons unknown) left their chairs and began to run around the room.
"We have to fight back!" shouted Jeremy, tipping a desk/chair over.
"We have to make a defensive barrier!" announced Trixie, tipping over another desk.
"How's that going to stop a ghost?" wailed Cassie, hitting her head against the nearest desk.
"She's right! We're all going to die!" screamed Jesse, launching the room back into hysterics.
"Does this have to happen every year…?"
In response to the immediate uproar, the teacher across the hall sighed and shut his door.
"What's going on over there?" Henry asked slowly.
"Please raise your hand before asking a question," the teacher responded. Henry begrudgingly raised his hand.
"Hai?"
"What's going on over there?"
"I have no idea."
Feeling gypped he had to go through all the trouble of moving his hand upwards a whole cubit, Henry grumbled something obscene under his breath.
"Please do not utter such things!" the teacher responded quickly. "And also, please do not wear that sort of clothing in my classroom!"
Henry glanced down at his far-sagging trousers. "Why are you looking at my butt, anyway?"
The teacher's face went erubescent (Ha ha, loser, I bet you have to go look that up in a dictionary now.). "Your manner of dress forces people to look there!"
"Well, I kinda like people checking me out."
"Not in my classroom, please!" exclaimed the teacher, flustered.
"Mr. Honda? Why do you have to say 'please' with everything, anyway?" started Ricky, not raising his hand. Mr. Honda looked at him for a moment until the student's hand finally rose above his head (Ricky's, not Mr. Honda's [not that a standing Mr. Honda's head was below Ricky's when the younger was seated, oh no siree]).
"Hai?"
"Why do you say 'please' every time you yell at us to do something?"
"I value politeness, even if the others at this school do not," the teacher replied.
"Mmm-kayz," Henry shrugged (yes, "shrugged" is totes a speaking word now).
The teacher turned back to the blackboard to continue discussing the syllabus.
"Mr. Honda?"
He turned back toward the class, his impatience not showing.
"Hai?"
"What kind of car do you drive?" continued Chelsie.
With a frown, Mr. Honda went back to the blackboard.
Lloyd laughed aloud, before the teacher could respond vocally. "We want to know what kind of car Mr. Honda drives?"
The teacher sighed before stating matter-of-factly, "I drive a Toyota."
"Oh. Well, that's less cool," Lloyd said with a frown. "So, uh, how many times have the brakes gone out?"
"That is not funny!" (Then why is it in a crack fic, anyway?) responded Mr. Honda with a stern frown. "And do not ask questions without raising your hand first!"
"Yessir, Mr. Nazi," Lloyd slurred back.
"If you are going to make derogatory comments based on WWII (Mr. Honda, of course, actually said "World War Two", but since I'm too lazy to type that out—
Hey, wait…), you should at least base them on the correct Axis Power."
"Okay. Uh…" Lloyd paused. "What the crap did they call the Japanese in WWII, anyway?"
"You didn't raise your hand."
"And you didn't answer me, so we're all good."
"Touché." (Somewhere, Abridged Iruka screamed because someone stole his catchphrase again.)
But right here, it was finally 8:55, and the first hour dismissing bell rang. Five minutes for the teachers to rest before second hour.
And then it got to start all over again.