XXIII. Esme, October 8

Esmeralda Rom and her boyfriend Phoebus Chevalier were on their way to lunch following their Friday calculus class with Mrs. Hearts when they heard an unusual sound coming from the cafeteria. Esme stopped talking, putting a hand up to quiet Phoebus, and listened for a moment. She gave Phoebus a look of concern and hurried towards the cafeteria, closely followed by her boyfriend. The lunch period had just begun so the room had not yet filled with students, but already there was a group of students clumped together in one corner. That was where the sound was coming from—the chanting. The students seemed to be surrounding something, and some of them were pumping their fists in the air. Knowing how cruel high school students could be when they grouped together, Esme was immediately worried. Her instincts told her that there was a person at the center of that crowd, and that that person needed help. She looked around—the only members of faculty in the room seemed to be the servers and cashiers, and they were preoccupied. The faculty members who usually patrolled the room looking to punish mischief makers were suspiciously absent. Esme handed Phoebus her bag and ran across the cafeteria, weaving through tables and students to make her way to the crowd.

When she was at the edge of the still-growing crowd, Esme could hear the things they were saying—encouraging abuse of the student at the center and shouting rude things at whoever it was. Disgusted, Esme began pushing people aside until she reached the center of the ring.

"Quasi?" Esme said softly as she recognized the victim.

He looked away from her, looking ashamed. The students standing around them had been somewhat quieted—Esme could hear them talking in hushed tones, but they were clearly distracted from their abuse by her actions. It was clear that they had been throwing food at the poor boy. Esme knelt down in from of him and plucked a piece of spaghetti from his hair, throwing it on the ground. Esme had known the boy, Quasimodo Michaud, longer than she had known any of her other friends, despite the fact that he was two years younger than her. He had been born with a physical deformity that had caused him to be ridiculed almost constantly, but Esme had never even seemed to notice how different Quasi was. Until recently, Esme had considered Quasi her best friend, but since her relationship with Phoebus had begun over the summer, the two had grown distant and Esme wasn't sure if Quasi still considered her worthy of that title. Looking down at Quasi hugging his legs to his chest on the floor, Esme felt horrible for how little she had seen him this year—and then, remembering who had put him in this situation, she felt angry. She turned her body toward the students who still stood around them in a circle, while still huddling close to her friend.

"What is your problem?" Esme shouted. "What did Quasi ever do to you?"

A couple of people looked guilty and began shuffling away. Others looked on in surprise, seemingly unable to move or look away. But then there were the jerks who didn't see what was so wrong with cornering the gentle sophomore, dumping food on him and shouting abuse.

"No one that ugly should be allowed to leave their house!" someone shouted from behind a cluster of students, where they conveniently couldn't be seen.

Esme stood and looked around with a piercing glare.

"Who said that?" she yelled, her expression dead serious. "Whoever you are—you're a coward. Not to mention a dimwit with a horrible personality. I know some of you are just too immature to understand that what you're doing is wrong, but for those of you who do—shame on you. You're not even worthy to be in the presence of this boy because you are so far below him."

The crowd dissipated pretty quickly after that little speech, and Esme turned to Quasi, helping him up off the ground. Phoebus pushed through the students who were walking away from the scene. He looked at Esme, then at Quasi, and shook his head. Esme took her bag back, and thanked Phoebus, then began leading Quasi out of the cafeteria.

"Where are we going?" Quasi asked.

"We're going to get you cleaned up," Esme said.

"Should I—" Phoebus began, as he was following alongside Esme.

"No," Esme said, though she smiled at Phoebus. "You stay here—make sure justice is upheld while I'm gone."

Esme led Quasi beyond the bathrooms and he looked at her inquisitively.

"The bathrooms will be full of people at this time—I figured the locker rooms would be empty since there are no classes right now," Esme said.

"Oh… yeah," Quasi nodded.

The two went into the men's locker room and Esme led Quasi to the sink and helped him wash out his hair. He washed off his arms and face while Esme picked through the lost-and-found for something Quasi's size. She found a clean t-shirt that looked like it would fit him and brought it over to him, and he changed.

"Why are you helping me?" Quasi asked.

Esme looked at Quasi like he had three heads—it was a look he was used to, but not from her.

"Don't be ridiculous," Esme said. "You're my best friend."

"I didn't know you still considered me that," Quasi said, looking at the floor.

"Of course I do," Esme said, putting a hand under Quasi's chin and tilting his head up. "Who else?"

"I don't know… Phoebus," Quasi said.

"Phoebus is my boyfriend," Esme said. "There's a difference. I've known you for a lot longer. You mean a lot to me, Quasi. I hate that I haven't seen you much lately."

"I didn't think you cared," Quasi shrugged.

"Well, I'm sorry you think that," Esme said. "I would love it if you would come sit with Phoebus and me at lunch."

"Really?" Quasi asked.

"Of course—you and I always sat together last year, why should this year be any different?" Esme asked.

"I just thought you and Phoebus would want to be… alone," Quasi said.

"It's school lunch," Esme chided. "It's not like it's a date or something. Come on—there's a few minutes left, maybe we can grab a snack or something."

Back in the cafeteria, Esme formally introduced Quasi and Phoebus and sat between them. Phoebus shared what was left of his lunch with the two as they caught up.

"What have you been up to?" Esme asked.

"Nothing really," Quasi said, and he was being truthful. "Mostly just schoolwork, I guess. How about you?"

"Nothing really interesting," Esme said. "I had detention Monday though."

"What—you, detention?" Quasi asked.

"It's my theology teacher—Mr. Frollo," Esme said glumly. "I don't know what it is, but he just has some kind of problem with me. I swear I haven't done anything to provoke him. I do all my work, I'm actually genuinely interested in the material, and I always pay attention in class and yet… It's like he has some kind of personal vendetta against me."

"So how did he justify giving you a detention?" Quasi asked.

"He said he saw me cheating on a quiz, which is impossible because I wasn't," Esme said. "But there was really nothing I could do about it. I mean… it was his word against mine."

"That's ridiculous," Quasi shook his head. "It's too bad there's no way you can prove you didn't cheat."

"Well, it's no wonder the students are such jerks when the faculty is setting such a bad example," Phoebus put in.

"That's true," Esme said, looking thoughtful. "I'm so glad to be out of here after this year—sorry, Quasi."

"It's alright," Quasi shrugged. "I've been through worse than high school—although it won't be the same here without you around."

"I'm sure you'll do okay," Esme said.

Quasi nodded, although he looked unsure. Esme decided to change the subject—she didn't want to worry Quasi too much about the future.

"So, got any plans for Halloween yet?" Esme asked.

"No—I was thinking I might skip it this year," Quasi said.

"Skip Halloween?" Esme asked, looking at him with surprise—Halloween was Quasi's favorite holiday. He never missed it, and he always had the most creative costumes. "How could you skip Halloween?"

"I don't know, I'm just not feeling it this year," Quasi said, shrugging.

"Come on," Esme said, tilting her head at Quasi. "You've got to be joking—you love Halloween! Anyway, I don't have plans yet so we should all do something together. What do you say?"

"I guess," Quasi said.

"It'll be fun," Esme said, shoving Quasi lightly with her arm. "I promise."

The bell rang signaling the end of lunch. Esme, Phoebus, and Quasi stood and cleared off their trash from the table. Esme made Quasi promise to call or text her later, and then the three went their separate ways off to class.

Esme couldn't help but feel frustrated as she sat in her eighth block theology class. She hoped the frustration didn't show on her face. She was reluctant to answer any of Mr. Frollo's questions for fear that he might find some way to punish her for her response. The way he had been treating her was actually a bit ridiculous, and Esme couldn't even begin to understand it. It had been clear within the first couple days of this school year that Mr. Frollo had a problem with Esme. At first, she thought she could make him like her by reading the textbook closely, studying hard for quizzes and tests, and writing stellar papers. She did well on the quizzes, where it was indisputable that Esme had the proper knowledge required—with the exception, of course, of the quiz Mr. Frollo had claimed she cheated on, which meant an automatic F. The papers, however, were another story. Since a large part of grading papers was subjective, Mr. Frollo didn't really have to justify giving Esme Cs and Ds on all of her papers—and he did so, seemingly with pleasure. Whenever he handed her back a paper, the corners of his lips would curl up into a cruel smile. Esme was disgusted that he took such pleasure in trying to drag down Esme's GPA.

Mr. Frollo was currently lecturing about the caste system in India and how it related to religion. As she had done the reading—both out of a stubborn and probably futile effort to try to reverse Mr. Frollo's feelings about her—she knew the answers to all the questions and was struggling to keep quiet while Mr. Frollo called on other students who didn't know the answer. Weeks before, he had tried calling on Esme a couple of times—an act which would make most students squirm. But Esme had answered his questions flawlessly, which only seemed to disappoint him. Esme herself was disappointed that such an interesting class had to be taught by such a hostile instructor.

Wrapping up his lecture for the day, Mr. Frollo stopped pacing around the classroom and stepped back to the podium at the front of the room. He opened a folder and picked up a stack of papers.

"Now, I've finished grading your papers," Mr. Frollo said, his voice menacing. "And let's just say they were… less than illuminating."

He went around the room and handed back the papers one by one. There were various sounds of frustration and annoyance heard around the room. Esme knew that she wasn't the only one receiving bad grades on her papers in this class, but she wasn't sure if the others in the class didn't deserve the bad grades. She doubted anyone else in that class worked as hard on their papers as she did. She wasn't being full of herself, but she knew that the papers she had written were quality. And she knew that Mr. Frollo had a particular hatred for her because the way he sneered at her and put down everything she said in class was far worse than the way he treated anyone else.

He finally reached Esme's desk and put down her paper face up. She didn't even bother looking up to see his face—she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her disappointment. It was an F—the worst grade she had gotten on a paper so far in the class, and completely ridiculous. At least Ds and Cs could be chalked up to pure subjectivity, but an F? There was no possible justification for giving an F to this paper—in fact, Esme thought it was even much better than the others she had written so far. Underneath the circled F, in Mr. Frollo's jagged scrawl, was written "see me after class." Esme groaned and slumped back in her chair. She glanced over curiously at the desk next to her. The boy sitting there, a muscular Chinese guy in a football jersey, had even gotten a better grade than her—a C-, but still a better grade. He had his hand raised.

"Yes, Mr. Li?" Mr. Frollo said, sighing.

"How can we get better grades on these papers?" the boy asked, throwing his hands up into the air. "I mean, I've been trying to improve but you haven't written anything on the papers you've given back about why I got the grade I did. I don't understand how I'm supposed to do any better than this when you won't tell me what I'm doing wrong."

"Well, clearly you're not trying hard enough," Mr. Frollo said, his fingers curling around the edges of the podium and gripping it as he leaned forward. "If you were, maybe I'd get some interesting papers to read rather than this… drivel that you all have been giving me. Any other questions?"

Mr. Frollo discouraged any potential questions by looking around the room, basically giving a death glare to everyone. The bell rang a few seconds later, and Mr. Frollo leaned back from the podium as the students gathered their things hurriedly and headed out the door. Esme sat at her desk, seeing no reason to rush since she would be stuck here for a little while longer anyway. She wasn't sure quite how to feel about this—she certainly didn't want to be around Mr. Frollo, but she hoped she could at least get some answers as to why he was going out of his way to make sure she got the lowest grade possible. Once the room had cleared out, Mr. Frollo closed the door and turned to Esme.

"Ms. Rom," he said, as slowly as it was probably possible to say such a short name.

"Yes," Esme said, picking her bag up and walking with dread towards the front of the room.

"You are aware that you received a failing grade on your latest essay," Mr. Frollo said.

"Of course," Esme said, then dared to add, "Quite undeservedly."

"You think so?" Mr. Frollo asked, looking amused.

"I know so," Esme said, surprised that she was actually saying the words that were coming to her mind—she supposed she couldn't possibly make things worse than they already were.

"I'm assuming you would rather receive a more… laudable grade, would you not?" Mr. Frollo asked, his voice smooth and his words rehearsed.

"Obviously," Esme said, crossing her arms over her chest defiantly.

"Well then," Mr. Frollo said, stepping around Esme and putting his hands on her shoulders. "I can't see why we shouldn't be able to come to some… agreement."

"What are you talking about?" Esme asked, the color draining from her face—though she was pretty sure she knew the answer.

"Oh, I think you know," Mr. Frollo leaned forward and whispered in Esme's left ear while his right hand reached around and caressed the right side of her face.

She quickly pulled away and turned so that Mr. Frollo was in front of her. She looked at him now with more disdain even than she had before. So this must be what this was all about. Mr. Frollo was attracted to Esme, and so he took out his frustrations by making her utterly miserable. And now he thought that he could somehow bargain with her to get his way. Esme could never allow that. She had too much respect for herself.

"You're sick," Esme said, unable to disguise the look of disgust on her face.

"You know, you really have no choice," Mr. Frollo said, reaching forward and brushing a hand against Esme's hair before she pulled away. "If we don't come to some agreement you'll simply have to fail the class. All those times you'll be caught cheating on quizzes and tests—you never learn, do you?"

"It's not that easy, Mr. Frollo," Esme said through gritted teeth. "If you think I won't tell anyone about this, you don't know the first thing about me."

"You won't tell a soul," Mr. Frollo said.

"Oh yeah?" Esme said. "What makes you so confident?"

"Because who would believe you?" Mr. Frollo said—he wasn't quite laughing, but there was something like laughter in his voice. "You've already been caught cheating on a quiz, do you really want to start throwing false accusations around? Hmm?"

Esme tried to come up with a response, but she could think of nothing. He was right—without proof, it would just look like she was trying to get him in trouble, revenge for catching her cheating. As horrible as he was, there was no denying that Mr. Frollo was clever. Esme shook her head, making a noise of disgust as she headed toward the door.

"Esmeralda?" Mr. Frollo said, the syllables sounding smooth and snakelike rolling off his tongue. Esme's hand was on the door, but she looked back at Mr. Frollo against her better judgment. "You will consider my proposal. Won't you?"

A number of possible responses raced through Esme's mind, but she decided she'd rather not dignify the question with a response. She made sure to slam the door on her way out.