A Week For the World: Day 2 :Part 1

Day Two

Desmond

“Foolishness!” I cursed in my dark room, the sound fading into the surrounding dim. Los Angeles was never truly “dark”--with its thriving nightlife, composed of hedonists and indulgences, and droves of cars congesting the highways, lights lit up the entire L.A. scene.

In my apartment building at 2:36 A.M., though, I was near-certain that few, if any, people were awake. I had awoken by chance, a stray thought pecking my mind. As my eyes flew open, I had turned, facing my bicycle. There was only one problem. My bicycle was not there.

In a panic, I had scrambled around my room, looking for what had simply gone. But I knew that already. After the explosion, I thought, still at odds with what really happened, my bike never came back to me. It wasn’t at the hospital. Oh, what a pain!

Come on, Desmond, think... You have an issue, resolve it... I willed myself to think of a solution. Without my bike, I would be late for both Emanuel’s and school. I relied on my bike for transportation everywhere. It was central to my life.

Sighing in anticipation of what had to be done, I faced my desk with grim resolve. I brushed aside wayward pens and pencils. My movement shifted the neat stack of papers to the right of me, and a newspaper clipping fluttered down. Squinting in the dimness of my room, I bent over to pick it up, catching sight of the headline through the light streaming from my window.

“Sotiras Caught On Tape”, the article proclaimed in bold, black font. Below, addressing the title was a blurry photograph featuring a person dressed in casual attire.

Sotiras was what you might call a local hero, being both parts mystery and philanthropist. Heralded by some press as “this generation’s Robin Hood”, numerous donations to food shelters, soup kitchens, charities, and funds had all been delivered under the cover of night or by mail to these establishment’s doorstep. All were simply signed: Sotiras.

These mysterious donations soon caught the public’s eye, newspapers couldn’t get enough of Sotiras. This article in particular drew on Sotiras’s mysterious arrival around three years ago and boasted the blurry photo of him. Claiming to have been taken from security camera footage the picture simply showed a person in front of the food shelter, holding a large bag. The morning after, the bag was found outside the shelter, loaded with canned goods and cash. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together to realize the person holding the bag was most likely Sotiras.

What made the picture so striking was the black and white opera mask the figure donned, obscuring his face. To the whole world, Sotiras was indeed a mystery.

My hand brushed against the cool metal of what I had been searching for, snapping me out of my thoughts-- my cash jar. I had been slowly saving up money I got from working at Emanuel’s, gradually building up until I needed the cash. I promised myself I would only use it in an emergency, and this qualified, I thought. With no bike, I was effectively disabled. I couldn’t move anywhere, nor could I get to where I had to be on time.

Opening the jar, I counted the bills, already knowing how much was in there, but checking once again: one-hundred and twenty-four dollars.

That was more than enough for the utilitarian bike I had in mind. The problem was how to get to the store and buy the bike. It was two in the morning-- aside from clubs and 24-hour convenience stores, there were little shops open at this time of night. Moreover, I had already skipped one shift at Emanuel’s-- almost a surefire way for me to get canned. I didn’t want to think of that right now, so I thought back to my bike problem.

I didn’t bother busting my brain trying to think of a 24-hour store that sold bikes-- I had Google for that.

A quick web search ended my shopping troubles. “How much money should I bring?” I debated, then ended up just bringing all I had. Better safe than sorry. The ticking of the clock set me back on track, and I ran out of my apartment, taking the stairs two at a time.

Cool winds swept through my jacket, leaving me chilly in the night air. Headlights zipped their way across my line of vision, leaving me anxiously pacing the street, back and forth. I held my hand up, trying to catch the attention of the cab drivers who were seemingly nonexistent. Figures. At this time, most people were inside sleeping or outside partying.

Just when the thought of going to a busier street became too strong to ignore, a taxi finally slowed to the curb as the driver poked his head out. I squinted, and in the sharp contrast of his headlights and the night, his bushy beard seemed to flesh out his entire head, casting lined shadows across his face. As I walked closer, I could see a criss-cross spread of scars across his face.

Raising one eyebrow, the cabbie stalled the engine, pulling to a complete stop. “You boy. Are you lost?” He rasped.

“ I just need a ride. Are you free to take me?” I answered.

“You running away from your parents?” The driver cracked a grin, showing one missing front tooth.

“If I had any to run from.” I spoke, half to myself, taking his lack of a denial as a “yes”, and crawled into the passenger seat.

Inside, his cab was covered in a thick layer of plastic, strewn over seats and windows. Noticeably surprised at my audacity, the cabbie widened his eyes. Seeing me taking note of his choice of interior decor, he smiled and spoke, “The meter’s running. Better speak quick. Where you running off to? I know some good places a kid like you could stay.”

I ignored him, and pulled out a piece of paper in my pocket. “You know how to get to the Walmart here?” I asked, indicating the address I had jotted down earlier.” It’s a few cities away and I’ve never been there.”

“What do you think I am, a human GPS? I only drive locally!” The driver outraged, looking ready to throw me out.

“Look,” I began, but the cabbie cut me off, angrily ranting.

“If you can’t give me turn-by-turn directions, then forget about getting in my car!” He looked at me, as if daring me to say that I could.

Luckily, I could.

Groaning, I answered. I didn’t want it to come to this. People always look at me funny once they know I can recall things almost perfectly. “Fine, I’ll give you turn-by-turn directions.” I rolled my eyes and sighed with resignation..

Smirking, the driver gloated, “That’s what I thought. Wait! Say what?”

“Drive down this street until we get to the third traffic light. Then make a right.” I began intoning in a steady voice, going over the route in my head.

“Whoa, slow down! I thought you just told me you’ve never been there. What are you trying to pull, shooting directions left and right?” He exclaimed, eyeing me closely.

“Look. I want to get somewhere. You can get me there. I’m paying you. Is something wrong?” I tried to explain as little as possible.

“Yeah. Whatever.” The driver shrugged and drove forward, muttering, “Kids...”

I sat still as the car drove along, waiting to guide him on to the next intersection. As we passed a speed bump, the shift jangled the collection of pictures and keychains hanging from the dashboard. The movement drawing my eye, I saw a small photo of my cabbie and a women. Both were smiling, hand-in-hand, and my driver still had all his teeth. His face was clear of injuries too.

“This is your wife?” I asked, motioning to the photo.

“Was.” He replied, his voice soft. “She died two years ago in a car accident. The same one that messed up my face.” At this, I became incredibly interested in the fleeting nightscape, taking special care to note the streetlights running from our car.

“Turn left here.” I broke the uncomfortable silence with another direction. Then, trying to change the subject, I ventured another question. “It’s rare to see someone driving a taxi this late. Do you only work the night shift? Or...” I dropped the question as a hopeless look came into his eyes.

“I’ve got two mouths to feed back at home besides me. With only me working, I need all the money I can get.” For the second time, I spoke nothing.

A minute or so later, it was the cabbie who spoke first:

“You don’t seem like a bad kid. Why’re you running away?”

“As I’ve told you before, I’m not running away.” I replied, following up with, “ Just turn here, and it’ll be on the right.”

“That Sotiras, though. Helping out with donations and food.” My driver continued. “God bless him and the fact that there are still good people in this world. When I lost everything, there was no one there for me. But then, the shelter’s near us began to help out. I never thought I’d have to ever go to a soup kitchen for food...”

Not sure if it was right for me to continue the subject, I tried a tentative question. “That’s good. Sound as if the shelter’s have been helping out a lot?”

Voice breaking, he replied, “Yeah, they’ve been great. But look at me, a grown man, crying in front of you. What would my wife say?”

Trying to keep the emotion out of my voice, I answered with, “My stop’s here.”

The illuminated words of Walmart made it easy to see from across the deserted parking lot were in.

“So, how much?” I pulled out a wad of bills. In lieu of unforeseen events, I had decided to bring my entire can’s worth of cash with me.

“Look, you’re not really a bad kid. Tell you what, the ride’s on me.” He gave me a little grin. “Stay out of trouble, okay?”

“That’s not fair! You and your family are struggling!” I protested. “I don’t even know your name, and I still feel like I owe you. How about five dollars?” During the car ride, I had an idea and I extended my arm, holding a bill. Come one, take it...I tried to command him mentally.

The driver stared at me, eyes shining, “You really aren’t a bad kid. My name’s Evan, and yeah, I’ll take the five dollars, if you’re willing.”

I handed him over the money. “What’s this?” Evan asked, looking at the small white slip of paper covering the bill.

“Directions. You mentioned you only drove local, so I wrote them down on your business card when we were driving.” I gave a hasty explanation, then closed the car door, and ran towards Walmart.

“Wait!” Evan called after me. My heart skipped a beat. Could he have figured it out already? “Do you need a ride back?”

I breathed inwardly in relief and responded, “No I’m good. I’m here to get a bike and I’ve got somewhere else to go. You can leave.” Thank goodness, I thought and relaxed as Evan’s tail lights left the parking lot. If he had discovered what I’d done then and there, things would have been...uncomfortable.

Twenty-three minutes later, I stepped back into the nipping air, clutching my newly-bought bike. Evan was nowhere to be found (I had a nagging suspicion he’d find out and stay to confront me), and this was good. Less people for me to deal with.

With all my rush to get to Emanuel’s before 3:45, I did not pay my usual intense attention to my dark surroundings. I caught only glimpses of the streets and houses, along with the discarded trash and food wrappers that made me boil. How stupid could people be? I had spent many an hour trying to explain to people why I went around picking up trash, but I always got the same response: “It’s not my problem. Why should I pick it up?” Their attitude was positively sickening.

Didn’t anyone else have the ability to see that, not wars or disease, but good old human nature was the reason we were all doomed? “Just because it was someone else’s problem does not mean you can’t help!” I had furiously tried to make people get it. But always it was met with a blank stare and no help on their part.

Fuming about how stupid people were, I almost passed Panificio di Emanuel-- my destination. Stopping my bike at the rack that stood in front of the door, I used the chain I always left there to secure my bike. Next, turning my attention to door, I fumbled in my pocket for the key I always kept with me. The inside of the bakery lit up as I hit the light switch. I half-expected Emanuel to jump out and chastise me for missing out two shifts, but there was no one there. Emanuel wouldn’t come until 6:00.

Baking bread was a long and lengthy process. I checked my watch: 3:52. Not on schedule, I thought to myself. Again, I noticed the band on my arm. You have caused me more than your fair share of trouble, I glared at it as I gathered the ingredients for the first batch of loaves. Looking at its twisting streaks of silver still gave me shivers of mystery and fear.

There’s no time for that Desmond! I brought myself back on track, lightly flouring my surface. Mixing my ingredients in my bowl, I lost myself in the tiresome work of kneading the dough. Emanuel had perhaps even hundreds of customers everyday. A prolific baker, he had learned all he knew from some great bakers in France, but stayed true to his Italian roots and came here. It was an odd mix, his Italian background, the L.A. scene, and his French skills, but his bread was the real deal.

I had come in for a job offer almost four years ago, and to my surprise, he had taught me (just a pasty faced kid then) the basics and hired me. Large and beefy. Emanuel had surprising deftness in his hands when it came to breadmaking.

Here in the heart of the kitchen as the night whiled away, I sweated, forming loaf after loaf. From the very start, Emanuel had made it very clear to me that I was to be at work every day, and that failure to do so would cost me my job. Every day for nearly four years, I had done so. Until yesterday. Now, apprehensive, I had came here, very early, to make up for yesterday.

In my head, I could already hear his angry accented voice screaming. “You! Foolish boy! I tell you, work everyday and you are not fired, no? But what do you do? You do not come to work, hm? Out!” I wasn’t even sure why I was still here. My job was as good as gone. But, just like with my dream, a little part of me wanted to believe that I could still somehow turn this around, somehow impress him.

I grabbed my washcloth near the sink and wiped my wet forehead. It was now 5:48-- Emanuel would come soon to officially open up the shop. This whole time, I had been working almost nonstop. Looking to the mound of loaves I had on the pan, I turned to the ones already baking. Even by his standards, this was a lot of work done in a little bit of time. If I could do this everyday, would that be enough to convince him?

It was while pounding another round of dough to smooth out its consistency when I heard the key turn in the lock and tightness seized my chest. How would Emanuel react?

The footsteps behind me stopped and I heard a gasp. Without warning, a heavy hand clapped me on the back. “Desmond! You are not hurt, yes?” Heart thumping, I turned to see Emanuel with a large grin on his face.

“Yeah, I am fine.” I replied, waiting to see what would happen next. Then, deciding anything he said wouldn’t be good news, I rambled on. “Look, I know I missed both of my shifts yesterday, but I can make it up by working longer in the mornings.” I gestured to the stacks of bread and dough I had already made. “I can work harder, just please, let me keep my job!”

Emanuel waved a dismissive hand. “The police, they come to tell me one of my employees is hurt. It is end up being you. You are back; that is what matters. Never let it happen again. You come early in the mornings to help, I will overlook it this once. ” Seeming satisfied, he moved over to his own station, starting on his own loaves.

I simply stared at him, speechless. Only a slight warning and just extra hours? That was saintly by Emanuel’s standards! “T-t-thank you,” I managed to stutter, feeling my gratitude towards him grow.

“It is small matter! Keep working!” Emanuel responded gruffly.

While rinsing the dough off my hands, I managed to check the time once again. It was already 7:36 and school was a quarter after eight. Preoccupied with my own thoughts, I had forgotten to check the time. I was going to be late, as usual.

“Emanuel, I’ve got to go to school.” I finished rinsing and tidied my workspace. He grunted in response.

The warm air outside contrasted sharply with my cool bike chain. Riding off to school, it suddenly occurred to me that I had not brought any of the things I needed for the classroom. No bag, no books. No cares. I shrugged it off and kept my concentration on the congested roads ahead of me. I had bigger fish to fry than dealing with my lack of preparation for school.

In any case, school wasn’t hard, or even remotely interesting. It just served as another nagging reminder of how pitiful my generation was going to be. Littered hallways, general stupidity, and incompetence galore.

Emanuel’s wasn’t far from F.Wright High School, only two blocks away. Indeed, the only reason I was taking so long to get there was my self-disciplined insistence to clear up litter. Piece by piece, I dropped every empty Starbucks mug and used tissue into the unused trash cans. My campaign against trash led me to toe the line with time everyday..

I had been so absorbed in cleaning I didn’t notice when a taxicab pulled up next to me.

“Wow, nice to see you here.” I turned in shock to see Evan, scars and all, giving me an appraising look.

“Yeah, I have a lot of stuff to get rid of before I go to school.” I explained, throwing an empty carton away.

“So, look. What you did last night...” Evan began, and I waved a dismissive hand. I really didn’t want to get into that conversation.

“I don’t want to talk about it. What’s done is done.”

“That fifty you gave me. I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciated that. And you’re really sneaky, you know that? Hiding it under the directions.” Heedless of what I had said, he had started the conversation. Last night, I had been touched by Evan’s story and had given him a fifty instead of the five, using the directions I wrote as cover. Not exactly good for my wallet, but it ought to have helped him out.

“So I wanted to help, no need to make it a big deal,” my face flushed.

“What’s your name? I told my kids when I went back an hour ago, and they went crazy. You have no idea how much a little bit goes,” Evan had completely pulled his car over, only exacerbating the growing traffic jam.

I turned to face him. “Look Evan, I’m really glad I was able to help you, but I need to get to school. Also, shouldn’t you be getting passengers?” I raised an inquisitive eyebrow, mounting my bicycle. The street was now clean of trash (all but people, of course) and I had five minutes for a mad scramble to school.

“You look like you’re in a hurry. Wherever your I can get you there faster in a car. It’s my way of saying thanks. I just want your name in return. What do you say?” Evan broke into a larger grin.

I hated cars. Filthy air polluters, our world had become obsessed with them.

“Well it’s wonderful to meet you, Desmond. You can store your bike in the trunk.” Evan offered.

I nodded and climbed inside after slamming the trunk shut.

“So Desmond, what makes a kid like you so saintly, what with giving out large cash and picking up litter?”

“Circumstances beyond my control.” I didn’t bother to elaborate. “I’m getting off at the next block.”

The light turned green and the line of cars rushed forward. In no time at all, Evan had pulled to the side once more. As I opened the door and spoke, “Thanks a bunch,” Evan handed me a card.

I squinted at him. He laughed, “Don’t worry, it’s not money it’s just my card. If you ever need a lift, give me a call!” I checked to be sure then waved goodbye. There’s still some really great people in the world, huh? I asked myself, feeling immense gratitude towards Evan.

Squelching beneath my feet, the wet grass served as a walkway to school, not to mention a magnet for discarded schoolwork. Walking to homeroom, I passed groups of kids, all engaged in conversation. The whole scene almost made me cry in despair. They were all so horribly...uncaring. They did their schoolwork (at least some of them did), they socialized, and many of them participated in outside activities. By our culture’s norms, this would have been considered correct youth behavior. Is my culture to blame? I pondered. Regardless of whose fault it was, it still infuriated me how no other kid gave a damn about the impoverished or the environment.

Stifling a yawn, I took my seat and watched the clock tick. 8:14. I was early. A minute later, a wave of students filed in, following the bell. I paid my classmates no heed. The hubbub of the class droned on as I rested my head on my desk.

Then, silence. I looked up and around my class. In every class, meaningless prattle (by both the teacher and students) was to be expected, but silence was a rarity. Craning my neck, over the person in front of me, I wondered. What was going on?

The sharp voice of my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Aderson, answered my thoughts. Not that it was necessary. As soon as her wiry frame had stepped through the classroom, with a student in tow, everyone around me had burst into discussion after a stunned minute (which had the effect of waking me up). It hadn’t been even a month into the new school year, and I found Aderson intolerable. Her pompous talks on English somehow elevated it to a subject us mere students were unworthy of learning. Insufferable.

“Class, we have a new student joining us today. I expect each and every one of you to treat her with respect.” Beside Aderson was a girl, presumably the new student. Her brown hair rested lightly on her shoulders, framing a tan face. Piercing grey eyes looked at each of us as she introduced herself: “I’m Elizabeth Devine.” A sparse introduction to be sure.

“There’s an empty spot next to Mr. Wing.” Aderson pointed to my slouching frame near the back of the classroom.

She was quite good-looking and I saw a few of the other male members of my class shoot me a jealous look as she sat down to my right. I snorted in derision. As if I cared about romance. With the class settling back into its normal routine (chatter, chatter, chatter), I dropped my head again and let my eyes droop.

Fire, flames, all everywhere. “Desmond!” A voice shouts.

I try to move, but everything is still. I’m back at the apartment. “Gerald, run!” I scream, pushing him away. He looks at me, and his face changes to someone who looks familiar. His face is clean and shaven. Then, it changes again, to the policemen. I am afraid, and I can not move. It hurts everywhere. I am burning. Fire, flames, all everywhere, and a voice slowly speaks, “...the City of the Angels…”

“Gerald!” I awoke and shouted. The flames at the edge of my vision slowly crept and ebbed away. A blinding flash of light lit up from the side, and I turned to see Elizabeth, illuminated by a warm glow. Without warning, the band on my wrist burned and I yelped, closing my eyes.

When I reopened them, everyone was staring at me. Aderson, in the middle, of a lesson, stood mid-jab at the whiteboard. She smiled, “Ah, Mr. Wing, how nice of you to rejoin this class. Unless, of course, you can pay attention while sleeping. In which case, you’ve never left.” Laughter erupted all around me.

I snuck a look at Elizabeth, but the glow I saw was gone. She regarded me with the same wide-eyed surprise everyone else did. Breathing fast, but much more calm now, I turned my attention to Aderson, who was looking at me with a sense of superiority.

“Perhaps this class has instructed you on the finer points of differential calculus?” Considering that Aderson taught English, it was an obvious gibe directed at me. More laughter.

Mocking, Aderson pointed the Expo marker she had been writing with in my direction, “Care to explain?”

With a sudden rush in my ears, I stood up from my seat. Frozen still, Aderson looked at me, wide-eyed. “Of course, Mrs. Aderson, I’d be more than elated to expound and elucidate differential calculus,” The fake pleasure in my voice was obvious. Inwardly, I groaned. Once again, my hotheaded actions had dropped me in a bad spot.

Ridicule filling her eyes, Aderson scoffed, “Oh please, Mr. Wing, I doubt you could even recall one lesson from the many I’ve taught since the beginning of the school year. Explain differential calculus, don’t joke with me.”

I cleared my throat. “On the first day of the school year, at 8:16, you came in wearing a blue shirt with a black skirt. Ernie wore jeans with plaid. August had a striped T-shirt with black Nike shorts...” On and on, I recited what everyone in my class had wore on the first day.

Aderson glared at me, “Very well Mr. Wing but that has nothing to do--”

I wasn’t finished. “Mrs. Aderson, you have spent these past two weeks at length on California State Standards on Reading 1.1 and 1.2-- Identifying literal and figurative word meanings and understanding word derivatives, as well as distinguishing between denotative and connotative meanings of words and interpreting connotative powers on words. So far, you have assigned seven out of class assignments, the first of which was--”

“Mr. Wing!” Aderson interrupted me in the middle of my verbal train. “Perhaps if you feel you are so well-versed in the California State Standards, why don’t you teach the class for today?”

This was just what I had been longing for: a chance to show everyone how I felt about life, the world, everything.

With every eye in the room trained on me, I strode to the front of the class. Faces, some curious, others doubtful, and even a couple gleeful looked at me. But the important thing was that they were looking. I took a deep breath.

“Imagine a train. This train is out of control and is speeding towards a person on the tracks. You have the option to flip a switch and shift the tracks and let the train down another track. This track has no people on it. If you don’t flip the switch, a person dies, if you do, no one dies.” I drew a diagram of what I was talking about, a train, two tracks, and a switch. “ Do you flip the switch?” I asked, looking around the class.

General nods of assent swept around. “Why?” I inquired.

A girl at the front raised her hand. “Persephone, yes?” She dropped her hand quickly, and looked around, seeming intimidated at the shift of attention to her.

“Well, if you flip the switch then you save a life. If you don’t, then someone dies. It’s obvious!” A small flush of embarrassment bloomed on Persephone’s face as everyone continued staring intently.

“So what you are saying is that if you have a choice to not kill someone, you would make that choice? Everyone agree?” Persephone, as did the rest of the class nodded, though a few looked lost at what I was getting at.

I smiled. Time to up the ante.

“Let’s try a slightly different scenario. This time, the train is still out of control on the tracks, but now it’s heading towards five people,” I changed the diagram accordingly .“You have the option to a flip a switch again, and this time, if you do, the train will go onto another set of tracks and only head towards one person. Would you still flip the switch?” I wondered.

More nods spread around, as well as words of assent

“Why would you flip the switch? You are killing a person. Didn’t you just tell me that if you could avoid killing someone, you would do it? And doesn’t flipping the switch kill someone?” I prompted further discussion.

Another kid, Ernie, spoke aloud, “Well that’s because if you don’t, then more people will die!”

“Okay, so now you guys are saying if you have the choice between saving more people or less people, you’d choose to save more people.”

“Yeah,” Eric acted as this was obvious, vigorously nodding his head.

“Do you all agree?” I asked the class.

“Yes”’s were said all around.

“Now, here’s the final scenario...” I paused to savor the moment.

“Now imagine you are on a bridge witnessing this train. The train is soon going to crash into the town, killing a lot of people, and do a lot of damage. On the bridge is only you and someone you don’t know. The only way to stop the train is to put a large weight in front of it. As the train comes rushing below the bridge, would you push the person over, killing him, but stopping the train?”

Silence.

There were no nods this time.

One student tentatively raised her hand. “Wallace?”

“Well, I wouldn’t push the man off, because that’s killing someone!” He looked furious that I ever suggested the option.

“But in the other examples didn’t you all agree that if you have a choice between saving more people or less people, you’d choose to save more?” I called their previous agreement into question.

“It’s not the same!” Wallace protested and the rest of the students gave their agreement.

“How?” I asked.

“In this case, if you don’t push the man off, it’s not really your fault if the train crashes, right? In the other examples, you sort of had to choose., but here it’s not your fault!” Wallace seemed proud of his answer, and his classmates gave their verbal support:

“Yeah, that makes sense!”

“I mean, it’s not really your fault…”

“That’s right, they can’t really blame you, I mean, who would actually kill someone?”

The class descended into a mass of discussion, as each person remarked on how much Wallace’s answer made sense.

Except for Elizabeth. Staring at her desk, she seemed lost in thought, oblivious to the talk around her. Clever girl.

Persephone raised her hand again, prompting the class to pay attention once more.

“Persephone?”

“Erm, there’s not really an answer to that scenario that can save more people, is there? Who would really push that person off, even if it was to save more people? That’s just wrong!” Her red face challenged me, as did the rest of the class.

“Wasn’t that a trick question?”

“I knew it, there wasn’t a way to save more people!”

“I guess sometimes you just can’t do the right thing, haha…”

Inside, I crumpled. These students, like the world, were hopeless. I never managed to get to my crescendo. “Hopeless,” I muttered to myself, feeling horrified inside. Would none of them ever figure it out?

“There is a right answer, but class is over in one minute, so you’ll have to figure it out yourself!” I replied. The students laughed, taking my response for sarcasm. Class was actually almost over, though.

Aderson strode back to the front of the class. “Mr. Wing, what an… intriguing discussion...,” she spoke primly, lips pursed.

As I passed her, she whispered into my ear, “Excellent discussion.”

“Class, Mr. Wing has done a tolerable job of leading you for the past ten minutes. For homework, I want a two page report analyzing what you discussed with him today,” she pointed to my diagram.

“As for you, Mrs. Devine, considering that Mr. Wing seems to have a passing grasp of what this class has been going over these past few weeks, I will assign him as your guide for the rest of today. However, stay back after class for a few minutes, we need to assign you a textbook. That is all, you are dismissed.” Aderson gestured to me, “ Mr. Wing, I will write you a pass, please wait behind for Mrs. Devine.”

The class grabbed their bags and filed out, a few thanking me for the lesson. I smiled and acted amicable. “I’ll wait outside,” I told Elizabeth as the last person walked out the door. She nodded.

On my way out, I breathed a sigh of relief. That whole lecture could have gone badly. Much, much badly. Luckily for me, Aderson actually found it acceptable and I didn’t get in trouble.

But trouble, as it seemed, had a funny way of finding me.