Taught in the Act (for Fugal)

[Stained_Steel]

Gabriel Anton, 12th grade English teacher adjusted his eyeglasses and checked his watch. He had a student scheduled for detention that afternoon and the boy was late. He wasn't one of Gabriel's students, no. Mr. Anton taught English Literature and this kid...this Drew Redford, was clearly a math type. Nothing wrong with that, the world needed math nerds (bad Gabriel! This is a student! Just because you need a calculator to do anything more complicated than multiplication doesn't mean you bash the math people) the same as it needed Literature nerds.

No, Drew was part of his study hall. Forty-five minutes of school administration imposed silence meant for studying. Gabriel's private hell. A conglomerate of thirty freshmen, sophmores and juniors stuffed into one classroom (the seniors got to opt out) with one, solitary teacher to pry them away from each other's throats.

[Fugal]

I paused outside the door, clutching my side and breathing heavily. Our swim coach always insisted that we notify him ahead of time if we were going to miss practice, so I had been forced to sprint to the pool and back in an attempt to tell him about my detention and still be back in time for its start. An attempt that, I realized as I looked at my watch, had completely failed.

Oh well, I said to myself, He waited for ten minutes already, he can wait another five while you catch your breath. No reason for anyone to know that you're about to collapse after a measly half mile.

I stood there for a moment, breathing as deeply as I could, and managed to regain my composure, at least enough that my exhaustion didn't show outwardly. As soon as I was ready, I walked inside.

[Stained_Steel]

Gabriel immediatly became Mr. Anton, high school teacher and strict disciplinarian, when the door opened and Drew walked in. "You're late." He said crisply, his voice cutting through the air like a knife through butter. "When I say detention at three, I mean detention at three. Not whenever it is convenient for you." He glowered at the student, brown eyes demanding an explanation.

[Fugal]

"I had to go tell my coach I was going to miss practice," I grumbled. Maybe he would feel guilty for getting in the way of my training, being a coach himself. I hoped he did. I hoped he realized that this stupid detention was going to make it friggin' hard to keep my place on the varsity team, which I barely even got in the first place. I hoped he felt as bad as I did to be here.

I glared back up at Anton at the front of the room and swung my backpack onto a desk next to me. "Can we get this over with? If we finish quickly enough, I might be able to run back in time for a few thousand yards of butterfly to make up for the time I spend here."

[Stained_Steel]

"You should have sought him out during the school day." Mr. Anton scolded, annoyed at the sullen tone. "And just for the attitude, you can come back tomorrow afternoon."

He took a piece of chalk and carefully wrote, in perfect cursive, a senteance on the blackboard. 'I will strive to be punctual for every appointment.' He sat down at his desk and pulled a red pen out of the front pocket of his shirt. "You will write that two hundred times before you leave today." Without saying another word, he pulled some tests out of his briefcase and began grading.

[Fugal]

I bit my tongue to keep from snapping back at him sarcastically. What was I supposed to do, cut class and get another week's worth of detentions? Teachers never seemed to realize that students actually did things outside of their classes, or acknowledge the distant possibility that those things could actually be more important than their stupid detentions and essays.

I resolved to take it out on the blackboard, scribbling in purposely loopy, unreadable lines across the dark green surface, grinding down a quarter of a stick after only a few repetitions. There was another great invention of teachers; cursive! Teach all the little kids cursive in third grade so that they can struggle fruitlessly with it until high school, when they can finally learn to friggin' type, which is all they'll do for the rest of their lives anyway. Just the thought of it made me dot the "i" in "appointment" so hard that the chalk snapped in half. I quickly grabbed another piece from the tray at the bottom of the board, knowing full well that this one would be broken in a few minutes as well.

[Stained_Steel]

Mr. Anton looked up when Drew cracked the chalk against the blackboard. Frowning, he left his desk and quietly snuck up behind the teenager. Reaching over his shoulder, he plucked the chalk from his hand. "I'm getting tired of the attitude. This is your final warning. Either shape up, or I'm bringing the paddle out." He locked his brown eyes with Drew's. "And if I have to use that, you're getting a week's worth of detention. Understand?"

[Fugal]

I tensed my jaw, so hard that it hurt. I didn't want to submit to his authority, just like that, but I definitely did not need an entire week of detention. The paddling, I wasn't afraid of, because I was sure I could take anything he could dish out, but missing that many practices would basically guarantee that I would be swimming JV at the next meet.

"Yes, sir." I said, spitting the second word with as much venom as I dared, which is to say, not much. "Can I have my chalk back, now? Please?"

[Stained_Steel]

The teacher gave him a Look before handing the chalk back and returning to his desk. Once seated, he opened the lowest desk drawer and removed the oak paddle. He placed it on top of the stack of papers, in Drew's full view. "Just a reminder." He said coolly.

[Fugal]

A "reminder?" How old did he think I was, four? I wasn't just going to suddenly get distracted by a passing butterfly and start gnawing absentmindedly the chalk, only to see the paddle out of the corner of my eye and realize, just in time, Oh, I shouldn't do that! I was an adult, practically, or at least near it, and if I was going to cause any trouble, it would be because I had weighed the options carefully and made the decision myself. No friggin' paddle was gonna change my mind.

I realized I was ranting in my head again, and grudgingly turned back towards the board. I started copying out the line as carefully as I could, but it soon became plain that my cursive skills hadn't improved since grade school. I frowned as I finished the first line and realized that it was completely unreadable. Annoyed that I couldn't get it right the first time, I started tracing the letters out even more slowly on the next line, but it hardly came out any better. Frustrated, I decided it wasn't worth trying anymore, and reverted to printing. My handwriting was sloppy, but at least it was legible, when compared to my cursive, and it was a whole lot easier.