The only thing that connects every school I've ever studied in is the fact that nurses think that ice packs are some Harry Potter bezoar looking bs that can cure anything, from nausea to a severed arm — which, I might add, I once saw a nurse did after a serial killer started to stalk my high school a few years ago. 

Oddly, it never occurred to her to put the ice packs over the severed arm to preserve it while the ambulance came. Professor Stumpy was never the same again. Prophetic name, though. 

As soon as the nurse made sure I wasn't at risk of being a school liability, she slapped an ice pack on my head, with, A) Ouch, and B) I have to return later, which, you have to be very miserable to ask for a disposable ice pack to be returned. A balanced budget my ass. I think this is one of those schools that put all the money into the sports program. 

You don't get to be school royalty if your program is not dick-deep in dough. 

Anyhow, my last class of the day is Biology, and I'm already late enough as it is. I knock on the door, which immediately falls over. 

"Goddammit!" I hear a distinctively French voice coming out of a French mouth attached to a French man. Like his accent, this man is thin, weirdly shaped, and with a small, slightly sex-offendery mustache. If I were to find this man in a public library, I would leave immediately while dunking my eyes in hand sanitizer. Why haven't they made eye sanitizer?

"See, this is what those fils de putes at the school board think of the science programs," the man says in a manner that would imply that his rectum was currently inhabited by a particularly resilient baguette. "Can't even afford a decent door. This is why you Americans are so dumb. You put all your money on some inutile sports ball thing. Even your nuclear codes are called a football. Merde!"

I look at the imaginary camera with a smug look for dramatic effect. 

"Ah, tu must be ze new student, non?" says baguette boy. "Enter and prop up ze door with that rock over there, sil vous plaît."

Sure enough, right there, next to the door, is an otherwise unremarkable rock, were it not for the crudely tapped label on one side that reads "Property of the HVMWH Biology/Home Ec/French Lab."

The room, just like the teacher, is dilapidated, cracking, and with a faint hint of sadness in it. It contains a mixture of biology equipment, cooking supplies, and motivational posters in French of varying quality — from complete shit, to only partial shit. The only thing I see worth anything is one single faucet that only looks a bit shit. 

No, never mind, it's leaking. Still shit. 

Out of twenty lightbulbs, the weird tube ones, only three are working, and one of them seems to be having a stroke. That, or it thinks we are in a nightclub. Follow your dreams, little light. 

"For all of ze one of you who don't know moi," says the man, "my name is Emile Escoffier, and I'm ze biology/home ec/french teacher of zis, quote on quote, fine institution. And if tu are asking why one lab for three subjects, it's because of ze golden boy over there jumpstarting our sports program."

Let it be known in the records that he pointed at Hayden when he said that. Let it also be known that he did it with his middle finger. 

"Now, newbie," he says, wrapping his sticky French hands around my shoulders. Seriously, what the hell is about my shoulders that make people wanna touch them? Is it my biceps? "Today, ve are going to dissect a grenouille, then, be will cut them and make cuisses de grenouille à la provençale. That's frog and frog legs. It will be on the test. And oui, ve also have ze three classes at once. Again, not enough money. Oh, but ze is enough money to buy golden boy there some new gear every quarter."

Again, I have to say that he pointed at Hayden with his middle finger. I don't think it is bad since the French use two fingers as a sign of disrespect. 

A hand shot out from the back. Thankfully, it was attached to a sturdy shoulder. 

"so, like," says you know who, "i don't believe in hurting anything with a face. i, like, believe in the sanctity of life and shit?" 

"Ze grenouille will be dead, monsieur Kimchi-Cannoli," says the teacher. 

"yeah, but, like, frogs are icky and shit."

"Ze what is icky and shit?" says the teacher with the same impetus as an English teacher asking if you can go to the bathroom, instead of may-ing.

"ugh. the gremolata. gianduia. grenade." 

"Getting there," says the teacher. "Well, I think there is a piece of tofu leftover from last year vous can dissect in the cupboard."

"bitchin'."

"As for vous," he says, again squeezing me. Note to myself: buy shoulder spikes. "We already set up partners for the year. But, lucky for vous, there is one person who has no partner."

Uh-oh. Every time someone tells me I'm in luck, it can only mean one thing. 

Plot is happening. 

"Why don't vous don't go to ze back with monsieur McHuman? He will be your partner for the year."

Okayden. Of course it's him. Destiny is a fickle bitch. Of manbitch. Whatever destiny's preferred pronouns. 

I make my way through the tables to the very last one, only occupied by a pile of clothes, scarves, and two spectacles looking at me with unbridled rage. 

"Look, man, I'm sorry," I say, putting my extra thick binder on the table. The sheer force made the table wobble to one side. "I didn't mean to put you in peril or anything. Sucks that you have to wear the same short shorts now. But hey, at least we are on the same boat, right?"

He didn't say anything, simply staring me down, even though I am above him. 

"Alright, mess petits idiots," says the teacher as I sit down. "In front of you, there will be a box with one grenouille. In pair, one of you will open ze grenouille according to the instructions, and ze other will identify ze organs and make a note of them in your carnets. That means notebook in your hotchpotch of a language. You chose among you who does what." 

Here we go. I'll just go with what he wants, and just go with it. 

"So, you wanna take notes, or-" I begin to say, but just as I was talking, he takes his ginormous paw of a hand and drags the small box — which is actually a styrofoam takeout box with the words "Orange Chicken" scribbled on top with permanent marker — towards him.

"Okay...then." I guess he wants to dissect. 

He opens the box, revealing a slightly cold frog corpse on top of two ice packs, just like the one I have on me. This school is unbelievable. Under it is a sheet with instructions. All of them written with some words mixed into sounds unnecessarily French. 

"First," I say, reading it out loud, "pin ze grenouille to ze tray by putting in on its back, stretching the limbs, and piercing the extremities."

Okayden doesn't lose time and pierces the frog to the tray in the shape of a cross. I don't think this is what the teacher meant, but we only have three thumbtacks. Also, I don't believe we should be using thumbtacks. 

"Use ze forceps to lift ze skin between ze hind legs and make a small incision with a scalpel. Do not pierce the legs, for they are ze most delicious part of ze grenouille."

Thing is, we don't have a scalpel, but a Chef's knife. An old, rusty, chipped knife with a wooden handle that is mostly broken off. After a few attempts at breaking skin, Okayden tosses the knife aside and uses one of his nails, which is oddly jagged and black, to make one clean cut. 

"Continue ze cut up the center of ze grenouille's body, being careful to cut through ze skin only. Use forceps to hold ze skin away from ze muscle while you cut, if necessary. Make horizontal incisions just above ze legs and just below ze arms, then fold ze resulting flaps back and pin them."

Okayden, however, skipped every step and ripped the whole thing apart with two nails. Organs flew all around the table. 

"Okay...then. We will skip the rest of the steps and go directly to identifying the organs. First, the heart. According to this, it is a small, triangular-shaped organ with three chambers. See anything like that?"

Okayden looks around for a second before picking something up that fits the description. And...he shoves it in his mouth. His sharp tooth-filled mouth. Like a chainsaw-fleshlight. 

I can't even say anything as his eyes look at me in a manner that suggests that, if I say anything, my heart will be next. 

"Okay, then. Next is the small intestine," I say, pointing at the yellow string of icky stuff still attached to the—yes, that." 

Of course, he begins to slurp it like spaghetti. 

This guy is weird as fuck. And that comes from someone in a room with a Frenchman. 

Okay, I'm gonna puke. I have to say something.

"Uh, dude? What the fuck?" I say.

He stops eating for a second, his fingers dripping frog blood, which apparently is a thing that I never really thought, and looks at me with his piercing, feral eyes.

"You owe me this much,
I put my soul in danger,
Now I wear short shorts."

Honestly, I don't know what else to say. He just continued to eat and eat that frog as if it was made out the most delicious pudding, slurping and making noises as we went. He did cut the legs with perfect accuracy, which were later pan-fried with garlic and butter. We got an easy A. 

I...don't wanna be around him anymore.