I forget every year just how much I detest school. You'd think they brainwash us, to trick us into coming back each annum to subject ourselves to this rather than egging every academic building and running wild through the streets. Or maybe it's some kind of nationwide conspiracy. An organized system wherein every young person's knowledge of obscure economic theories and the composition of pi decides their fitness as a functioning member of society. I may not give a rat's ass about statistics, but I'm ninety-three percent sure knowing the date of Ganymede's discovery or the names of Greek philosophers has not made me more able to hold a job.

A hand shoots up at the front of the class.

"Yes, Exie dear," says Mrs. Hardwick, clasping her hands so sweetly, her desk almost grows flowers.

"I have a question about Crichton," says Exie. "Do you think his study as a jurist may have equipped him to make a political statement with the angering of the forest in Every Tree Shall Cry? It struck me as very allegorical, for a book meant for children."

Exie Quinnell, studious student high achiever, has been at this all morning. If she was anyone else in this school, I'd reckon she was trying to send Mrs. Hardwick off on tangents to forestall our lesson plan. Alas, it seems genuine. The more tangents she initiates, the more avid she appears. Anyone who can fake that kind of interest through a half-hour conversation on the moralizing of Faust sold their soul for that ability, and could probably stand to listen to the folktale a little more closely.

Mrs. Hardwick takes chalk to blackboard. I think she's still talking about Crichton's books, but my brain can hold a maximum of two titles and three old white guys' names at any given moment, so I've long since lost track of which topic I'm supposed to be following. The board doesn't help. Mrs. Hardwick's handwriting is blocky, letters shaped like little chunks of cheese dancing over one another every time I try to parse their meaning. She speaks like we're a room of five-year-olds, and has thus far refused to award me a single demerit. I've been trying.

I cross my arms on my desk and drop my head on them. Sleeping is something I haven't tried yet, and I don't know why it didn't occur to me sooner. If it works, I'd kill three birds with one stone: miff my teacher, set myself up to fail my tests, and spare myself the mental atrophy of an impending debate on the thematic significance of decay in Jüngere Romantik. You'd think our teachers would go easy on us in the first week of class. But no. This is a prestigious institution. Mrs. Hardwick's made sure we are all aware of that.

My mere thought summons that demon. Mrs. Hardwick executes an acrobatic segue back to Melliford Academy.

"As it so happens, there is evidence to suggest this very building served as the inspiration for the Apocryphal Cathedral in T.H. Ackerley's Fallen Angel, one of the most formative and thought-provoking works to come out of southern Englemark near the end of the 18th Century. As you know, Ackerley was a notorious recluse, and this was the only building in his travel radius to depict the fall of Mastema in its stained glass."

I groan. Mrs. Hardwick does not hear, or else does not give a damn. Nor does anyone around me snicker. I lift my head again. The guy to my left darts a look in my direction, then returns it to the board with a jaw clenched so tight, a muscle jumps in his temple. You'd think Mrs. Hardwick was hovering over him with a switch in one hand and a brick of homework in the other. Graffiti boy—I should start calling him The Pyromaniac—sits to my right. He's brought a box of matches to class. But though he's lit three already and burned a tiny divot in the varnish of his desk, Mrs. Hardwick has yet to reprehend him. The bar for demerits is high. And it's only getting higher.

Exie's hand shoots up again.

"Yes, Exie dear?" croons Mrs. Hardwick. No points for guessing who her favorite student is.

"Was Melliford Academy always a school building, or was it once an actual cathedral? And if the latter, what denomination did it host?"

I want to hurl.

Mrs. Hardwick gestures at a wall. "It was indisputably erected at the hand of a talented architect. As you've probably seen already, the stained-glass windows are among the most inspired and idiosyncratic among similar buildings throughout southern Englemark—and, I would venture to say, this half of the world."

Exie frowns a little. "Yes, the detail in them is breathtaking. Who assembled them? Surely such a skilled glassworker would be well-known in architectural and even theological circles. And the design, like you say, is very unique."

"Completely so! Angels are a well-worn motif, of course, but few buildings offer such comprehensive detailing of the heavenly host. Headmaster Massingham is quite taken with the breadth of representation."

Massingham. Leander M. Massingham. If my guess is right, that means the school's headmaster commissioned those angel paintings that judge its little church.

Exie beats me to the question I have in mind. "How long has headmaster Massingham led the school? I would love to hear more about its distinguished history."

"Distinguished indeed," says Mrs. Hardwick. It might be my imagination, but there's sweat on her brow—humans aren't supposed to be glossy. "Melliford Academy is proud to count many great names among its alumni."

Exie purses her lips in a smile. She wears a necklace with a little silver cross on it, I notice, and winds her fingers through it as she speaks. "Of course, alumni! Do you have examples? I had difficulty finding names in my research when I made my decision to study here."

"I think it's time we returned to our lesson."

I stop fiddling with my pencil.

Mrs. Hardwick continues, "Your interest is appreciated, Ms. Quinnell. It is always very rewarding to see students with a passion for what Melliford Academy has to offer."

She didn't answer the question.

I'm not supposed to care, but my arms are prickling. Now that I think about it, Mrs. Hardwick didn't answer any of Exie's questions. If it were just one, I could dismiss it as the tangents of a wandering mind. But that was four in quick succession. Something about it hangs on the air like a bad smell.

Mrs. Hardwick opens her mouth again to return to her monologuing.

"Excuse me, Mrs," I say loudly. The whole room goes still.

Mrs. Hardwick's expression flickers. A reaction, at last. "Desdemona dear, please do not interrupt the lesson without raising your hand."

"Who founded Melliford Academy?"

"If we may return to the lesson—"

"I walked the whole school yesterday, and didn't see any indication. No headmasters' portraits or alumni plaques. Just that Leander M. Massingham commissioned the paintings at the back of the school. Did he pick this building because it's full of angels, or was that his predecessor's doing?"

The whole class is watching me. Pyro-boy smirks like he wishes he'd brought snacks. Shy boy looks like he wants the floor to consume him. The rest of my classmates' faces range through shades of panic and amusement, as though half enjoy the spectacle, while the other half fear they'll be punished in my stead.

All except Exie.

Exie teacher's-belle Quinnell watches me with an unreadable expression. Her face remains neutral, but her eyes skewer me like she'd flay me for my secrets given half a chance. Hot coals drop in the pit of my stomach. I hate her. I hate this whole place. Everyone is playing games, and Exie's no better: that smile, that bootlicking, one perfect student in a cohort of juvenile delinquents. She can eat shit with the rest of them.

"Sit down please, Desdemona," says Mrs. Hardwick.

I'm standing at my desk. I have no memory of rising. "And if I don't?"

"I am about to introduce your first assignment. If you could reserve the tantrum for your private hours, that would be much appreciated."

My face flares hot. If she's not above calling me a toddler, I can damn well act like one. One glance at the door, though, stops me dead in my tracks. There's a man leaning there, done up in the same school uniform as Mrs. Hardwick. Staff. He's blocking my escape route. Mrs. Hardwick didn't call him, but he's absolutely here to oversee—arms crossed, eyeing me with an expression identical to Exie's. Except for the eyes. His are blank as a sky's reflection on a fetid summer millpond, and just as pale. I hate pale eyes. They remind me of my father. Of all the tiny blessings in the world, I will be forever grateful I inherited my grandmother's dark brown gaze.

I do not sit. Nor does Mrs. Hardwick punish me. She turns back to the class like I simply don't exist. "Your first assignment combines the themes we've discussed in class today with what you'll learn tomorrow in history and architecture. You are to select a building anywhere in southern Englemark that displays characteristics of a distinct era's architecture. Research that building and write a report linking its construction to prevailing sentiments and superstitions of the day and age. Detail how those show up in its physical structure." She pauses as Exie's hand once again goes bird-fishing. "Melliford Academy is off-limits as a building of choice."

Exie drops her hand again, disappointed.

"This project will be conducted in pairs," continues Mrs. Hardwick. "I will be assembling them. Desdemona Winchester, you will be working with Exie Quinnell."

I want to break something.

I should have seen it coming. Should have known not to be caught smart-mouthing the teacher just before she dealt out work, lest I land myself in a group with the class's most duteous pupil. Teachers love this trick when they consider me in need of remediation. Mrs. Hardwick has already moved on. She struts about the classroom, naming student pairs and taking up her chalk again to write out assignment details on the blackboard. My fingers ache against my desk. I clench my fists tighter. This first morning of class was supposed to end with teachers' ire and a pocketful of demerits. Not this.

But the worst is yet to come. A church bell tolls the end of class and start of lunch. The man in the doorway moves aside, but before I can scarper with my final shreds of dignity, Mrs. Hardwick calls my name.

I should storm out. I want to storm out. Maybe I'd finally succeed in angering her. But the man in the doorway locks eyes with me again, and I opt not to take my chances. He shifts to let another student by. It's Exie. She gives me a look over her shoulder as she walks out of the room. A look like I am sink scrapings, mold on bread, or a smear of excrement on the bottom of her shoe. I lock my walls down, but it burns me more than any scolding I could possibly receive. 

Like this chapter if you think these two will get along  🙂

Comment what you think of Mrs. Hardwick's question-answering skills.