“It was a dark and stormy night,”  Sir read out loud, then sneered and crushed Smedley’s essay into a ball.  We shifted in our seats and predicted trajectories.

No joking, Sir is a wicked shot.  Last week he hit Jenkins between the eyebrows with a board rubber. Jenkins was in the back row. Sir had knocked him out of his chair.  To be fair, Jenkins had called Shakespeare a paedo.  When Jenkins got off the floor, Sir explained that fourteen was normal back in the day, that Romeo and Juliet was a great work, and we should stop being so disgusting. 

For detention, Jenkins had to write “Shakespeare is not a paedo” two hundred times before he could go home.  That was funny. Jenkins can barely write his name.

“Laser swords.  AK-47s.  Space pirates. Jesus fucking Christ.”  Sir was practically frothing at the mouth. He dropped Smedley’s essay into the bin beside his desk and faced the class with this mental expression.  It looked like he was trying to smile and scream at the same time.  Sometimes it think it’s amazing how many emotions you can pack into one face. 

“And you call yourselves a fifth form,” he squeaked.  “Lasers swords," he spluttered. "Dragons! These things are like a whore’s mascara.”  

I wondered what Sir was talking about. I wondered if Sir really knew about whores.  

“These juvenile devices merely hide the inadequacy of what lies beneath.  Japanese monsters.  Superheroes. Large packages, with tiny contents.  Why not write about sunshine?  Daff-o-dils.  This very classroom?  Something true. If your underdeveloped frontal lobes contained enough real feeling, enough heart, enough humanity, none of this would be necessary.” 

I was starting to see what he was getting at.  Nobody else had a clue. In a bit of a panic, the rich kids of the front row tried to do their ‘calming influence’ thing. 

“Yes Sir,” they said together, like clones or something.   

I wondered why Sir had pronounced daffodils so funny.  Jimbo, AKA MC Urban Predator, who was sat next to me, picked a long one from his nose and ate it.  Jimbo is a sick fuck. I kicked him under the desk.

“You are young men.  You live in a world I no longer inhabit.  So why not share it honestly.  Allow me to see through your eyes and try to imagine seeing through mine.  Use your hearts.  Connect.  You don’t need these dark and stormy nights, just your own lives.”

“Haven't you seen that new film,” said Cohen.  "Laser swords are cool." Cohen made the sound that laser swords make.

“I don’t give a shit about cool,” Sir shouted.  “I don’t give a shit about laser swords.  I want to know about youth.  What makes it so special. So appealing?” 

Sir was looking right in my eyes when he said that, which was definitely not cool.

I knew something was going to happen.  Sir never says ‘shit’.  We’re not allowed to say it either.  Sir says, ‘Shit is vulgar, in both senses’, whatever that means.  Fuck was OK though.  According to Sir, ‘Fuck is liberating’, which was kind of funny, given the circumstances.  

Sir threw his tweed jacket behind his desk.  He practically tore his tie off.  Then he pulled his shirt apart, like the Hulk. One of the buttons hit Sharad square in the eyeball.  Sharad squealed like a baby.  The class laughed.

“Are you all right, Sir?” said one of the posh twats in the front row, pretending to sound concerned.

“Does this look like a young man’s body to you?” Sir shouted at the class.

“No Sir,” said the front row in unison.

The problem with posh twats is they think they can agree their way out of anything.

Sir’s tummy was round and covered in dark hair. I noticed some fluff in his belly button.  I pictured Mrs. Jenkins waking up naked next to that body, and felt a bit gross. 

Sir began to hop about on one leg, trying to take off a shoe. 

“What kind of a woman would want a body like this, when they could have one like yours,” Sir said.

The front row said nothing.  The front row has a good nose for a trick question.  Sir nearly feel over as the shoe popped off and Jenkins laughed at exactly the wrong moment.  The heel hit him in square in the mouth. I think I saw a tooth bounce off the window. 

“Forgot how to be young. Is that what I did wrong?”

Sir started working at his trousers.  He already had his belt off.  The class fell silent. I shook my head thinking 'Don’t do it, Sir.'  I willed him to stop – like the space wizard in that movie - I really did.  

This was getting worse than drama classes, when Mister Perkins had been to the pub at lunchtime. 

If Sir showed his meat in front of us, to all the boys. that would be crossing a line.  There would be an investigation. Consequences. That would be bad for both of us. Very bad.

“Come on then, tell me," Sir said. "What’s it like to be a young man.  What’s the secret?  What’s so special?  Remind me what I’ve lost.” He looked at me then again, and he didn't hide it at all. He'd completely gone. There was nothing normal behind those eyes, and that was proper scary, even for me.  It made me glad I was carrying my knife.

“Maybe it’s better if some things aren't shared,” I said. "Stayed secret."

“Your art teacher doesn’t seem to think so.  My wife doesn’t seem to think so. But she’s ten years younger than me, isn’t she.  Closer to your age than mine. Got a foot in each camp.”

I said nothing then, mainly because he was down to his boxer shorts, and I didn’t want to encourage him further. It made no difference.  He was wearing Marks and Spencer’s.  I saw the label as he pulled them down.

“Got one of these, have you.”  Sir began to spin his thingy round and round, like a helicopter.  Massive.  I have to admit it.   Mine is big, but his was bigger.  That was a surprise.   It went round and round.  The class groaned helplessly. Then the bell rang for break.

Normally everyone rushes for the door when that happens, but nobody moved.  Even the back row was transfixed.  Sir doing his spinning.  The bell had brought him back. I had a thought. 

“It was a dark and stormy night,” I said. 

“What?” Sir said, looking confused. 

"And in the end it was all a dream."

He stared at me like the clueless berk he was.

“Bad stories, Sir. You said bad stories start with storms, and end with it being all a dream.”

“Yes, I did,” he conceded.

“Maybe this one’s the exception.”

“What do you mean?”

“The storm. It never happened.  It was just a dream.  Then we woke up and got on with our lives.”

He gulped, and looked down at the pants around his ankles. Then he started shaking all over.

I stood up and scraped my chair, and the class turned to look at me. Sir pulled up his pants and put away his cock. I opened my blazed and showed the class my knife.

“It was all a dream,” I told them.

“It was all a dream," the class repeated. Even the front row.

ENDS

© A.M. Steiner 2017