‘schh; schh. whoosh, snap! schh; schh. whoosh, snap!’
‘thhp’ The eyes flickered open behind a pair of silver aviators, snatching a blurred image of their new first period class.

‘schh; schh. whoosh, snap!’
“Miss Martin, kindly stop snapping your chewing gum.”
That must be the bald figure at the front of the room. I bet he has a walrus mustache trying to make up for the lack of hair on his head, a voice behind the eyes said.
The eyes opened again, focusing on a brown pony-tailed blob on Antonio’s left, pale blue gum masking the tip of a pink tongue, inflating, and then exploding with a violent little ‘snap!’ sharp, pointed canines scraping the corpse white lips clean.
A bell clanged loudly, and Antonio jumped in his seat; jarred by the horrible ‘bbbrrriiinnggg!’ announcing the beginning of the period. Snickers and whispers mixed together as students settled into their seats.
“Good day students,” the bald head said.
Antonio stopped listening, and thought about Shitoshi. Shitoshi who brought him to school; who tied his shoes, who helped him dress, who cut his hair, Shitoshi who protected him from the bigger fish in the pond; who kept Antonio from being fish food, Shitoshi who had shuffled away from the door of room 121 after introducing Antonio to the teacher; shuffled away in his cloth shoes searching for his own classroom. This year, Antonio thought, Shitoshi is going to need my help.
“I am doctor Fetheringsol.” The bald head invaded Antonio’s thoughts with his calm, clipped, Irish tinted voice. “My father is a Briton and my mother a Scot; I was born and raised in Ireland,” chalk scraped across the blackboard ‘sch ch ch thwip. stp -slow intake of breath- ch chh ch thwipha swp woopthp’ followed by the anxious scratching of numerous ball points on paper. Antonio wrote nothing.
“Let’s begin our first lesson; American Revolutionary Literature.”
Antonio yawned hugely, but silently, and attempted to open his ears wider.
“Benjamin Franklin,” bald Fetheringsol continued, “Thomas Jefferson, Patrick Henry, John Adams; can anyone tell me what these men have in common?” A soft rustle of shy bodies accompanied by a susurrus of clothing permeated the silence.
Baldingsol’s dead leaf brown, wool jacket rasped back at the students as he crossed his arms and sighed dejectedly. “Miss Martin,” he asked tiredly “perhaps you could enlighten us. After you dispose of your chewing gum.”He pronounced ‘chewing’ ‘ch eww ing-guh’ which, for some unknown reason, unnerved Antonio.
The sound Miss Martin’s chair made as it slid back from her desk astounded Antonio. He couldn’t hear a thing. Seconds later a soft ‘puh-puh-puh’ like the steps of a cat, narrated Miss Martin’s trip to the garbage can by the door, ended with a dull ‘plunk’ and then resumed as she traveled back to her seat.
The quiet settled, like the air at a rock concert just after a magnificent finale smash on the drummer’s cymbal; faint vibrations suspended in the tension created by the entirety of the attendance simultaneously holding their breath.
“Well?” Baldingsol demanded.
“They’re all dead.” The ‘wht’ of a releasing elastic band was followed by a luscious sigh of hair as Miss Martin’s ponytail melted down onto her neck.
Baldingsol’s jacked complained loudly again, as he re-crossed his arms, and Antonio imagined one dark, bushy eyebrow rising in an adverse arc. The air in the room rapidly gained weight, like a water balloon in the hands of a jealous child, and Antonio coiled his muscles, wanting to spring at the door the moment the bell rang.
He could feel Baldingsol’s impatience and frustration leaking from between his lips, and saturating his mustache as he ran his tongue over his crooked teeth.
‘bbbrrriiinnnggg!’
“Saved by the bell, eh?” Miss Martin whispered with a smile in her voice.