CHAPTER I: THE INMATE: NED


I’ve had this numbness in my head ever since I was little. I’ve never experienced the pain of a headache. Don’t know exactly when this started, probably a result of my dad pounding my skull into talcum powder at least once a week, but whatever.



That was years ago.

Now, when I say “numb”, I mean numb. Really NUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMB. Think how your feet feel after sitting cross-legged for half an hour, but only twice as worse. Seriously! You could pelt me with bowling balls and glass bottles and it would have no effect on me whatsoever. But, it’s better that way. I find it’s more beneficial to be invulnerable than to wince every time someone taps you on the shoulder. Besides, it’s no big deal. I’ve gotten so used to it that I don’t even notice it anymore.

It’s almost as if I’m brain-dead.

Now, don’t get me wrong, most people do see this as a problem. But not me. For years, I’ve been able to let my mind rest and let my feelings do all the dirty work. It makes life a whole lot easier. However, there are critics.



“Ned! Stop daydreaming and get to work!” My teachers would always say this. “Don’t you realize you’re throwing your life away?”

Well, Mr./Ms./Mrs. Busy Body, “life” ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. You might
as well enjoy it while you can, am I right? Daydreaming was my thing back in elementary. As the years went by, I just got worse and worse, little by little. A few spitballs, a couple of paper airplanes, and by the time I was in seventh grade-- BOOOMMM!! I was a fulled-scaled J.D.: Juvenile Delinquent.



Just look at Neddy Boy now; running the halls of Rockford High School with his girlfriend, only doing things that he feels is right, doesn’t care what nobody says, doesn’t have a care in the world.

He’s brain-dead.


CHAPTER II: THE INSTRUCTOR: WHEELER


BIIINNNG.

I awoke to the soothing sensation of warmth on my face. A good morning “kiss” from the Sun itself.

BIIINNNG.

I got out of bed, walked to my window, and stretched.

Aaah. What a beautiful Saturday!

BIIINNNG.

The Sun is shining...

BIIINNNG.

The birds are singing...

BIIINNNG. BIIINNNG. BIIINNNG.

The dew on the grass is sparkling and-- what the hell is that stupid sound?

I turned to my desk. The sound had come from my computer. I came in closer to read the screen. “Ugh,” I grunted.

Wheeler,

Don’t forget to distribute the letters regarding the upcoming Principal’s Occupational Review to the staff on Monday.

Your EMPLOYER,



Ricardo Ramos

Wheeler,

Make sure to call the Mangolia Hotel in Denver to set a date for the Senior Trip.

Your BOSS,

Ricardo Ramos

Wheeler,

I need you to tell Janitor Clarkson to bleach the urine stains on the walls of the Boy’s Bathroom...

Ugh. I hit the power button. Ramos is the only person in the world who can send six e-mails in less than two minutes. It’s not like I can complain, anyway. I’ve been a teacher for fifteen years and a few months ago, I decided to begin my studies to become an administrator. Right now, I’m up to my internship, which means my job is to shadow You-Know-Who. And if I don’t get a good evaluation, my dreams of being a principal are, as my students say, “assed-out.” I have no choice but to play Pinocchio and dance to the tune of Geppetto’s bidding.



I sigh and plop down on the edge of my bed, my head in my hands, and my elbows on my knees. Look at me. What happened to me? I’m forty-years-old, for the love of God. I was supposed to be the Headmaster at Denver Preparatory Academy by now. But, instead, what am I? A pathetic tenth grade English teacher/ Principal’s Intern at an intellectual holding cell called Rockford High School.

“Ugh,” I shuddered.

Rockford High School. Just the name of it makes me gag,

Like I said, it’s a holding cell. Full of juvenile delinquents and convicts-in-training. But the worst part is this: it wasn’t always like that! Rockford is an old school; I went there myself (Class of 1990.) Back in the day, it was filled with the nicest, most respectful faculty and student body known to man. Our principal even helped my class pull off our senior prank. Can high school get any better than that?

However, somewhere between Y2K and 9/11, things took a turn for the worst. After teaching at a high school in Aurora for four years, I decided to transfer my work to Rockford; I missed the old “stomping grounds.” When I got there, I was greeted by a major surprise. Kids were fighting, screaming, yelling, cursing, and throwing pencils, markers, and pens all over the place. Was this RHS or Belleview Mental Institution?

I walked to my old principal’s office. Surely Mr. Lopez would have an explanation for this, I thought. Little did I know that I had yet another surprise in store. When I arrived at the office door, I stopped short, staring in shock. The name on the door wasn’t “LOPEZ” anymore. I think my mouth gaped open at the sight of:



PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE



MR. RICARDO RAMOS

“What the--?” I remember saying. They had a new principal? I had to see this for myself. I opened the door just a crack and peeked in at the room’s lone occupant. He was a tall man, medium build, with something of a tan. His hair was brown with not a gray strand in sight, so he couldn’t have been more than four or five years older than me.

If the lights had been turned off, you would have sworn that his office was a secret lair. It was equipped with three pairs of binoculars-- the ones you use on observation decks-- lined up side by side in front of his floor-to-ceiling windows. Plasma screen TV monitors were mounted on the wall opposite his desk. They were connected the school’s security cameras and were streaming the live surveillance footage from every nook and cranny of the campus-- from the cafeteria on the first floor to the fire extinguisher hanging in the corner of the main hallway of the fourth floor. He was watching the students run amok in the corridors, laughing every time someone fell, or got slammed into a door or got hit in the eye an Office Depot No. 2.

He chuckled. “Ha! Stupid teenagres. They’ll all be dead or handicapped by the end of the year.”

My mouth dropped open again, I quietly closed the door and backed away before he saw me. Wow, I thought. I guess times really do change.

So now, here we are, more than ten years later, trying to save a school that can’t be revived and fighting a battle that can never be declared “won.” I sigh again. Only two days until Monday. Sometimes I wonder if it’s even worth it.

BIIINNNG.

My head bolts up and turns to the computer.

Didn’t I turn that off?


***

TO BE CONTINUED