When We Meet Again

Chapter I

 I never got used to that sound of that bell. Being in school for the vast majority of my life, you'd think that the piercing chime of the crudely made auditory torture device would be tolerable at most for the human brain and eardrums. Oh boy, would you be wrong.

As soon as that infernal bell sang its last song signaling the start of the new weekend, my head shot up faster than it probably should have, almost making me blackout. I was halfway through a dream about being in a supermarket with an infinite supply of kitchen cabinets. When I was almost close to cracking the case on why this market had so many, that tale was cut short. I was irritated because I would never know why that seemingly small store had such a surplus of kitchen appliances. It would have to wait for another day.

I rose to my feet and wiped the crusties out of my eyes that I had collected during my slumber. Kids were brushing past me, one nearly knocking me off my feet because of how dazed I was. I don't even remember how long I slept. Of course, time is irrelevant when our brains are going through R.E.M., so I could've been out for twenty seconds up to twenty minutes.

Once my eyes adjusted to the eerily bright fluorescent lighting, the reality of being punished for sleeping in class was inevitable. I could immediately tell that it was Mr. Bradfield's physics classroom. The room had plain beige walls with a white tiled floor, scattered with shoe streaks and various liquid stains that no one bothered to clean up, stuck to its surface. In the upper left corner was the door out of the classroom. A massive brown stain resided on the upper right corner ceiling tile just above Mr. Bradfield's desk. Counters lined the walls, with sinks spaced about eight or ten feet away from each other. This wasn't even a classroom made for physics, it was just an old chemistry classroom that the school didn't need anymore, and the school district was too lazy or poor to renovate it. Lining the walls were various charts on physics-related equations, along with physics-related jokes that would make even the most sarcastic dad left with a straight face and a bad attitude. The tables were large enough to fit four kids comfortably, and in total there were eight tables set up in a 2x4 formation. I, fortunately, was assigned a seat in one of the back two rows, perpendicular to the teacher's desk.

By the time I had everything packed up, most of the students were already out of the door, excited for the three day weekend. I pushed in my chair and tried to avoid eye contact with Bradfield as I made my way out of the classroom. About halfway to the door, the various stains that never got cleaned up betrayed me and made loud squeaking noises with each step. I knew he was watching me. Silently praying that he wouldn't try to talk to me, I turned the doorknob halfway when I heard Mr. Bradfield speak.

"Hey, Gus. I need to speak with you."

I had the option to just pretend like I didn't hear him. In that split second, I had to make a choice. It was either act like nothing happened, or go over and talk to him, For some reason, my stupid brain decided today would be a great day to get out of my comfort zone and get scolded at by a teacher I barely even knew.

"Yeah?" I turned my head toward him.

"Come sit down," he said as he pulled a chair in front of his desk while still maintaining eye contact.

I walked over to his desk and silently cursed at my brain for not deciding to do what I've always done: to ignore the problem. I sat down and waited for him to get back to his desk. Mr. Bradfield had a shocking resemblance to a younger version of Jerry Seinfeld, almost to the point where if I was shown a picture of them together, and was asked to tell the difference, I would've had to think about it. Hard. He stood at about my height, at just nearing six feet. His desk was littered with various papers that needed to be graded, a desktop monitor paired with a keyboard and mouse, pictures of family, and empty cans of Coca-Cola strewn about in an indecipherable pattern. Saying the desk was remotely organized would be insulting to the word itself. The wall behind his setup had a wide range of hand-drawn pictures, presumably from past students of his.