by Alex Dire
Norman half-smiled. “It’ll only hurt a little.”
The warehouse was nearly empty. Flakes of rust coated the floor and pieces of the siding had fallen away. Several corroded chains hung in long arcs across the ceiling. Others dangled free. Richie swiveled his head to take it in.
Norman looked at his watch. “Ready?”
“For what?”
A shaft of light shone through one of the holes in the side of the structure as the sun poked above the horizon. The beam landed directly on Richie’s hand. He snapped it away. A sizzling sound echoed through the cavernous space. His face wrinkled in pain. Sunlight found its way through several more cracks and holes in the structure. Richie began to dance and dodge to avoid them, grunting as a few traced across his skin. “Isn’t there a building here with fewer holes in it?”
“Oh yes,” replied Norman. “But what would you learn from that?” Norman moved to avoid the light as well, but his motion was fluid and natural. He’d trained in places like this for years.
“See those overturned storage shelves over there?” Norman pointed to a series of shelves on the opposite side of the warehouse. They had fallen like dominos, each leaning on the next with the final lying at a steep diagonal against the wall. The effect was to create a series of small, triangular crawlspaces between each shelving unit. “If you can get to them, they’ll provide you with plenty of shade. We’ll use them as home base.”
Norman dashed across the room, alternately leaping over beams of light with graceful strides and rolling under others. He ended by the slanted shelves and looked back, crossing his arms.
Richie began to sprint for the other side and shrieked instantly as a beam of light seared across his face drawing a line of char. He awkwardly skipped and dodged across the room crossing several beams and swaths of sunlight. By the time he reached Norman, his whole body smoldered from a myriad of burns. He looked at Norman and rumpled his eyebrows with a hint of annoyance. “Ouch,” he said in a monotone drawl.
“You’re using your speed. That’s a start. But you need to bring more to bear. Your agility. Your senses.”
Richie coughed and spat a wad of phlegm. He sounded like an emphysemic.
“Close your eyes and give me your hand.” Norman led his student by the arm toward the center of the warehouse. He lifted Richie’s hand so it hung in the air, just next to a beam of light. “What do you feel?”
Richie tightened his eyes. Flakes of burnt flesh fell from his face. The ooze beneath had begun to heal. “Nothing.” He opened his eyes.
“Your senses are speaking to you. You need to stop listening like a human.”
“I don’t…”
“Shhh. Close your eyes. Focus on the skin on your hand.”
“What skin.”
“Richie!”
The young teacher closed his eyes again. His breathing slowed. Norman could hear that his heart rate slowed as well. The adrenaline from his rush through the light was wearing off.
Richie’s hand twitched back and his eyes shot open.
“Good,” said Norman.
“It was like electricity. I barely felt it, but…”
“You responded with your reflexes, not your mind. Faster. That sense can keep you alive.”
“But it’s so hard to feel it. How can I use it?”
“Ready for your next run?”
“So soon? No. I need time. I need blood.”
“On my mark.”
Richie bent over and vomited.
Norman shook off some ash and ooze that stuck to his hand from Richie’s wrist.
“This is going to be a long day,” said Norman.
Norman and Richie sat on the edge of the warehouse roof watching the glow of sunset disappear. “That sucked.” Richie rubbed a burn on his shoulder. His clothes still smoldered.
“It’ll get easier,” replied Norman. “Let’s get going. You’ve still got all Sunday to recover.”
Richie got up and began to walk across the roof.
“Stop!” shouted Norman. “Walk along the edge.”
“Why?” asked Richie.
A piece of roof crumbled under Richie’s left foot. He leapt back toward the edge of the roof landing on his back as a chunk caved in. The debris crashed below vibrating the whole structure.
Norman helped Richie back to his feet. “Stay along the edge. The rest of the roof isn’t much better. Only a matter of time before it caves in.”
“Then where will you take me for my weekly tanning session?” said Richie.
Norman chuckled.
They balanced their way along the perimeter of the warehouse roof until they reached the metal rungs leading down. Richie climbed to the first step and looked back at Norman. “It’s Saturday night. What do you have in store for us?”
Norman snickered, “Lesson planning.”
“Fun,” replied Richie in his monotone sarcastic voice.
Norman smiled broadly. “Life of a teacher.”
“This is going to be a long night,” said Richie.
Chapter 3: Classroom Management
After a few weeks, Norman’s classes seemed to glamor themselves. It just became the natural order. Cindy Kim, who had called Norman a ‘motherfucker’ on the second day, was highlighting her textbook. Her long straight hair lay across one of its pages. She wasn’t supposed to mark the book, but she was engaged! Let it slide.
Another student sketched Juliet plunging a dagger into her own heart. He’d read ahead! Norman looked to his seating chart. Keon Petit Frere.
Out of nowhere, Richie spoke up from his small desk in the corner. “Darius, why aren’t you working on your lit response? What are you doing?”
Norman wasn’t used to hearing Mr. Taylor’s voice. He’d only observed, keeping silent until this moment. Now he was doing it all wrong. Norman looked over to Darius who hadn’t opened his book or begun the assignment.
Richie stood, crossing his arms and repeated his question.
Too confrontational.
“Please answer,” said Richie.
Back off. You’re making it worse.
Darius leaned back in his seat. “Nothin’.”
Richie stepped around the desk. “I can see that. I’m happy to give you more time for your work in detention.”
Rookie moves.
Darius hadn’t seemed a particularly hard kid. But now, he’d been challenged. The boy crossed his arms. “If you really like my company that much.”
Snickers and “Ohhhs,” came from the class. Apparently, Richie had decided to pick on the class clown and was now engaged in a pissing match he couldn’t win. He could get as harsh as he wanted. All Darius had to do was not learn. He’d probably turn the whole class against the young teacher in the process if Richie didn’t do it himself. Norman could intervene but that would just make Richie look weak. This was between him and the class.
The student teacher stared Darius in the eyes. Norman could sense him trying to create the connection. Good. He’s learning. However, after a few moments Norman could tell he wasn’t making it. Richie’s face grew moist with sweat. “Please have a seat and get to work.”
“I am in my seat. And believe me, its hard work listening to you yammer on,” said Darius
Nice try, Richie.
Richie wiped sweat from his forehead. Norman sensed him struggling to link to the boys will.
“Darius,” said Richie. “Please…”
Another student rose from his seat across the Room, Tyreese Wilson. He stood in place for a moment and then walked next to Darius. He reached into his pocket and slid out a pencil, holding it up in front of Darius and turning his head to stare at Richie.
Darius took the pencil. Finally breaking eye contact with Richie, he flicked his chin up at Tyreese, who mirrored the motion back to him. Tyreese returned to his seat. Darius opened his notebook and began to write.
Richie fell back in his chair and placed a hand to his forehead. The class, who’d all stopped to observe the con
frontation, went back to work.
Norman scanned the class. Most were writing in their notebooks. Declan O’Mally doodled on his page. His attention span was so short! Norman needed to check in with him. He pushed out his chair but before he could rise, Chubs approached his desk.
“Yes?” said Norman.
Chubs slammed a sheet of wrinkled paper down. “Why’d I get an F?”
Norman looked down at the paper. “This isn’t your best work.”
“’The fuck? I did the assignment.”
“I assigned a four-page essay. This is only two paragraphs,”
“That play was shit. That’s all I had to say about it. Anyone’s got more to say about that pile of crap was trying to stick their tongue up your ass,” Chubs said. His temper flared hot, way out of proportion.
Norman knew how to reign in such fire. He stared into the young man. The details of the universe became distinct. The wild red orb of Chubs’ will floated before him. “What you have really isn’t that bad. It’s just not enough. Why don’t you stay after school for some extra help? I’m sure you could flesh it out.”
The wrinkles in Chubs’ forehead flattened. He nodded.
“In fact…”
Juda interrupted the exchange, joining Chubs at the desk. “I need to talk to you about my grade.” His cool blue orb with smooth floating arcs drifted next to Chubs as if superimposed on the normal world.
“Not now, Juda. Chubs, why don’t you…”
“Mr. Bernard, it’s important!”
“Not now,” said Norman almost shouting. What was it about this boy? How could he resist Norman’s will?
Juda huffed and turned his head to Chubs. “You gonna let him talk to you like that?”
Chubs blinked as if waking up.
“You worked hard on that and all he does is diss you.”
Chubs shook his head. “This is some bullshit right here.” He picked up his essay and wadded it in front of Norman. “I’m outta here.” He grabbed his pack from his seat and left the room, dropping his crumpled essay into the waste basket on the way out. “Later bitches.”
Norman stood and pressed the intercom button on the wall.
“Yes?” came a voice.
“I’ve got a walker,” said Norman.
“Name.”
“Stanley Marshall.”
“Chub’s again?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you Mr. Bernard.”
Norman turned away from the intercom and faced Juda. How the hell did he do that? You can’t just un-glamor someone. Who, or what, exactly, am I dealing with? “Mr. Martinez, I think you’ll find a little patience and politeness go a long way in life.” Norman returned to his desk.
“Now can I talk to you about my grade? I checked it on line last night. I have an F.” Juda’s eyes seemed to pierce Norman. They stared into him. Norman had never felt anything like it before. He sensed his own secrets hanging out on display.
“I need to pass this class to graduate from Night School.” said Juda.
Norman tapped some keys on his decade-old desktop computer to access his grade book. “You skipped school two days ago.” Norman waited for Juda’s response. When none came he added, “We took a district assessment. It’s 40 percent of your grade.” Still nothing from Juda. “I can’t let you make it up for an unexcused absence.” The city loved its tests and data. And rules.
Still nothing.
“You skipped. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t skip,” said Juda, finally.
“You weren’t here. You didn’t have a note. That’s called skipping.” He knew he didn’t need to explain, but went through the motions anyway.
“I didn’t skip,” repeated Juda. His eyes wavered. “I…had a very rough night.”
Most of these kids had rough nights. Often they involved child protective services for the younger kids and jail for the older ones.
Norman reached into his desk and withdrew a folder. He leafed through the papers. There were records of the various city and state departments that had intervened in Juda’s family. “According to your school record, you have had attendance problems since kindergarten.”
“I have issues at home.”
“I see that.” Norman placed the folder down. “Juda, I know you’re smart. But you have to show up. I can’t help you if you’re not here.”
Juda swallowed. “Can I make up the assessment?”
“No,” said Norman. “Not for skipping.” It was school policy. If you missed school because you got arrested, that was considered an excused absence. But skipping—
Juda’s chin fell to his chest. He turned and stepped back to his desk, slumping down in his chair.
He’s giving up. “Just don’t miss anymore school,” said Norman.
Juda placed his face in the crook of his elbow on his desk.
Norman rose to visit the dejected youth. He knelt down next to him, placing a hand on his back. “Look. I’ll talk to Mr. Shapiro.”
“He won’t do anything.”
“He will.”
“Whatever.”
“I can be very convincing.”
Juda remained slumped.
“Juda.”
The boy lifted his head from his arm. His watery eyes looked into Norman’s.
“I promise.”
Tear’s began to creep down Juda’s cheek.
“This place is all about second chances, right?” Norman smiled. “Why don’t you go to the bathroom and splash some water on your face.”
Juda nodded, wiped his thumbs across his eyes and left the room.
“Bernie,” shouted the hulking Declan O’Malley, “I left my book at home.” Declan was one of two white kids in the class. They didn’t like each other so he mostly kept to himself.
Norman took a book from the stack near the front of the room and was about to place it on Declan’s desk when he snatched it back. “Did you read the pages last night?” asked Norman.
“Yeah.”
“What happened.”
Declan exhaled, yawning his annoyance. “Tybalt stabbed Mercutio.” Then he added, “That better not be the best part of the book.”
“Play,” responded Norman.
“Play what?” replied Declan.
“It’s a play.” Norman placed the copy of Romeo and Juliet onto Declan’s desk.
The young Latina, Felicia Gomez, who Norman had inadvertently swore at on the first day, chimed in from the seat next to Declan. “Those weren’t even last night’s pages.”
Declan looked at her.
“Those were from two nights ago,” she said.
Declan’s eyebrows crinkled. He opened his mouth to respond but was cut off.
“Last night Romeo snuck to Juliet’s place and talked to her through her window,” said Felicia.
“That’s stupid,” said Declan.
Felicia’s eyebrows stretched into tall arches. She straightened her spine and cocked her head.
Declan fumbled. “That can’t…No…That’s not…They’re from different…uhh…”
“Houses,” finished Felicia. She said the word as if smashing Declan over the head with it.
This girl did her homework. Norman wondered what had brought her to Night School
Declan pulled back his shoulders. “Fuck you, Spic Dyke.”
Felicia shot up from her chair.
The other Hispanic students in the room all stood as well.
Declan’s eyes flicked about the room and settled on the other white kid. Matt Barnes. Matt shook his head.
Others in the room clenched fists and tightened faces. Declan had torn off a scab, and the wound oozed.
“Felicia! Declan!” shouted Norman. He honed in on their wills which floated there, fiery and wild. He massaged them with the smooth tendril’s of his own. Norman’s breathing deepened and exhaustion set in. So many glamorings. He could feel the heat from the wills of the class on the edge of civil war. They all looked to Felicia to see how she woul
d respond. Norman would have to manage the situation in his special way. But no more glamoring after this. He was drained.
“Declan,” said Norman. “I think you owe….
Three knocks at the door interrupted.
Not again.
Norman felt his grip on the two students slide. He focused. Three more knocks. Don’t lose them.
The door swung open and Headmaster Shapiro poked his head in. “Mr. Bernard. Am I interrupting anything?”
The hyper-real room phased out. It was just a class again. Norman looked around. The class had turned its attention to the principal. Felicia had turned as well. Her chest heaved with heavy breaths. Easy, there. thought Norman. Easy. The class held their positions, but Norman could feel the tempers cool. Declan’s shoulders drooped back down as he let out his breath.
For once, the principal may have just saved Norman’s ass.
Shapiro, oddly, did not enter the room completely. He stood, occupying the space between the barely open door and the wall. “Mr. Bernard…Oh, hello Mr. Taylor, I’d forgotten you were here,” he said. “I wanted to introduce you to your new student.”
“What new student?”
“Didn’t I mention this to you? I’m sure I did.”
“No,” said Norman definitively. “I’m at my contractual maximum. Isn’t there another class he could join?”
“She,” said Shapiro. “We’ll work out the details. Don’t worry.”
Norman knew what “don’t worry” meant. It meant worry.
Then Shapiro spoke up in his usually loud manner. “Good evening class,” he paused, again, waiting for the unison reply that never came. “I’d like to introduce you to a new student.” He opened the door wider and escorted the youth across the threshold.
The young woman wore a spiky leather jacket. Her hair, tied in a neat long braid, was a nearly white blond and contrasted her black eyes. She fixed her gaze on Norman and one corner of her mouth rose up slightly into a cold half smile.
It was all Norman could do to keep from leaping backward in disbelief. He heard Richie fall into his chair with a thud.
Shapiro continued, “Her name is Skeete Daniels.”
Apparently this was to be a year of Vampire reunions. This one, however, was impossible. For the youth that stood before Norman was dead. Norman had staked her himself.
