Teacher of the Century

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  “No, what?” said the drone in Daughter Raper XL’s mother’s voice.

  Cilla grated her teeth. “No, ma’am,” she said coldly.

  “Then don’t look in his direction every time you have a question!” said the A.I., bobbing closer to Cilla’s face. “Try one of these other children you’re supposedly teaching! Stop singling out Daughter Raper like he’s some kind of second class citizen!”

  Cilla wished she had a baseball bat so she could take a swing at the eight-ball. Once she got started, she would like to make the rounds of the classroom and then the building, not stopping until every single sphere was a shattered pile of ebony shards and sparking circuits.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Cilla, and then the drone zipped away, resuming its post above Daughter Raper XL’s left shoulder. Daughter Raper himself was fast asleep, completely oblivious to what had just happened.

  For a moment, Cilla stood before the class and tried to recall what her train of thought had been before the drone’s interruption. Pressing fingertips against her cheek, she stared off into space, searching her memory...and coming up empty. She had been talking about Animal Farm, she knew that much, but where exactly she had left off remained a mystery.

  Then, something miraculous happened. Cilla heard a voice other than her own or a drone’s in the classroom.

  “Miss Franklin,” said Byron Spencer. “A moment ago, you said that Napoleon the pig represents Josef Stalin in Animal Farm. Who does Snowball represent, did you say?”

  For a moment, Cilla stared at the boy in shock. Even the godlings who weren’t sleeping directed their attention at Byron, for he had done something completely unheard of, something that just wasn’t done anymore in school.

  He had participated in class.

  Quickly recovering her composure, Cilla smiled gratefully and nodded. “Leon Trotsky,” she said. Byron had reminded her of exactly where she’d left off before the A.I.’s intrusion.

  “And Mr. Jones the farmer is supposed to be the czar, right?” said Byron.

  “Czar Nicholas II,” said Cilla. “That’s correct, Byron.”

  The boy cocked his head thoughtfully. “But the characters don’t have to be those particular people, do they?”

  “No, they don’t,” said Cilla. “The allegory can apply to any oppressive system.”

  “I thought I recognized some characters from real life,” said Byron, glancing over his shoulder.

  If the godlings realized that he was referring to them, they gave no sign of it. None of them seemed to be listening anymore, anyhow.

  “If Orwell updated Animal Farm today,” said Byron, “I wonder if the pigs would be connected to the hivenet.”

  “Who knows?” said Cilla, keeping her remarks neutral for the benefit of the A.I. drones that recorded her every word. “But it would be interesting to see what Mr. Orwell would come up with.”

  “I think he’d have a field day,” Byron said with a grin.

  Cilla nodded and smiled. “So, Byron,” she said, excited to be interacting intellectually with a student for the first time in what seemed like eons. “What did you like best about the book?”

  From then on, Period Five wasn’t so bad. It had gotten off to a typically awful start, but ended up being Cilla’s favorite class in she couldn’t remember how long.

  Ignoring the godlings, she spent the remaining class time talking exclusively with Byron Spencer about Animal Farm. For once, she was sorry when Period Five ended.

  *****

  The next day, Cilla actually looked forward to Period Five, and wasn’t disappointed when it arrived. While the godlings ate and slept and urinated on the floor from their hammocks, Cilla and Byron continued their discussion of Animal Farm and moved on to 1984. By the time class was over, they had gone from Orwell to Ayn Rand, then ranged further afield, touching on Jules Verne, Edgar Allan Poe, Charles Dickens, and even Shakespeare.

  Cilla could not believe that she was having such a stimulating conversation with a twelfth-grader, especially in an age when twelfth-graders read no books and could not even be bothered to communicate with adults in English. She did not even have such conversations with her peers anymore, for they were too busy scrambling to placate the godlings to consider academic matters.

  The time she spent with Byron, she knew, was a rare gift. The death sentence still weighed on her, as did the postponed retirement that could be her only means of survival...but during Period Five, at least, she was able to shrug aside the darkness and savor every moment of her exchanges with the extraordinary seventeen-year-old.

  It was enough to help her survive to the end of the week and her scheduled “pow-wow” with Principal Caesar (barring a surprise execution by the godlings, of course). She would never admit it to Caesar, but she ended up not minding the extra time in school so much.

  In fact, by staying through the week, she experienced what might have been the highlight of the past twenty years of her career...certainly of the past miserable decade. After school on Friday, just before her meeting with Caesar, Byron stopped by her room and did something that no student had done since Kitty Carnuba back in 2079 or so.

  He handed her some poetry he’d written and asked her to tell him what she thought of it.

  “Whenever you get the chance,” said Byron. “I’m sure you’re busy.”

  Cilla turned slowly through the poems, which he’d gone to the trouble of printing (God bless him!) on sheets of paper. There was one about his father, and one about the way he’d felt on his first day at All Einstein High School. There was one about a journey to the stars, and one about a perfect world that never was.

  And then there was one titled “The Angel.” It included the following lines:

  I squint from the shadows of life like a prison,

  Outnumbered by forces inhuman and heartless.

  I’m saved by an angel of learning arisen,

  Like minds, kindred spirits together a fortress.

  After reading the full text of “The Angel,” it was all she could do to keep from crying until Byron left the room. On the pretext that she had to get ready for her meeting with the principal, she sent Byron on his way, promising to read the poems at her first opportunity...

  And then she let the tears flow.

  The poem touched her deeply...not so much because of its quality as for its subject matter. Though her name was never mentioned, she had no doubt that it related directly to her.

  She had known that she and Byron had made a positive connection, but seeing the boy’s appreciation in print, and expressed so glowingly, filled her with joy. For once, she felt like she was actually helping someone; for once, she felt like she was getting through to another human being.

  For once, she felt like maybe she was making a difference, even if it was only in the life of a single student.

  It was a miracle she had never expected to see again in her lifetime. She had done plenty of good work long ago, in the days before the hivenet and godlings. She could not even count the number of students she had helped to succeed, or helped to succeed more, or exceed all expectations...but it seemed that the desire to learn had disappeared around the same time the students had stopped wearing clothes. Though Cilla had received teaching awards in recent years, she attributed them to past glories and the absence of competition in the teaching field. She knew all too well that she had made no impact on students in many years.

  Until now. As she reread “The Angel,” she sobbed tears of pure happiness. She felt like she was fifty-five again, or even forty-five or thirty-five.

  All because of one student. One excellent student out of hundreds...an unacceptably dismal success rate decades ago, but today it was wondrous enough to make a teacher break down and cry. Not just any teacher, either, but America’s so-called Teacher of the Year for ten years running and a nominee for so-called Teacher of the Century.

  If she hadn’t been so damned happy, Cilla Franklin might have been disappointed in herself.

&n
bsp; *****

  “Congratulations,” said the naked principal when Cilla entered his office for their “pow-wow.” “You’re not dead!”

  As good a mood as Cilla was in after receiving Byron’s poems, Caesar’s remark threw a shroud right over her. “Not yet,” she said coldly. “The godlings like to play with their food.”

  “I disagree,” Caesar said flippantly. “I think you’re off the hook. In fact, Ludwig tells me you’re in the clear.”

  Cilla distrusted every word from the principal’s mouth, but she played along. “No more death sentence?”

  “You’ll be able to receive that Teacher of the Century award after all!” said Caesar. He glanced down at the gold hoop in his newly-pierced left nipple, then looked to Cilla for approval. “Like the piercing? I’m getting my scrotum done next.”

  Ignoring his nipple, Cilla leaned forward. She sensed that he was being evasive somehow. “So the death sentence is cancelled?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Caesar, waving a hand dismissively. “I guarantee you’ll get to that award ceremony.”

  There. She finally realized what he was leaving unsaid. “What about after the ceremony?”

  “What about it?” Caesar said innocently.

  “What happens to me?”

  “I imagine you’ll go to a party of some sort,” said Caesar.

  It took an effort for Cilla to restrain her anger. “And the death sentence will be back in effect,” she said darkly.

  Caesar shrugged. “Sometimes, we take what we can get.”

  “You made a deal to ensure I’d live to receive the award,” said Cilla, “and bring it home to All Einstein. Then, all bets are off.”

  “I can’t confirm or deny your theory,” said Caesar. “Rest assured, if any negotiations did or will occur, they were or will be designed to buy time until a

  longer-lasting compromise can be devised. Remember, Cilla, it’s in the school’s best interests to keep you alive and teaching for as long as is humanly possible.”

  Cilla shook her head with a combination of disgust and amazement. “You gave me up,” she said. “You told the godlings they could have me.”

  “Now, now,” said Caesar, raising an index finger correctively. “You’re putting words in my mouth, Cilla.”

  “When they devour my body,” she said icily, “will you join in the feast?”

  “Nobody’s going to devour you,” said Caesar. “Keep in mind, Ludwig’s tribe will graduate at the end of the year. They won’t be a threat.”

  “How dumb do you think I am?” said Cilla. “Of course they’ll still be a threat! They’ll never stop until I’m dead, whether they’re in school or not.”

  “Trust me,” said Caesar. “It’ll blow over. You’ve got many years of teaching ahead of you.”

  “You’re mistaken,” said Cilla. “I’m retiring, remember?”

  Caesar chuckled. “You’re not serious about that!”

  “You insisted I stay through the week, and I have. Now I’m done. I’m leaving before the godlings finish me off.”

  “I just told you, you’re in the clear,” said Caesar.

  “You should know better than to make promises you aren’t sure you can keep,” said Cilla. “The godlings can’t be controlled or bargained with. They could snuff me out right now, and what would you do about it?”

  “You’re off-limits! They won’t touch you!”

  “Don’t kid yourself,” said Cilla, getting to her feet. “We’re not even the same species anymore. They’d just as soon use your treaties for toilet paper as honor them.”

  “They’re good kids,” said Caesar. “Maybe if you’d link to the hivenet once in a while, you’d see that.”

  Cilla crossed the office and opened the door. “I’m retired now,” she said. “I’ll leave the kids to you.”

  Caesar cleared his throat and rose from his chair. “See you Monday,” he said.

  “Not unless you show up at my apartment,” said Cilla.

  “Remember your pension,” said Caesar.

  “It won’t do me much good if I’m dead.”

  Caesar came around the front of his desk and leaned against it, casually folding his arms over his chest. Apparently, he pinched his nipple ring the wrong way, for he quickly adjusted his arms, briefly letting his composure slip.

  “Sleep on it over the weekend, Cilla,” he said cheerfully. “Your job will still be waiting for you Monday.”

  “I won’t want it,” Cilla said over her shoulder as she walked out.

  “Things can change,” said Principal Caesar. “Keep an open mind.”

  “Goodbye,” said Cilla as she left the outer office and turned down the hall.

  “You’ll be back!” Caesar shouted after her, grinning knowingly.

  *****

  As Cilla lifted the wrinkled photo from her desk drawer, she swung back in time to the happy moment when the photo had been taken.

  It had been at least thirty years ago, back when people still took photos instead of posting images to the hivenet. Period Three had been amazing that year, unbelievably sharp, hardworking, and well-behaved; on the last day of school, the kids had surprised her with a party in her honor. They had even baked her a cake and made her an afghan in Home Economics. Every last one of them had hugged her on their way out the door.

  In the photo, she and the kids from Period Three were mashed together in a happy crush, all laughter and light. How had she gone from that life to the one she had now, she wondered? When had the kids gone from hugging her to pissing on her?

  Placing the photo in the box into which she was packing her possessions, Cilla reached back into the desk drawer. This time, she withdrew an enamel pin shaped like a shiny red apple; the lettering on the apple read “World’s Best Teacher.”

  Kim Warwick had given her that. Out of all the students she’d taught through the years, Cilla still remembered that one.

  Kim had been one of the stars of Cilla’s career...not that Cilla imagined she had had much to do with her success. As a high school senior, Kim had already been writing like a master, composing achingly perfect novels of exquisite intricacy, depth, and emotional resonance. Cilla had given her the tiniest bit of guidance and all the encouragement in the world...and for that, Kim had never failed to credit her as the greatest teacher she’d ever known. She’d even dedicated a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel to Cilla, back in the days when the Pulitzer Prize still meant something.

  Cilla dropped the pin in the box and pulled a magic marker drawing of a bull from the drawer. That one came from Jayvo Endymion, her hyperactive but beloved “bull in a china shop” from forty-odd years ago. Was he even still alive, she wondered? So much could happen in forty-odd years.

  With a heavy sigh, Cilla dropped into her chair. Though there was not the slightest doubt in her mind that it was time to retire--well past time, in fact--cleaning out her desk was turning out to be harder than she had expected. As she piled mementos into boxes, the memories of better times and better students piled onto her shoulders, pressing her downward.

  As she looked around the room, tears welling in her eyes, a thousand schooldays replayed in her memory. She saw herself standing in the front of the room, pacing her little track from wall to wall, lecturing energetically. Phantom students raised hands, chewed gum, passed notes, watched the clock. How many children had there been, she wondered? Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? A million? She had no idea, no head count.

  But she did remember every face, every name. A good teacher never forgets, she always thought.

  And she was a good teacher, if you listened to Kim Warwick and Period Three from thirty-odd years ago and the America’s Teacher of the Century selection committee. Or maybe not so good, if you listened to the little voice inside her that laid the blame for the rise of the godlings at least partly in her lap, since after all, she had done her part to shape the minds that had given birth to this warped generation.

  Either way, she was now an ex-teacher,
and glad of it. If ever a change had been overdue, it was this one; thinking back, Cilla thought she should have retired at least ten years ago...more like fifteen.

  She would have only one real regret in leaving when she did. There was one person she would miss seeing again, one student she would have liked to have said goodbye to before she left for good.

  As she thought of him, like magic, his voice broke the silence.

  Unfortunately, the sound was not as welcome as it usually was to Cilla. He wasn’t speaking calmly from the doorway or his desk.

  He was screaming for help from somewhere down the hall.

  As a hundred horrible possibilities leaped into her imagination, Cilla instinctively leaped from her chair and headed for the door. Leaning out into the corridor, she heard him scream again; this time, his cry for help became a shriek, his voice shooting up an octave and breaking as someone or something hurt him terribly.

  Without hesitation, though she was seventy-five years old and unarmed, Cilla followed Byron’s cries down the darkened hallway. Seventy-five was a lot younger than it used to be, but she was still fragile and unaugmented, certainly no match for the frailest godling; whoever or whatever she was about to face, rushing to her student’s aid was a courageous thing to do.

  Three doors down on the opposite side of the hall from her room, Cilla could see a bright red light dancing on the polished floor outside an open doorway. Though Byron’s screams ominously ended, ceasing to guide her, Cilla had no doubt that he was through that doorway, amid that fiery light.

  Sure enough, when she got there and looked inside, she saw him, huddled on the floor of a blazing classroom. Everything that could burn was on fire--hammocks, bedding, the teacher’s desk, window blinds, light panels,

  wall-mounted flat screen computer displays. In the middle of the roaring flames, Byron was curled in a fetal position with arms wrapped around his head, trying to protect himself from the blows that rained down upon him.