Steckland Russ (II.i)

   
    (v) --



    There is outrage, considerable outrage, amongst myself and my classmates that we are four days into the new school year and already a test has been scheduled.
    Worst of all, the test was today (surprise!) and it was on a unit we weren't supposed to even think about until November. I recall the first question vividly, for I stared at it for at least ten minutes.

    Give three examples of the Magna Carta having an influence upon the Twentieth Century

    I figured the Magna Carta was either an album by a Swedish metal band or an incredibly large condom, so I wrote up some references on Dark Side of the Moon in comparison to Highway to Hell. If you're going to fail, fail with style I say.
    It wasn't only me. The looks on the faces around me was of a squirrel looking in a tree to find the nuts he had stored away for the winter were really pinecones. There were twenty questions on the test, and we were given only thirty minutes to finish it, no breaks. When quiet Vince Choi asked to go to the bathroom, there was such a tremendous scene that everyone was deducted five percent from their final mark. I have never had a class with Mrs. Foxwell before, and I'm sure glad this is the only one I'll ever have.

    'Pens and pencils down. You're all out of time, so stop that scribbling.'
   
    Mrs. Foxwell has small stature, but that makes her all the more intimidating. Her appearance is actually rather friendly, like that of a learned academic often willing to dispense advice like a free soda machine. She has a scowl, however, that breaks through this illusion of kindness whenever the very slightest thing comes across her. I had been in her class for barely fourty minutes and had already seen that scowl a dozen times. I felt in danger by even daring to slouch.
   
    'World Politics is a subject with several different approaches. If you took this course because it sounded like a free ride, well you took the wrong train.'

    She elaborated on this, scowling all the while, for another ten minutes. Not once did it feel like she was talking to us but instead at us. Besides, I took Politics not because I thought it would be easy, but because I was interested in it. Three classes in and my Dread Thermometer is already approaching feverish levels.

    'Psst. Hey Steck, how'd you do?'

    This was Tom Northcliffe, a rather talkative tucked in sort whom most of us regard as a nerd. He fiddled with his large framed glasses while leaning forward for my response.

    'I'd be happy with an "F" and an apology. Seriously, how were we supposed to describe the political system of Constantinople?'
    'My favourite was the one asking us for three advantages a modern day Feudal system would have. Good thing this wasn't worth marks or anything, eh?'
    'It isn't? I thought it was.'

    The dark colour of Tom's face immediately became five shades lighter by the horror of what I had said. He remained in contemplative silence for well over a minute, like a desperate man looking over a ledge.

    'Well, I'm sure it was barely worth anything.' reasoned Tom with himself. 'One percent, two at most. Yes, nothing to really worry about...'

    'Don't go anywhere!' shouted Mrs. Foxwell sharply, noticing some of us beginning to pack up and leave with just three minutes of class remaining.
    'Listen! Your homework for tonight is to pick a question on the test you feel you did exceptionally poorly on, write a five minute presentation on that question, and present it next class! And this will be worth marks!'
    'Can we at least look at the test again...?' asked a brave soul in the back row.
   
    Mrs. Foxwell even seemed to consider it for a moment.

    'No!' she yelled. 'See you Friday!'

    ***

    As I am writing these recollections for your benefit, Future Steckland, I feel I should elaborate on Tom Northcliffe somewhat. To this point we've had an on-and-off type of friendship, but not because of any kind of hostility. Ours is a friendship that goes by the whim of a spring breeze, in that we have had times of close camaraderie, and other times of indifferent disconnection.
    I first met Tom in Grade Ten Careers class. The teacher, Mr. Galvakas, had a habit of dozing off half an hour into every class, so Tom and I would pass the free time by comparison: Star Trek episodes, Batman and Spiderman, Coca-Cola and other soft drinks, Starcraft and Halo, The Silver Snail and The Hairy Tarantula, and of course Kirk and Picard. I went to Tom's house numerous times that year, always to play Smash Bros. or laugh at the camp of TOS.
    I was fifteen and embracing my inner nerd, but unfortunately my inner nerd was like me and not adept at finishing schoolwork. As for Tom, Grade Eleven came along and his first report card average of 83 did not satisfy him. He grew into an obsession with grades, abandoning his Warhammer figurines and his Chess Club (we played often, and I would often win) for any books and papers assigned to him. His next report card was much more to his liking, I'm sure, but his clever company was always preoccupied from that point. Whenever we spoke I could see sprockets turning in the back of his mind, considering the time he spent talking to me could be better used to study.
    There is a table in the school library where he can be found every lunchhour. While we wander outside in the warm or cool air to cure our hunger and socialize, he grasps at words he reads for dear life, on the minimal chance they might help him on a test someday. Behind a shelf of red encyclopedias, in a little corner alcove with four random textbooks and his peanut butter and jam sandwich, looking through eyes that see numbers instead of people.
   

    (v) -- The Fox and the Cliff