The Anarchist's Heart

The first bell made me jump in my seat. That wasn’t very surprising, seeing as how I’d just been sitting behind my desk, spaced out on the stupid motivational poster I’d hung up above the sink and tapping my pen to a furious, invisible beat against my day planner. I was nervous, like, wanting-to-vomit nervous. I’d done this before. Why was I freaking out so badly this time around?

The depressed faces of my new first period students flooded in and took their seats at the long tables. Some of them had notebooks or sketch pads and pens or pencils, some of them just had a regular HB pencil or a mechanical one, instead of the specific ones I’d asked them to buy in the supplies list. Most of them didn’t have anything but themselves. That wasn’t so troubling; after all, it was the first day of classes and no one did anything on the first day of classes. They were grade 10, so they were on the cusp of their treacherous, hellish high school path. They were just praying for the next three years to go by in the blink of an eye so they could get the hell out of this place. I’d been like them once; wanting nothing more than to escape high school so I could start my life with a boy I could’ve sworn I loved. But that was then and things were different. Now, I had a different boy who’d kissed me this morning and told me “You’ll do just fine, Liz. You’re my girl.” And, for some reason, I’d opted to put myself right back into this hellhole they call high school, and I wasn’t sure if I was any better off than I had been when I was in grade 10.

The second bell rang, declaring class to begin, and some students quieted down and directed their attention to me. For the ones that didn’t, all it took was the horrendous squeak of my chair on the linoleum as I pushed it back to make them stop chattering. I winced at the horrible noise but grabbed my notes anyway and made my way to the front of the classroom. My heels seemed to echo off the walls as I walked. I looked out at a small sea of eyes, all on me, judging me, trying to figure out what kind of a teacher I’d be; wondering if they could get away with their immature teenager bullshit or not. I gave them a wary smile, not wanting to make myself seem welcoming to the idea of foolishness in the classroom environment, but not wanting to come across as entirely cold either. That was one of the hardest parts about being a teacher: first impressions.

“Good morning, everyone,” I said, sweeping the room with my eyes and locking onto only a few for a brief second each. “I hope you all had a wonderful, eventful summer. Unfortunately, as they say, all good things come to an end at some point, and thus here you are, back in these hallways I’m sure you all love so much.”

Some of them scoffed, others rolled their eyes and smirked at me, and a few just yawned and directed their attention to the window. I cleared my throat. Alright, so maybe it hadn’t been the best starter. I’d get better.

“Um, okay, as you may have noticed, I am not Mrs. Garcia. I’m sure most, if not all of you, know that Mrs. Garcia retired last year. I’m her replacement. My name is Miss. Stone, and I bet you’re all dying to know a thing or two about me. No, you’re not, no student really cares. Trust me, I know. I used to be one of you, sitting in those very chairs. This was my high school once. I was born here in Charming and I lived here until I was nearly twenty before leaving for bigger and better things. I went to college. Originally, I was going to major in bio-chemistry, but luckily I changed it to art education before it was too late. I’ve had a few teaching jobs in other states, but when I got an offer to teach at my old high school, I had to take it. I’m happy to be here, and I hope to offer you all new tools that you can use to create something beautiful out of nothing at all. And that pretty little saying was just a clever segway into talking about the lesson plan for the year. Now, you should’ve already purchased your Staedtler pencils…”

I went on about the lesson plan for a good ten to fifteen minutes before I’d said all I could say about it. I pointed out where all the supplies was now located and went over my expectations for the class and the student’s behaviour. Thankfully no one was misbehaving just yet. I warned them that I was a fairly easygoing person, open to different perspectives and ideas, but that punishments would swiftly be dolled out for inappropriate behaviour. It was good to be welcoming and warm to a certain extent—a teacher didn’t want to be a best friend to a student, so to speak. And at the same time, a teacher should be stern and serious about what they expect from their class. I’d repeated those words to myself a dozen times the night before the first day, actually taking out my old college guidelines. It’d been a rather pathetic sight to behold, truthfully.

Once I’d gone over my policies, I went around and asked everyone to tell me their names and something interesting they did over their summer. I know every kid hates when their teacher asks that of them on the first day. It was such a generic thing to do, but it’s this whole ordeal where the teacher should try to be interested in their student’s lives and what they have to say about the things they do. From that, a teacher can learn what they’re most passionate about and potentially urge them to focus on that, blah, blah, blah. The point remains that it sucks when a teacher asks what a student did over their summer, and I felt bad for doing it but it didn’t matter. Most of them told me something, like they went to the lake, or they went to Europe or another state or Canada, and only a few muttered “I didn’t do anything”, so I felt like I did pretty well. I had two Jasmine’s in my class and two Morgan’s, so I had to make a note to remember what their last initial was just to avoid confusion as best as possible. Overall there were twenty-one students in my first period class, which, admittedly, was a lot to handle at nine in the morning, but I felt confident I could do it after I got to know each of them a little better.

“Alright, well now that we’ve gotten all of that out of the way, does anyone have any questions about the school year or about me?” I inquired as I walked back to my desk to set my day planner down.

After I asked, I heard a loud yet muffled engine rumble outside. It was actually several engines, and as I looked outside I matched each of them to a Harley-Davidson. The Sons of Anarchy ripped by, definitely not doing the 30 kph school zone speed limit, with Jax near the head of the gang. I could discern him by the plaid sticking out of the arms of his leather cut, his white shoes, and the blonde hair that was uncovered by his helmet at the back of his head as it caught the breeze. I swallowed a hard lump and remembered my conversation with Elise just two days ago.

“Yeah, I got a question,”

I turned my head away from the window to find a textbook jock boy smirking at me with all the confidence in the world. I braced myself for the worst, already knowing he had nothing good to say.

“Yes, what’s your name again?”

“Brody Merchant,” he responded. Brody had short dark brown hair and eyes to match, with freckles, a solid jaw line, and arms that could probably pull a tree out of the ground by its roots. I asked myself if I thought maybe he was on steroids, but then I reminded myself I was a teacher and that was something I should discuss with Alex at home instead.

“What’s your question, Brody?”

“My mom said she graduated with you,” he said. All eyes were on him. Some kids had even turned entirely around in their chairs to watch. “She said you were in tight with the Sons of Anarchy. You were that Vice President’s girl, she told me. And me, as a concerned member of this student body, well, I just worry that your boyfriend is gonna come on in here and skin me alive and then fill me full of lead just for getting a D+ on an assignment.”

There were some nasty chuckles, some scoffs, some gasps, some nervous eyes, and some sighs. I leaned heavily on those sighs, even though there weren’t very many. I watched as Brody high-fived one of his football buddies and I tasted something sour in my mouth. For a minute I wanted to do just what he said. I wanted to revert back to my high school self, where if I ever had a problem with somebody picking on me, I just ran to Jax and he took care of it. But I wanted nothing to do with Jax. I was alone, and I could handle a cocky 10th grader just fine.

“Brody, I can assure you that your worries are entirely false, and nothing of that sort will happen here. I have nothing to do with those people, and I am certainly no longer in an intimate relationship with a member; I’m not even on speaking terms with them, if that offers you any comfort. I don’t know who your mother is, but she should learn a very important lesson on not living in the past.”

Immediately everyone stopped talking and everyone’s attention once again returned to me. I had no doubt my face was red but I didn’t care. I was gaining all my strength from watching the cocky smirk slowly vanish from Brody’s smug face.

“You will not get skinned alive, or shot for that matter, just for misbehaving in this classroom. However, you will be sent to the principal’s office, where she can deal with you and let you know what the appropriate behaviour is in a classroom setting. I have no trouble sending you there now if you need a lesson or two. Would you like to pay Mrs. Workman a visit on the very first day back, Mr. Merchant? What would your mother have to say about that?”

He swallowed and shook his head at me.

“I didn’t think so. I won’t tolerate any of those remarks in here. Not only are they discriminatory, but they are horribly invasive and way out of line. I am the teacher, and you are the student. I teach you art, and you ask me about art. Do you understand?” I looked out at everyone then, to assure them that the same went for them, too.

Everyone nodded.

“Good. We’re done here; you can go early. Please be quiet while you’re in the hallways; not every class gets let out early, you know.”

Immediately everyone stood up from their seats and headed for the door in a rush of murmurs and whispers. I sat down in my desk and watched as they all funnelled out of the narrow doorway. Some of them tossed me looks over their shoulders before returning to whisper in their friend’s ear. My heart sunk and my lungs tightened in my chest. I put my head in my hands and shook it. What did I just do?



“I blew it. I totally blew it.”

Alex laughed at me as he brought me my mug of chamomile tea and sat down beside me on the couch.

“So you talked back to a kid that talked shit to you, so what? The little prick deserved it.” He consoled.

“No, that’s not just it,” I sighed, finally removing my face from my palm. “I was a bitch. I was a total, raging bitch, in front of all of them. Now they all think I’m a shitty person and a mean teacher and they’re all going to hate me and purposefully try and piss me off and complain to their parents and peers about how witchy I am.”

“Do you think it’s possible that you’re over thinking this just slightly?” He sighed, slipping an arm over my shoulders.

“No, that’s not possible,” I grumbled, sipping at the piping hot tea and burning my tongue. “Fuck!”

“Did you burn yourself? Here, I’ll grab you an ice cube from the—”

“No, it’s fine. I can do it myself.” I snapped, setting the mug down on the coffee table and walking into the kitchen.

I felt bad for being so short with him, but I was frustrated and trying not to think about how I’d cheated on him, which was proving harder than I’d intended. When I’d seen Jax drive past the school earlier, there had been a little voice in the back of my head begging the question: is he thinking about me? When he drove past, did he look at the school and remember I was in it? Was that the whole reason he and his gang drove past? I’d tried to suffocate that voice so many times but it hadn’t worked. And now I was standing in my kitchen with an ice cube against my tongue as it froze my fingers and dripped onto my toes, frustrated and upset, with a confused fiancé sitting in the living room. It seemed like no matter how hard I tried to wash my hands of Jax, there was always a little bit under my fingernails that I couldn’t scrape out, not even if I tried my hardest.