Room 608

Wit is educated insolence - Aristotle

May I take this opportunity to point out that not only is this place pretty damn awful, but we're not getting the three R's in here, even if it's really RAW, not that they would know that. Currently, Mrs Radcliffe, a frumpy, ancient looking woman that always stank of some sort of wood polish was reading a section on how to congigate French verbs to do with the morning routine to us from a text book.

How many of us actually look like we're going to go to France? Bloody useless school curriculum. She was exactly like the evil old lady that lived up the street and secretly cooked children in her oven, right down to the overly fluffy and baby pink cardigan. She made me sick.

"Joshua Farro! Attention! Écoutez... avoir est..." I gave up even trying to learn anything, and returned to staring at Hayley's gorgeous ass, convieniently positioned in the seat in front. Amy was sat next to her, long brown hair flowing over the back of her chair. Both of them were clearly bored out of their minds and had started to pass notes.

"Why the hell are we learning about this shit?" Zacky whispered a lot more loudly than he thought he had done. Mrs Radcliffe was certainately not impressed. She wrapped her pencil against the desk, drawing Zacky's eyes to her pink fluffiness.

"Stand outside Mr Baker. I do not expect to hear that sort of language in my lesson ever again, or you will be spending the evening in solitary. Do I make myself clear?" The purple haired boy nodded like his head was about to fall off, and quickly did as she said. Although she never raised her voice, the lady was like a dragon. She could have made a great prison warden or a drill seargent. "Continuer..."

She was rudly interrupted by Spencer's snoring. Syn elbowed him several times under the hot glare of her flufiness, but failed to return him to the land of the waking. Mrs Radcliffe smacked the sleeping boy across the back of the head with what looked like a riding whip. He immediately sat up. I doubt even Gerard himself could have stood up to this monster.

She returned to discussing this "avoir" verb to herself, making it clear that she would not be able to teach us a thing if her life depended on it. Her teaching method appeared to be:

1. If they don't understand - hit them.
2. If they're not listening - hit thm.
3. If they get it wrong - hit them.
4. If in doubt - hit them anyway, just to be on the safe side.

Dear God, the window seemed to be able to teach me more. I didn't even have the good fortune to be sat with my friends. She had sat me next to Bellamy on the right, and Shadows on the left. Time slowly ticked away.

There was a rap on the door.

"Entré !"

"Escusez-moi Madame Radcliffe..." An older boy who was not in our class appeared in the doorway. Apparently, he had heard the teacher screaming at us in French and decided it was probably best to transfer his message to her in that language rather than disrupt our lesson. Strangely enough, I recognised this particular boy, if not from his peculiar looks than from the rich, entrancing voice that was pouring out of his mouth like vintage wine.

This had to be Joe Lean, the subject of many an idle canteen conversation and circulating rumors. His real name was Joe Beaumont, but everyone called him Joe "Lean". His father was a British poet and his mother a french lingerie model. He had emmigrated to a small town in Missisippi shortly after his seventh birthday, upon arriving, his mother took ill and died of some rare form of fever. It was a Spanish word if I remembered rightly, although I could not remember the exact word, meaning "Red Death". His father had remarried a devout Catholic, who upon hearing his teacher's suspicions about the brainwave had tried to exorcise Joe while his father was at a poetry convention. Of course, none of this could not be confirmed as the truth.

Looking at him, you would not be surprised. His limbs were long and slender, gangly looking; they seemed to be too weak to support his body, but somehow they did. His cheeks were hollowed, casting dark shadows across his face in bright light and his eyes were a startling shade of blue-green that were very distinct and noticable beneath his mop of pale brown hair. None the less, there was an air of beauty about him. Had it not been for his eccentricity and almost unreal behaviour, many a girl would have been prone to follow him like a lost sheep (and a fair sprinkling of boys too). At least he had one devout follower...

"How on earth can you like him?" Hayley whispered to Amy as she gazed at Joe dreamily, who appeared not to notice her look. "You know what they say about him...he's freakier than Bellamy!"

"I don't care." Came the reply, as if from some bumble bee drunk on honey. Amy's crush on him was not a secret, her eyes drawn to his impossibly thin, and long, neck. His shirt collar was open, tie hanging from it rather than pushed up tight like most nerds would have theirs, but not quite as rebelliously low as the rest of us. It was almost as if he had done it to...make himself look better in the unifrom.... You could see the edge of a silver colour chain from underneath his shirt. A crucifix? Who could believe in God in this place?

I realised that he was staring back at me, and as he walked out of the door, he looked across at Amy (who had turned her attention to Hayley), then back at me, before winking. Was he suggesting something? They hadn't even met properly yet... Jesus... Some people...

"Mr Farro, it seems that you find Mr Beaumont much more entertaining than my lesson. Go join Mr Baker outside." I sighed. This might just be a long day.