Just One of the Boys

“Alright, settle down, laddies!” A blusterous man resembling Santa Claus walked into the classroom, his voice booming in the small space. We all scrambled for a seat, and I found myself seated next to Zack in the front row. “I am Mr. Haufforn and I shall be teaching your summer English class,” Mr. Haufforn announced, placing his briefcase on his front desk and pulled out six very thick books, slamming them on the flat surface. “Chaucer, Dante, Shakespeare, Bradbury, Steinbeck, and Homer—not Simpson, you prat!” he snapped, whacking Jack on the back of the head with a particularly thick one, ceasing his immature giggles. “Who can tell me which books each one has written?”

When none of us raised our hands, he picked up the role book and traced his finger down the fairly short list of names. “Here…Phillip Brady! Mr. Brady, name the books those authors wrote,” he commanded, pointed to the unlucky boy.

A rather dull looking boy in the back jumped, scratching his curly black hair. “Uh…they’re authors,” he answered monotone.

“Uh, no duh,” I snorted, unable to contain myself. Zack, who was sitting next to me, elbowed me in the ribs, but it was too late; Mr. Haufforn had heard me.

“Oh, so you think you’re so smart Mr.…?” He peered at me over his rather large and red nose, his beady eyes narrowed.

“H-Henry,” I stuttered, almost saying Holly. “Henry Williams.”

“Well, Mr. Williams, do you know what the books those six gentlemen I just listed wrote?” The whole class rested their eyes on me, as I swallowed.

“Dante wrote Dante’s Inferno, Chaucer wrote The Canterbury Tales, Shakespeare wrote a ton of plays like Romeo & Juliet, Steinbeck wrote Of Mice and Men and a ton of others, Bradbury wrote Fahrenheit 451, and Homer wrote both The Iliad and The Odyssey,” I replied confidently. "However, Shakespeare wrote plays, not books."

“Very good, Mr. Williams, you obviously know you’re stuff,” Mr. Haufforn praised, pulling up his pants over his potbelly. “During this summer session you will be given a book or play to read and report on, one by one of the authors I have just read aloud. I shall pass them out now.” A loud groan was uttered from our lips, however, was quickly silenced from a glare from Mr. Haufforn.

Mr. Haufforn walked up and down each isle, dropping books on each student’s desk. “I expect the first chapter or scene read by tomorrow,” he barked, slamming my book down on my desk.

I picked it up, my jaw dropped in horror, before it turned to a fit of laughter I had to change into a cough. The book I was assigned was no other than William Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. Oh the irony…