Teacher of the Century (2 page)

*****

The next day, though the death sentence hanging over her head clouded her thoughts, Cilla experienced a welcome change in Period Five.

At first, Five went the way it always did. Half the godlings slept through her lecture, and none of the others paid attention to a word she said. A male and female had actually squeezed into the same hammock together and engaged in heavy petting while she talked. A godling boy loudly passed gas at least a dozen times. Cilla knew better than to correct any of them; their pet principal would veto any disciplinary action and turn it around into negative consequences for her. If she ever did manage to administer any form of punishment, the parental A.I.s would squeal in protest, followed by the parents themselves.

In spite of the usual Period Five headaches, however, there was one consolation in the wasteland that day. Byron Spencer, the new boy, had miraculously survived his first day of school--even though he had dared to interrupt Cilla's execution--and sat at the head of the class, listening and taking notes. He even sat at a
desk
, believe it or not; he had
asked
for one, and the maintenance crew had found one buried in storage and brought it to the room.

As class wore on, Byron did something even more surprising than asking for a desk or taking notes.

It happened as Cilla was being chewed out by one of the A.I. drones for looking at a student while posing a question. The gleaming eight-ball hovered at eye level, less than a foot from her face, and protested in the voice of Daughter Raper XL's mother, presumably reacting in the same way that the mother would have reacted if she herself had been there.

“Is my son the only student in this classroom?” the A.I. said shrilly. “Is he?”

“No,” said Cilla, glaring at the floating orb. It was at least the twentieth A.I. interruption in the past half-hour, which was par for the course but still disruptive. As always, she spent her time talking to the orbs while the so-called students snored or masturbated or surfed the hivenet.

“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.

*****

“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.