The Wisherman (11 page)

“I was like this on my first day too.” Robert offered, b
ut Oliver could barely hear him, his eyes glued to the mirror in disgust.
How was the jacket supposed to be buttoned? Should the collar be up or down?
Oliver buttoned up his blue jacket, thumbing the white cursive D & F on his jacket as he did with shaking fingers.

“
Why do you have a scarf? Should I have a scarf?” He accused Robert. Through the mirror, he noticed Robert watching him from behind, a faint smile adorning his face. “And a tie, I need a tie!”

“You’re already wearing your tie.” Robert said, in a vaguely amused voice.
“And your scarf. Although you won’t need it. Classes are indoors, you know.” Oliver looked in the mirror, and his cheeks flushed as he realized that he was completely dressed and ready to go.

“Okay!” Oliver marched towards the door and pulled it open with all of the strength he could muster. He stepped outside into the hallway, before the sound of Robert’s laughter pulled him back in.

“You should probably get your backpack.” He said, through a belly laugh. “Oh, and it’s just 7:30. Classes don’t start for another hour, you know.” And with that, Oliver returned to his room, and to the sounds of Robert’s raging laughter.

With the morning jitters nearly subsided,
Oliver arrived in the cafeteria. Today, the cafeteria was loud and bustling with the usual nervous energy of the first day of school. Older boys rushed to the front of the bagel line---to cries of protest from the younger boys---juggling bagels in one hand and school books in the other. Oliver's eyes drifted to the center table, where Alex, Gabriel, and Owen ate quietly, heads down and deep in discussion. Next, he studied the table where he usually sat, noticing that it was devoid of Paul's presence. Malachi sat there, staring straight forward as if he were in shock. Oliver started over, but his feet stopped him, and after a moment of hesitation he continued on through the bagel line, grabbing lox and napkins. Though, Malachi's stare left him bothered as he walked from the cafeteria and it took him a while to purge it from his thoughts.

Twenty minutes later, he sat in the back row
of Mr. Houston's Calculus class. Mr. Houston was a man of average build, and non-descript features. He wore a lilac dress shirt and khaki pants. His glasses were thick and rimmed, and the lenses gave him a bug eyed appearance. He sat on the edge of his desk, watching the class file in.

Slowly,
the class filed up, each boy carrying wrapped bagels and muffins, some with hair still wet from the shower and sleep still in their eyes. Mr. Houston waited until each student sat down before clearing his throat. It was a horrible scraping sound and Oliver and many of his classmates looked up out of pure shock. Once it was clear that everyone’s attention was firmly focused on him, Mr. Houston turned to the board and began with the most boring lecture Oliver had ever heard in his life. 50 minutes later, he stopped, and Oliver couldn't be sure whether or not he'd fallen asleep. He packed up his books, as Mr. Houston droned behind him.

"The problem
set is due Wednesday. Points will be taken off for incomplete problems."

Oliver followed the herd of students leaving Mr. Houston's class and headed for history. The history classroom was smaller, with only
twenty desks. The desks were positioned in an almost circle, but a gap remained between two of the desks. In the middle of the desk circle stood a man in a Hawaiian t-shirt. He wore cut off shorts and his hair tumbled down his back in such a way that Oliver thought for a moment that he'd stepped into an impromptu hair commercial.

"Welcome to H
istory."

The man's voice boomed as Oliver and the rest of the class shuffled in.
He hadn’t quite expected such an authoritative voice, from a man who looked like he’d rather be surfing. Oliver chose a chair and slid in, and watched as his classmates did the same. When everyone was settled in, and the tittering had settled down enough, the man in the Hawaiian shirt stood in the middle of the circle and spoke again.

"My name is Mr. Johnson, and this is History 101. We will be learning history here in this class. Only the facts. We will not speculate. We will not argue.
We will not challenge." Mr. Johnson paused for a moment and looked around the room, his eyes narrowed like a hawk in search of prey, miles above the ground. "Are there any questions?" The room had gone eerily silent, as the realization slowly dawned on the class---Oliver included--- that the only thing unconventional about his Mr. Johnson was his clothing. "Alright, good. Now, you'll find your textbooks under your desk, turn to chapter one…"

Oliver did as he was told, though as his fingers thumbed through the pages, his mind wandered elsewhere.
The feeling of wonder he felt stepping through the doors of Delafontaine on his first day was quickly evaporating. In its place, an unsettling feeling had seeped in, though Oliver was not yet sure how to define it.

To his left, Paul sat at attention as Mr. Johnson lectured about
how “history is written by the winners, and that’s the way it ought to be.” Paul’s eyes followed Mr. Johnson’s every step as he paced the classroom. Mr. Johnson walked up to the chalkboard and wrote something. “Now, everyone, turn to page 32…”

Oliver looked over, Malachi’s furious scribbling having momentarily caught his attention
, though, Oliver had a feeling that he wasn’t writing any notes. When his eyes landed on the page, his heart caught in his chest. On Malachi’s paper, below the words “History”, there, sketched on the page, was a large pair of hands. He hissed at Malachi.

“What are you doing?”
Malachi shrugged and whispered back.

“Drawing. What, are you actually taking notes?” Malachi turned back to his paper and finished his drawing, adding a body, legs and arms. Oliver relaxed when Malachi showed him a picture of himself, wearing the Delafontaine school uniform.

Fifty minutes later, Oliver was wiping the sleep from his eyes again as he ventured toward English class. Those who had third period English followed behind him, quiet and defeated, like a line of shackled prisoners heading towards their cells.

The single file rows of Mrs. Latham’s
English class reminded Oliver even more of a prison facility. He was the first to enter the classroom, followed by the rest of his classmates who filed in listlessly behind him. Mrs. Latham herself sat behind a large rectangular wooden desk, her glasses perched on the edge of her nose so solidly that Oliver thought that they might have been glued there to save her the trouble of removing them every day. When everyone had taken their seats, Mrs. Latham rose slowly from her desk. She moved down each aisle, handing out paper syllabi with one hand, and smoothing the wrinkles on her suit with the other.  “Welcome to 9
th
year English. Many of you are returning students---returning for another wonderful year at Delafontaine---and are accustomed to the Delafontaine way. I do see some new students however. Would anyone like to fill in our new students on how we do things around here?

Before Mrs. Latham had even finished her sentence, the buzz of twenty voices rose at once, sending the hair on the back of Oliver’s neck prickling.

“We work hard. We work smart. We work quietly.”

“Again, everybody, that wasn’t quite loud enough.”

“We work hard. We work smart. We work quietly.”

“And what do I always say? We can’t forget the most important part, gentlemen.”

Mrs. Latham turned on her heels to survey the class, her lips parted with anticipation.  The class fell silent, and a few student shot quizzical looks at one another, momentarily breaking the
unnatural, robotic trance of the class. Mrs. Latham shook her head and frowned.

“I’ll have to write this on the board at the beginning of every class period, I suppose. Greatness is found i
n form and order.”

“Dante?” A student from the front piped up, though he immediately shriveled under the laser gaze of Mrs. Latham.

“No, me.” She smiled thinly. “Now, on the first page of your syllabi, you’ll see that you’ll need to have your first book read by next Friday. No exceptions…”

             
When the bell rang at the end of English, a surge of energy raced through Oliver’s body, propelling him towards the cafeteria for lunch. He walked quickly, his feet moving like there was hot coal beneath them. His brain struggled to wake up from what felt like an extended stupor. Malachi and Paul fell in besides him as they followed the crowd towards the dining hall. As the world slowly came into focus once more---Oliver’s brain felt like a cramped muscle that hadn’t been stretched in hours---Paul’s excited voice drifted into his ear.

“So, great class, huh?” Malachi shot Paul a disbelieving look. “Our first unit sounds really interesting. I’m going to get started reading tonight. You two are welcome to join, if you want to understand the material better.” Paul looked pointedly at Malachi, who rolled his eyes in response.

The dining hall felt alive, a stark departure from forced silence in the classes of the day. Oliver took his spot in the winding line, and surveyed the cafeteria. In the center table, sat Gabriel, Alex, and Owen, faces plastered with the casual grins worn by those in complete control. Oliver filled his plate with chicken and rice and followed Malachi and Paul to their usual table. The three ate in silence, before Malachi piped up, his eyes sparkling.

“I heard something is going down
next week.”

Paul shot him a disgusted sideways glance. “I’m sure that’s against the rules” he said, shortly.
Malachi shifted his gaze so that it landed directly, and exclusively on Oliver.

“It’s upperclassmen only, apparently.
Want to cut curfew with me?”

“There will be consequences.” Paul muttered, eliciting yet another eye roll from Malachi. Oliver looked back and forth between Malachi and Paul, feeling rather like one was the devil on this left shoulder, and the other, the angel on his right.
The sweet sound of the lunch bell ringing saved Oliver and in the lunchroom frenzy, Oliver made his escape towards Physics class.

             
When Malachi and Paul did not enter the classroom arguing as they had for the past several periods, Oliver sat at the back of the classroom watching as unfamiliar faces poured in. Two minutes before the clock was to strike 1pm, three familiar faces sauntered in. Gabriel, Alex, and Owen strolled in, and immediately the energy in the class shifted. Mr. Lawson, the physics teacher cleared his throat and tapped his foot, but it was to no avail. The three boys walked slowly to the back of the classroom, and slid into the empty desks surrounding Oliver. As Gabriel slid into the desk behind him, Oliver felt his heart constrict for a moment.

“Now that everyone is here
…”

Mr. Lawson stopped to send a pointed glare towards the back of the classroom.

“We can begin. Physics can be difficult, but only if you make it so. Like so many things in life, it is absolute fact. What does everyone here know about inertia?”

Mr. La
wson’s face soured.

“Yes, Owen? Thank you for raising your hand.”

“Inertia says that objects remain in their same state of motion unless compelled by an external force.” Mr. Lawson smiled.

“Very good, Owen. Any other thoughts on the matter?” The class remained silent. “Good, good. Let’
s talk more about Newton’s Laws of Motion.” Mr. Lawson moved towards the front of the class, and as soon he turned away, Gabriel, Owen and Alex erupted into whispers. Though his eyes were concentrated firmly on the white space between Mr. Lawson’s glasses, Oliver’s ears were firmly involved in the conversation behind him. The whispers were loud, and Oliver honestly couldn’t determine whether or not Mr. Lawson was deaf, or if he was choosing to ignore them.

“….I think we could definitely
start again next week.”

“Who’s on board? Do we have enough?”

“Definitely. I’ve got
more
than enough.”

Soon after, the whispers quieted down, and Oliver found that the only conversation he had the pleasure of listening to was Mr. Lawson’s discussion of Newton.

By the end of P.E class, Oliver sat winded on a corner mat. Malachi had rejoined him, and to Oliver’s surprise and eventual dismay, Malachi was excellent at tennis. So excellent in fact, that Oliver’s arms were pure lead by the end of the period and he could barely muster a ‘good game’ as Malachi jogged by, having barely broken a sweat.

His eyes had just closed---perhaps for good, if his heart rate was any indication---when Malachi shook him awake, still wearing his victor’s grin.

“You’ve got a phone call.”

He slapped Oliver on the back and ran back towards the court, pointing his tennis racquet at anyone who didn’t jump out of the way. The words sounded faraway to Oliver. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d heard them correctly as all. Before he had time to process it all, the gym teacher, Mr. Weisman was escorting him to the telephone booth in the admissions hall. Oliver found himself sitting in the booth, phone in hand, and not entirely sure how he’d gotten there. Sure, he had walked there with his own two feet, and the voice coming out his mouth certainly sounded like his own, but as he leaned as far into the receiver as he could, the words he spoke felt like a foreign language.