23 Degrees Below Zero

The art classroom was colder than usual, which is saying a lot considering that it was almost always an igloo. I sat in my usual spot, huddled against an isolated white wall, rubbing my arms across my jacket sleeves for warmth. I placed my iPod headphones on my ears and listened to the music flowing through them.

The teacher still hadn't arrived. I assumed that he would show up in a few minutes, and then I could ask him to turn down the air conditioner. Instead, a woman wearing a pale blue button-down blouse, a black skirt, and black platform sandals with heels requested the class' attention.

I fumbled with the controls on my iPod, embarrassingly being called out by one of the other students for it. Once the iPod's batteries were properly conserved, the woman introduced herself as our substitute teacher. She went on to explain that she was 23, and that she was an alumnus at our school. Cursing was "a pet peeve" of hers and if she didn't have to use swear words at her age, then neither did we, according to her.

Since it was silent reading time, she made everybody pull out a book. Moments later, she scolded a girl who was sitting near me for listening to music while reading. The girl grudgingly turned off her CD player.

I pulled a short story anthology book out of my backpack and began to read it. A few minutes later, I heard a loud crash. At first, I assumed that the construction workers who were working outside of the classroom had accidentally dropped something, and I continued to read. But then I noticed students rushing to the large glass windows, and I walked towards them to see what had happened.

It wasn't an object that had been dropped. It was a person. One of the workers had fallen from a ladder, and was lying, unmoving, on the stone floor.

The substitute told us that the incident was none of our concern, that silent reading was over, and that she expected us to start drawing immediately. It was at this point that I realized why the room was colder than usual. I came to the conclusion that this class was at the mercy of a heartless 23-year-old Nazi dictator bitch.

Throughout the class period, she circled the room, the heels on her sandals clicking with each slow step she took, her eyes watching us like hawks.

I sat down in a spot that was closer to the windows, watching the scene outside unfold. The man who had fallen from the ladder still wasn't moving. Other workers were gathered around him. At one point, one of them placed white towels under the fallen worker's head.

Suddenly, Nazi lady was looming over me, asking if I intended to draw anything in my notebook. I said yes, and she slowly stalked away. Then, I immediately began writing this story. I may not have been inspired to draw, but I was definitely inspired to write.

As for the fallen worker, he did regain consciousness eventually. He was carried away on a stretcher, and will hopefully recover quickly.

The substitute released us from class late, because she didn't hear the bell (which never went off in that particular classroom anyway). As I walked out, I told the girl next to me "I actually want our teacher to be here next time, because that lady-" and I stopped talking abruptly as I realized that Nazi lady was the one holding the door open for us.