Untitled novel chapter 1-

The bell rang, slicing through the murmur of the hallway. Lockers slammed, sneakers squeaked, and students rushed to their next classes. The noise rose like a tide, but I stuck to the edges, notebook in hand, slipping between the waves of chatter and laughter.

First period: History, Mr. Craig. A name I didn’t recognize. When I’d gotten my schedule, it stuck out like a mystery, and mysteries were my job. What better way to start the day than by scoping out the new teacher? I was already picturing the headline: Who Is Mr. Craig?

The classroom wasn’t anything special—standard-issue desks and chairs, a green chalkboard streaked with faint ghosts of old lessons. Students shuffled in, claiming their usual spots. I took a seat near the back, close enough to observe but far enough to disappear.

Mr. Craig stood at the front, leaning against his desk. He wasn’t tall or particularly striking, but there was something about the way he scanned the room that quieted the usual buzz. He didn’t have to raise his voice or call us to attention; he just waited, arms crossed, eyes steady.

When the last student sank into their seat, he moved. He reached down, picked up the thick, dog-eared history textbook from his desk, and held it up.

“This,” he said, his voice calm but sharp enough to cut through the silence, “is full of half-truths and outright lies.”

The class froze. A few students exchanged glances, unsure if they’d heard him right.

Then, without warning, he slammed the book onto his desk. The thud made everyone jump.

“This semester, we’ll cover this book,” he continued, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “to satisfy the state’s requirements. After all, it’s what they want you to know.”

He paced in front of us now, his hands animated as he spoke. “But let me be clear: what’s in this book isn’t the whole story. It’s a version of history—someone else’s version. If you want the truth, the real truth, you have to dig deeper.”

He stopped and looked at us, letting the words sink in. “I’m going to tell you things this book won’t. Things the government doesn’t want you to know. You’re going to think I’m crazy. And maybe I am. Crazy about history.”

The silence was electric. Even the usual jokers didn’t dare crack wise. I scribbled furiously, trying to capture the moment.

“Now,” he said, gesturing toward the book like it was some cursed artifact, “open your government-approved propaganda to page one.”

For the rest of the class, he led us through the opening chapter, but his commentary turned every paragraph into a debate. He questioned the narratives, poked holes in the assumptions, and asked questions no other teacher had ever dared.

When the bell finally rang, students left in a flurry of whispers and raised eyebrows. I stayed behind, clutching my notebook.

“Mr. Craig,” I said as he packed up his papers. “I’m with the school paper. Would you have time during break for an interview? A kind of ‘meet the teacher’ piece?”

He looked at me, his expression unreadable for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Based on my first class, huh? Not sure I want the publicity.”

“You might enjoy it,” I countered, my voice steadier than I expected.

His smile widened. “Alright. Break it is. Let’s see if you can make me sound half as interesting as you think I am"