Alam arrived at his next class, ragged breath scraping his throat, sweat dripping from his forehead, and his leg throbbing from dragging his club foot across campus. The hallway smelled faintly of floor polish and stale paper, and the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry insects.
He looked up at the sign in front of the door:
Film Theory | Cannon McCreedy
"Sorry, I'm late," he said as he shuffled into the classroom. Some students were acting out scenes from various shows, films, and anime, while others played with their phones and tablets, and a few sketched drawings. The air was thick, expensive perfume and the faint odor of fried food carried in from the cafeteria.
His film teacher lay back in his chair, feet planted on his desk, belly spilling over his belt buckle. A sweat‑stained cowboy hat tilted low across his brow, shadowing his eyes. His voice rolled out in a syrupy southern drawl, thick as molasses, every word dragged slow and heavy. Grease stains marked his shirt, and the sour‑sweet smell of fried meat and whiskey clung to him like a second skin.
"Don't make me no nevermind," his teacher stated with indifference. "Have a seat over yonder," he motioned lazily toward the student desks.
"Ok, thank you," Alam said, confused. "I guess he's not as bad as the others," Alam whispered.
Alam spotted an empty desk and shuffled toward it. The carpet fibers rasped under his shoe, catching slightly as he dragged his foot. One of the students stuck out a leg and tripped him before he could get there. He hit the ground hard, the dust rising from the carpet and the sting of impact jolting through his palms. A chorus of laughter erupted, sharp and echoing against the classroom walls.
His teacher snorted, waking briefly from his nap. "Settle down, tikes," he murmured, before drifting back to sleep, his breath rattling like a clogged engine.
Alam looked around to see all the children laughing at him, their voices overlapping in cruel waves. "W‑Why?" he asked with a sad sigh, his chest tightening.
"Don't pay them no mind," one of the female students said as she reached down to help him up. Her hand was small but firm, her touch warm against his clammy skin. "They all got brain damage from too much social media," she added. The girl was very petite, reddish-brown skin, light brown eyes, light brown hair tied into long twin pig tails, and an adorable button nose that crinkled when she smiled.
"Thank you, my name's Alam."
"Pleasure to meet you, name's Rita," she said, helping Alam to his feet.
Alam sat in the chair; Rita's seat was right next to his. The chair creaked beneath him, its metal frame cold against his thighs.
"So what are we working on?" he asked her.
"Whatever we want, I guess," she shrugged, her pencil tapping idly against the desk.
"Didn't the teacher give us an assignment?"
"Hmp, Dear old dad's on the wagon again," she said, glancing at the man napping, legs sprawled across the desk. His snores rattled through the room, mingling with the faint smell of whiskey that seeped from his clothes.
"That's your father?" Alam asked, surprised.
"Yep," Rita said, annoyed.
"I mean no offense, but if he's drunk at work, why don't they fire him?" Alam asked.
"He's got tenure," Rita sighed, her shoulders slumping.
"You don't seem too fond of him," Alam said.
"Oh, I love Papa. It's just annoying when he's drunk 'cause all he wants to do is sleep."
"Can't you just give him some coffee?" Alam asked.
"Pfft, look at him," Rita said, rolling her eyes. "You honestly think coffee'll help?" she asked.
As they stared at the professor, he suddenly shouted, "No, not my Berries! I don't wanna take Massive Damage!" His hands shot to cover his groin, face flushed crimson. "Monkey Peaches, Monkey Peaches!" he bellowed before his arms fell limp, dangling off the sides of his chair, and he started snoring again, mouth open, breath sour.
"I guess not," Alam replied to Rita.
"Besides, even if it is annoying having your dad embarrass you while getting blackout drunk at school, at least we can do whatever we want."
"Really? What's everyone use the time for?"
"Most just doom scroll, but soma'us use our time creatively," she said, reaching into her school bag. The zipper rasped open, and she pulled out an amazing hand‑drawn sketch of a figure wearing a black hood with cat ears and a gold serval mask. The graphite lines were sharp, shadows layered with precision, the paper smelling faintly of lead and eraser dust.
"Wow…" Alam whispered in awe. "How long did it take you to get that good?"
"Don't know, been sketching since I could hold a pencil."
"I wish I had a talent like that."
"Don't sell yourself short. I'm sure there's at least one thing you're good at," she assured him, her voice soft but steady.
"Lately, it seems like all I'm good at is getting in the way…" Alam sighed, his fingers tightening around the edge of his desk.
"Hey, it'll be alright, each of us has a talent, you just have to find yours," she reassured him.
"Maybe you're right," Alam said.
"Of course I am," Rita said.
"Why does your dad drink so much, anyway?" Alam asked.
"He usually gets like this when he fights with my mom," Rita replied.
"Really? Does she work here too?"
"Yeah, she's—"
Rita was interrupted by her dad before she could finish.
"Jus drein jus daun!" the flim teacher shouted, his hands raised and balled into fist, before dangling limp, and his snores resumed.
"Sorry, he watches a lot of movies," Rita said.
"Come with me if you wanna live!" the professor shouted, his voice cracking.
"A LOT of movies," Rita emphasized.
"Believe it!" the professor shouted, pointing to the ceiling, before his snoring and hand‑dangling resumed.
Alam stared at Rita, not sure what to make of the situation. She chuckled, her laughter light and musical. He hesitated at first, but then chuckled right along with her, the tension in his chest easing.
"You know he didn't say that in the original version?" Alam asked.
"I know, right? He only said it in the dubs. It was so dumb," Alam said, chuckling.
"So dumb," Rita agreed, continuing her laughter.
"But it makes one heck of a meme," Alam said.
"One heck of a meme," Rita agreed.
The bell rang, shrill and metallic, vibrating through the classroom walls. The students shuffled out, chairs scraping against the floor, the air filling with the rustle of bags and footsteps.
"Thanks for chatting with me, Rita."
"It's been an absolute pleasure, Alam."
"You're the only person other than Cindy who's made me feel welcome here."
"Oh, I love Cindy, she's an absolute doll."
"Really? You know her?"
"Yeah, she gave us the freshmen tour."
Alam paused and thought for a moment. "Did she happen to mention there was a map on the back of your class schedule?"
Rita thought for a moment. "You know, I don't think she did. Bit of a forgetful nelly, that one," Rita chuckled.
"Haha, ok, I thought it was just me." But apparently, she does it with everyone.
"My English teacher wasn't too pleased I showed up late."
"Yeah, Professor Puddingham likes to threaten students to get bribes."
"How'd you know it was Professor Puddingham?"
"We have the same class. I was walking out when you were heading in."
"Oh, that makes sense," Alam said.
"The trick is not to give him ammunition. If you know it's unavoidable, have a box of his favorite snacks ready."
"No! My MeowMewo Beenz!" Professor McCreedy mumbled dramatically, his arm drifting in a sluggish arc before collapsing limp, breath rattling into snores.
"I guess Ewan really did help me out."
"Ewan? Eww… Stay away from that one. He's not a good person."
"What, why?"
"Just trust me, you don't want anything to do with him," Rita said dismissively.
"Alright."
"You should head to your next class; you don't want to be late again."
Alam started heading for the door. The floor creaked beneath his steps, the faint smell of chalk dust lingering in the air. "It seems like no one at this school likes Ewan," Alam muttered.