text: “ Stare at him for a while and you’ll see it, I swear to God... ” I recall these joking words from earlier, from a chaotic lunchtime with my sister, her friends, and a couple other upper-classmen, all spinning yarns about the odd, creepy, perverted, or occasionally interesting teachers and members of the administrative staff that haunted the high school. It was always something of a treat to hear these older students share their stories and opinions on classes and teachers, because it gave me the chance to analyze which hallways I should avoid, in addition to the classes. My sister’s best friend was this girl, Amelia, who Mia had been friends with since pre-school. Amelia was the sort of girl who got straight As through freshman year, but then caught the sophomore zing that made her start calling herself Amy and wearing button-down crop-tops. Mia, the future rocket scientist, sort of looked at her best friend in a condescending light these days, even saying, in her own elegant words, “yeah...Amy’s a whore but I love her.” In any case, Amy’s vivacious personality led her into some questionable (but interesting) interactions with various teachers. And it seemed her painted wide-eyed stories were a daily affair at the lunch table near the snack line. Once she told us about Mr. Beaubien. “Listen...the guy was packing, I kid you not.” she whispered, but the sort of whispering that isn’t really whispering at all, and in fact, attracts more attention than regular talking would. Though I suppose this could be the intent. “He’s bald, right? I’ll tell you, that guy’s...thing...looks just like his head.” “You’re disgusting.” Mia said, unwrapping the wax paper around her salami sandwich. It was Friday, which meant she’d go a little crazy and eat something other than lean turkey. Same for me, though I was a bit more of a fun-lover (I mean, a freshman dude sitting with junior chicks), so I’d eat salami three, maybe even four times a week. Speaking of unhealthy meat, Amy told us another story about the resident police officer, Officer Davis (“OD to all the cool kids”, he’d say). This story was actually whispered, and was so disgusting that none of us would believe it in a million years. “You’re a fucking liar, Amy.” this farmer boy who liked to look up skirts said, cracking his can of Mountain Dew. Everyone else silently agreed, and Amy looked offended. If there was one thing that girl hated, it was being called a liar. “A liar, huh?” she begged. “I’ll just have to prove it, then.” Two days later, OD was fired, and two months after that, he sat in a packed courthouse while a disturbing video played for members of the jury. No one ever called dear Amy a liar again. But there appeared to be one bane of this girl’s existence. Perhaps, one nut she couldn’t crack: Mr. Atkinson. “Look at the guy...” she said to us, huddled up, as the six foot tall, brown-haired, blue-eyed Algebra II teacher made his way down the lunch line. “Tell me he’s not a fucking alien or something. Stare at him for a while and you’ll see it...” It wouldn’t be hard to believe; this man was the most generic human being alive. It was almost fascinating how boring he was. His love for rocks led him to a YouTube channel with forty subscribers, where he posted rock-cleaning and hunting videos. He wore the same khakis and green flannel shirt every day, and always followed the exact same symmetric trail from the door to his desk when he entered the classroom. Apparently, he’d invested in Apple back in 2000 and often brought it up for math lessons. And his love of juggling was almost sensual. There was something about this man’s behavior...almost alien-like, robotic, so generic it was as if the aliens put all the settings on “default” when they sent their spy down to Earth. In any case, his plainness and devotion to a life devoid of intrigue meant that Amy would not be applying her mouth to a single phallus of his (no matter how hard she fought for it). On the day we watched him, I agreed with her. “It’s like the aliens set all his settings on ‘default’.” I said. She laughed, told me I was hilarious. This brief second of affirmation from an attractive female stayed with me all the way to sixth period, Algebra II, where I decided to see if this man could crack a smile, even once. It was a couple minutes before class, and I’d arrived early. For introverts such as myself, the confidence for telling a joke comes from arriving in a timely and prepared fashion, and considering your words for an extended period of time. At last, when I believed there was just the right amount of people in the room (enough to get a good laugh, but not so many that it would be too loud), I said, “Mr. Atkinson.” He said, “Mr. Cocciarelli.” I said, “So my sister and I were observing you at lunch, and we decided you seem like, if aliens were to send down a robot spy, the default setting for ‘human’.” A couple kids chuckled. Mr. Atkinson sort of looked at me funny. “You mean...” “Well, is there any truth to the fact that you might be a robot?” “Yeah, tell us!” Cam Kraus said, which brought forth a couple more snickers. Mr. Atkinson looked at the class with a little smile and stood up taller, as if to tell another awkward joke of his. But then, suddenly, his expression changed, and he turned his head to face me. He was smiling just a little, but his eyes had no life in them, and when his lips parted, I heard this incredibly high pitched whistle that made me cover my ears. The wretched sound had that crumbling effect that I’d learned about in music lessons, where the pitch becomes so distorted that it begins to shred your eardrums. Then, it stopped. Everyone was laughing, including Mr. Atkinson, who was now making his way to the whiteboard to begin the lesson. The bell was ringing, and a couple kids nearby were looking at me funny. After class, I followed Cam Kraus out the door. “My wife thinks I’m a machine, too...” he muttered, snickering. “Jesus Christ...” “What?” Cam grinned at me, but his eyebrows narrowed. “You didn’t hear Mr. A? He said, ‘my wife thinks I’m a machine, too, if you know what I mean...’. The balls of a teacher to say that in class, dude.” “Yeah...” I agreed, slowing down as the flood of classmates surged past me. As the chorus of voices poured over me, I heard several people quoting Mr. A's joke, and continuing to laugh about it, saying he’d surely get in trouble if they didn’t keep their mouths shut. When the flood passed, leaving me alone in the hall, I turned back toward the math room at the end of the hall, where Mr. Atkinson always stood during passing time. There he was, arms crossed, leaning against the wall casually. I stared at his face, waiting for a reaction, a wink, a smirk...but he just stared back. I swear to God, for a second, his eyes were all white.