Devil May Cry - Series Fan Fiction ❯ By Blood Connected ❯ The First Day ( Chapter 2 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

J. L. Tyler’s average school day ran from nine o’clock in the morning to four o’clock in the afternoon. The schedule was a blocked one: four of your chosen classes one day, then the other four the next. Each class ran for one hour, with a fifteen-minute break between each class to allow students to traverse the sprawling grounds with ample time to reach their destinations. Lunch ran for one hour between second and third period, and there was a mandatory study hall for another hour immediately after it. Study hall could be taken anywhere; be it the library or outside on the grounds, weather permitting.

Today, however, as the first day of the new term, was different. We were to go to all eight of our classes (though we still had an hour for lunch), each running for thirty minutes, and find our way to the next class in the fifteen minutes allotted us. There would be no study hall, seeing as how its location depended on the student’s current preference. The freshmen usually needed twenty or so minutes to locate their classes the first day, and were often late. The upperclassmen, myself included, didn’t even have to consult the map of the school issued to us.

I surveyed my schedule as Ami and I walked down the hallway leading away from the junior office. My A block was identical to hers: French III, Computer Sciences, Calculus, and Language Arts. Our B blocks, however, only had three classes out of four. I had Musical Theater, Physics, History, And P.E., while she had Biology III during my Physics period. The classes were in the same wing, though, so we wouldn’t have to go it alone for too long.

As we ambled towards French, I scanned the list of teachers I had landed. I recognized them all, having been in a lower level course of theirs in the years previous. One name, however, I did not recognize.

‘Who in the world is ‘V. Aeneid?’’ I thought to myself. New teachers were few and far between; experience in the subject they had to teach was more than required, years of it was expected. I was about to point out the new addition to the faculty to Ami when she spoke:

“There’s a new teacher this year.” She remarked. “That’s weird, I wonder what he’s like?”

“Whoever said it was a man?” I asked. “It could very well be a woman.”

“Oh... “ She grinned sheepishly. “I forgot who I was talking to.”

I was known by most of the school as ‘The Historian;’ I never listened to the teachers lecture, I knew the subject matter better than some of the instructors. The majority of history teachers in the school were male, and it made me angry when they made remarks about how surprising it was for a girl to be interested in the subject. Ami had been the recipient of my long-winded rants about the unfair history prejudice for years now; she was quite used to it.

‘‘Bout time they got a woman.’ I thought, grinding my teeth. ‘Sexist pigs.’

We had reached French by then. The class was taught by the woman we had last term: Madame Faust. Despite having a German surname, she was a French native who had lived in the states only for the last ten years or so, teaching and earning her English degree. She was an average-sized woman with a head of thick black hair, pleated into a long braid down her back. She wore the standard teachers dress: A black blouse and long black skirt with matching black heels. She was a fun-loving younger woman who wore copious amounts of eyeliner and loved to joke with her students. She was also my favorite teacher.

French passed quickly; the rules were reiterated on us for the third time, and though the teachers here had no qualms about assigning us heavy homework on our first day, Madame Faust did not.

“I always knew I liked her.” I mused to Ami. “She’s probably the only one who won’t assign us a huge-ass paper or sumthin’....”

“We need to work on our grammar.” Ami said contentedly. She was forever getting on to me about my increasingly frequent slang usage. “You know very well that the word ‘sumthin’’ does not exist in the English language.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~

Computer science was a pleasant surprise: no homework as well. In calculus, however, we were not so lucky. Ms. Shorla, our bat-like teacher, was not nearly as cool as Faust.

“Seventy-five problems!” I moaned. “I HATE trig ratios!”

“They’re not so bad.” Replied Ami.

“You only say that because you understand them.” I said disdainfully. “I, on the other hand, am a dedicated slacker; these things--”(I made an exaggerated motion of tossing the worksheet away in disgust) “--mean little to me.” Ami only giggled, knowing full well I’d come crying to her for help tomorrow morning.

Language and theater passed uneventfully; we were to read a work by Shakespeare in English, and bring a monologue we’d like to work on for drama.

We had to split up for sixth period, and class was not nearly so much fun as it had been without Ami there to screw around with. Thankfully, no homework was assigned in my class, though Ami’s book bag had been significantly heaved by the addition of another text book.

~~~~~~

Lunch had rolled around, and we scurried off to find friends. We met up with Sarita in the halls, and blended in with her and her year-book-committee crowd.

We decided to eat outside on the grass. The day was crisp, the air clear and chill, with the tang of fallen leaves perfuming the day. The fall season had brought leaves raining down upon us; scarlet and gold drops of foliage that crunched satisfyingly underfoot and created a nice, comfortable carpet on the lush grass which had not yet browned with the season.

Conversation consisted of summer-stories and gossip, making Ami and me feel out of place. We were the type who didn’t find any satisfaction in gossip, but rather more intellectual fare. Eventually the tide shifted to school. Schedules were compared, then teachers discussed:

“You have McLita? You’re so lucky; she never gives homework!”

“Yeah, but look who I have for math. She’s a bitch.”

“I’ve got calculus for B-4, how about you?

It was then I remembered what I had been wondering about all morning.

“Um... guys...?” I began loudly, vying for their attention which had been focused mainly on Sarita and her schedule worries. The seven or so girls all turned and looked at me, waiting. I continued:

“Do any of you have Aeneid for history? Me n’ Ami got ‘em next; what’re they like?”

There was silence for a moment, only broken by the sound of the light breeze tossing dead leaves together quietly. Then one of the year-bookers (I believe her name was Janice) spoke up:

“Is THAT how you pronounce his name?

Silence shattered, the girls all began to talk at once:

“He’s gorgeous–“

”He’s really strict though–“

”He won’t let us call him Ae..Ei... however you say it– he says its too hard for us to pronounce–“

”Positively beautiful blue eyes–“

I couldn’t make out anything useful, so I waved my arms around in an attempt to get their attention. Shy little Ami looked like a deer in the head-lights; she didn’t like so much chatter directed at her. Sensing her distress, I scrambled to my feet and barked a loud–

“HEY!”

The talking stopped. I stood, looking down at the gaggle of girls.

“One at a time, please.” I said as quietly as I could. I could be menacing when I wanted to be, and their senseless prattling was grating on my (extremely short set of) nerves. Janice, again, was the first to speak up:

“He asked us to call him ‘Redgrave,’ rather than Ae– however you say it.” She blushed, embarrassed that she wasn’t able to say the name properly. “He said that the easier one was his mother’s maiden name.”

“Okay...” I said. “Anything else?” Another year-booker, Trisha, spoke up:

“He’s different. Really young, and– “

”GORGEOUS.” One of Sarita’s more bitchy-looking companions had cut her off. “He’s got these dreamy blue eyes and platinum hair all slicked back. Really pale– almost as pale as you.” She grinned like a devil as I glared. I didn’t like being teased, especially by people I didn’t know from jack.

“He’s got an Oxford degree.” I turned, startled, to the girl who spoke. She had thick glasses, was freckled and stick-skinny, and wore her hair in two short braids, looking oddly out of place with the ‘cool’ crowd Sarita gathered into her company. She continued: “He’s also the new coach for the fencing team. I listened, he was really quite interesting.” She blushed then, and looked away. She had been so quiet earlier I hadn’t even noticed her sitting there.

“What’s your name?” I asked. Her head snapped up at this, obviously nervous.

“K-Karen. Karen Walker.” she stammered. I smiled, trying my best to look reassuring.

“It’s nice to meet you, Karen; I’m Jira Lancaster.” She seemed nice; an intellectual who was able to look past a handsome face and listen, and seemed like someone whom I could get along with. She was acting sort of scared though, and I wondered why...

“Karen,” Ami had at last recovered from her mute state and spoken up. “She won’t bite, trust me.” I looked at her.

“Bite?” I asked. She grinned.

“You’re pretty scary sometimes, Jira.” She turned to Karen, forever the mother-figure. “She’s harmless, trust me.” Karen managed an uncertain smile at this. I was struck with the realization that Karen, for all her freckles and braids, was actually quite pretty. Then Sarita spoke up:

“I’ve got Ae.. Redgrave next, too.” She was looking neglected, unused to not being the center of attention. “I hope he’s as great as you all say; I’m bored out of my mind.”

I was going to say something along the lines of “get a life, he’s a teacher” when the bells rang, signaling the end of lunch. I stood and helped Ami to her feet, then turned towards the school buildings again. The other girls had classes the opposite way from ours, so we split up: me, Ami, and Sarita one way, Karen and the rest the other. We waved goodbye and began to walk.
The history classes, all upstairs, were set up in classic lecture hall formation: wooden tiers were raised like an over-sized staircase up to the back of the room, and were set with benches and tables for the students to work on. The teacher’s desk was set in front of the long black-board on the front wall, ensuring that every student could see the instructor. The room was bare apart from the unoccupied desk and student’s seat, which was unusual; most teachers decorated their rooms with posters about their subjects. Here, however, there wasn’t so much as a map on a wall.