When the Rutabagas Hit the Fan

Part I: Sometimes the Ends Justify the Rutabagas

Journal One

So this is the part where I guess I have to introduce myself.

I've never liked that part in a story. I'm an English teacher; naturally that means I talk about stories a lot. And I've come to appreciate how people expect the intro part in a story too much. This is the section where I'm supposed to tell you something about who I am, where I come from, what I believe in, and so on. It's kind of predictable as a segue into the rest of the tale.

I'm going to skip most of that stuff. I think the most important thing you really need to know is why I'm telling you this story, rather than who I am. I figure you'll get a good sense of my identity once the literary ball gets rolling, as it were.

So why am I telling you this story? That's easy.

Somebody has to know.

What I'm going to tell you is so weird I have to tell someone - someone who will believe me. You see, I've tried to tell this story to other people, but people just think I'm crazy. They chalk me up as some kind of, I don't know, eccentric, I guess. Some bizarre teacher who's read too many strange things in his career that he just can't separate fact from fiction anymore. Maybe people think I've got early onset dementia. Really early, since I'm only twenty-nine.

All I know is that someone, somewhere, has to believe me, and maybe the only way for me to keep that hope alive is to write this all down. Until now, I've just told people by word of mouth. With a written record, something more permanent - well, I'm hoping I'll increase my odds of being taken seriously. At least, even if something happens to me, there will always be an account of what went on at HCSS.

Yes, the weirdness has to do with a school.

Journal Two

All I wanted was a normal life. And then I started teaching at HillsboroCollegiateSecondary School.

Now ordinarily, a teaching position is not something that should make one feel as if a normal life is impossible. Granted, teaching has its pros and cons, but that's true of all professions. No, the issue with teaching at Hillsboro was that I could never have anticipated the, um, "issues" I would encounter there. And nothing about these issues could be considered normal.

So, okay, maybe you think I'm making too much of the word normal. After all, what is normal anyway, right? It's a relative term. One person's understanding of the word will be very different from someone else's.

All right, then. An example is needed.

On my first morning at the school, I was nervous, as any new teacher would be. I had gone through an interview the previous Friday and had been offered the job over the weekend. I would only be teaching one grade twelve English class, but I had been assured I could pick up lots of supply teacher cash as long as I was in the building every day. I had to scramble to get a lesson plan ready for Monday on short notice, but I managed. I had done this sort of thing before, dealing with the last-minute hiring process because of a vacancy created by a teacher going on an extended sick leave. So nothing too weird about all of that. Even the first day jitters were par for the course.

But then I arrived at my classroom door.

As I turned the knob, the only thought running through my mind was, "Why did the last teacher go on sick leave?"

I walked into the room. The class was full. Thirty-some students seated in their desks, watching me as I entered.

Like they were waiting for their next victim...