On Hallowed Ground

Chapter One: Adolescent Foolishness

Drew's P.O.V.

I silently take my seat at the back of third-period English, sighing to myself, as I always do. Sitting further away from everyone else just seems easier, for how else would one expect a friendless, vulnerable youth to carry on in high school?

I take out my books and my notepad from my rucksack, glancing towards the front of the large classroom as the teacher scribbles something on the whiteboard.

"Okay, then, open your books at where we left off last day. Now, who cares to play Portia?"

"Hey, how's about everybody's favourite little faggot?" Someone calls, and I flush red, suddenly uneasy again. The class laughs, and then teach sighs.

"Open your book, now, Christofer."

The class groans, but I simply smile to myself. The Merchant of Venice. I am all too familiar with this particular play.

The teacher glances around the classroom, stopping her sweeping gaze around the clusters of groups around the room idly talking about mundane normalities, and she waits for some voluntary input--as I am the only student ever to participate in class without force--but they all just blankly stare abck at her for a moment before she sighs. She looks to me, seeming rather disappointed with her seniors.

"Okay. Mr. Dickinson, would you care to stand before the class and recite Portia's lengthiest speech in the courthouse concerning the pound of flesh, please?" She looks at me expectantly, knowing that a straight-A student such as myself could not possibly deny her this pasttime of reciting Shakespeare, and I sigh, pushing my seat back from my desk and pushing slowly and wearily to my feet, hands clasped behind my back, eyes narrowed. I walk out to the front of the class, scanning the small crowd of nineteen in front of me, and I clear my throat to grasp the attentions of those not currently aware of my position at the front of the class. I wait a few more seconds, and then begin.

" 'The quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blest, it blesseth him that gives, and him that takes. 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest, it becomes the throned monarch better than his crown. His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, the attribute to awe and majesty, wherin doth sit the dread and fear of kings. But mercy is above this sceptred sway, it is enthroned in the hearts of kings, it is an attribute to God himself; and earthly power doth then show likest God's when mercy seasons justice. Therefore jew, though justice be thy plea, consider this, that in the course of justice, none of us should see salvation. We do pray for mercy, and that same prayer doth teach us all to render the deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much to mitigate the justice of thy plea, which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.' "

The teacher claps her hands together in delight.

"Oh, very well recited, Mr. Dickinson. Excellent!" The class mimic her mockingly, and I quickly make my way back to my seat. But someone sticks a foot out into the aisle between the desks, and I stumble, falling to the ground, my palms pressed against the floor to stop my face from splatting against the hard flooring. The class burst out in hysterics, only a few sympathetic glances shot my way. I have a lot of haters due to my...preferences, I suppose you could say.

I pick myself up off of the floor quickly, taking my seat shyly and silently, flushing a deep red colour, face burning. I silently open my notebook and scribble down a few notes in the margin--such as DO NOT RECITE IN FRONT OF CLASS AGAIN, and REMAIN AT DESK AT ALL TIMES FROM FIRST BELL TO FINAL CLASS BELL.

Just then, the classroom door opens, and the assistant secretary barges into the room, and she and the teacher begin talking in hushed whispers. A minute or so later, they both turn to glance at the doorway, the teacher coaxing someone into the classroom.