A Lesson to be Learned - Chapter 1
I think I enjoy walking to school more than I do actually sitting in school. Something about the solitude and somewhat quietness of it all just seems peaceful to me and often provides me with my best thinking time. Some people prefer to do their deep and meaningful thinking in the shower; I on the other hand favor to do it whilst walking to the teenage equivalent of prison.
It’s not that I don’t like school it’s just that it feels trivial and pointless to me. A majority of the subjects were never touched on again in college or life in general after graduation. It was just a way to kill time really. I had come to believe that parents only sent us to school to get us out of their hair for a solid eight hours a day, five days a week. The sad part of that theory was that it was completely plausible.
Not that there was anything I could do about it, though. While I was 17 and legally able to drop out of school if I so desired, my parents would never allow it. It was stay in school or live on the streets. Needless to say, I elected to remain in school. But like I said before, I don’t dislike school, but I don’t love it either. It was a neutral subject for me.
I mean, once you could get past the drivel subject matter and stuffy classrooms full of ignorant children, school wasn’t completely horrendous. And, alright, I guess all the subjects weren’t exactly awful, just the ones involving numbers. Let’s face it, how many times in your life are you going to need to find the derivative of the function f(x) = x2+ 4x+3? I’ll tell you how many times: zero.
No one is ever going to need to know that. Well, unless of course you’re going to be a rocket scientist or, God help you, a calculus teacher. I can tell you right now, no one from Belleville is going to be a rocket scientist. It’s just not what people here do.
People in Belleville went to high school, graduated, went to a small community college or local university, and got a basic office job right before settling down and starting a family only to have the events repeat themselves on the next generation. It was always the same. No one here ever did anything exciting.
Okay, that’s not entirely true, but it was pretty damn close. There was always the one person every couple years or so that would have some sort of “big break,” if you will, and ended up leaving the city to go somewhere exotic and fabulous. Only, being here meant that exotic and fabulous was referring to Newark or Boston, or in very rare cases, New York City. However, I’ve been to New York City and I’ll have you know it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Dirty, over-crowded, and loud. Not a place I desired to be for an afternoon, let alone an extended period of time.
Anyways, back to the subject at hand: walking to school. If you had asked me a couple years ago, I probably would have said I loathed the 11 block walk to Hamilton Middle School. Back then, my peers tended to pick on me more and used the walk to the school to target me. Let’s just say it wasn’t my favorite part of the day.
But now that we were older, most had gotten their driver’s license or bummed a ride from a friend. I had my license, but no car and there was no way in hell I was asking my mother for a ride, so I elected to walk and use the time to think while my brother Mikey chose to sleep in and catch a ride from my mom. Queen of Peace High School was further than my middle school had been, but waking up an hour earlier each morning to walk was worth the time alone. I, for one, am not a morning person so it’s kind of a good thing that no one walks with me or I’d end up shoving them into traffic at the slightest thing.
And lo and behold, here I am, walking to school and contemplating the meaning of life. Okay, the meaning of life isn’t exactly what I’m thinking about. I’m not Socrates or Aristotle, just little, old Gerard Way walking off to school with a bag full of homework I hadn’t bothered to complete.
My mind is filled with less trivial things than the workings of the universe and the meaning of life. At the moment, I’m more concerned with what I’m going to do for the art seminar coming up next month. I, as usual, have procrastinated on coming up with a piece to put in and everyone has already finished their designs and I haven’t even thought up anything to create. This poses a problem, considering my only chance to get into art school on a scholarship is riding on this stupid seminar. Whatever I create has to be the best thing I’ve ever created, and it’s definitely got to surpass anything anyone else in the program has completed.
I let out a sigh refrain from throwing myself in front of the next vehicle that passes me. I seriously have no idea what the hell I’m going to do. Any other time I can come up with something creative and unique for a show, but no. When I need it most of course, my creativity disappears and leaves me with zero inspiration.
I finally spy the Cathedral near my high school coming into focus signaling that I was only a block more away from my own, personal Catholic hell, or purgatory if you will. It’s not that I’m not religious, but when you’re subjected to it all every day of your life, it starts to get old and you start to get sick of it. Plus, I’d rather not follow organized religion, ya know? Kind of not my thing.
I drag myself up the slow incline of the sidewalk and finally arrive at the front entrance to Queen of Peace. Not many people are around yet, considering I always arrive insanely early. Oh well, I like the quiet of the halls. The school isn’t bad when it’s empty of mindless chatter from the idiots I’m forced to associate with.
Some of the kids aren’t bad, though. My best friend, Ray, he’s pretty decent to hang around with. He’s kind of quiet, but then again so am I, so it’s really a perfect match. No awkward forced conversations in the hall or at lunch, just a peaceful silence.
Ray isn’t in a lot of my classes, but he’s at least in Fundamentals of Music and Biology with me, along with lunch. I don’t really talk to anyone else though, besides Mikey, but he’s two years below, so there’s no chance he’d be in one of my classes. There are the occasional acquaintances I have in certain classes, but for the most part I keep to myself.
I wander down the vacant hallway to my locker, quickly spinning the lock and depositing my backpack inside. I don’t even know why I bother to take the stupid thing back and forth; I never take home any homework anyway. And those rare occasions when I do, it never gets done. I grab my notebook, a pencil, and the required novel for my English Literature class before slamming my locker door shut harder than necessary. The clanging echoes off the cement walls around me and I cringe a little. Oops.
I head down the hall and follow the familiar steps until I finally locate my Lit classroom and waltz in, immediately choosing a seat in the dead center of the room, ensuring I could avoid most of the stares that teachers always directed towards the front and back rows. Flipping my notebook open to the first empty sheet, I immediately set to work on doodling away.
I’ve successfully covered about 75% of the page in small sketches of various monsters and comic book characters when other students finally start filtering through the door. I try to stay focused on my doodling, but the noise from everyone soon gets too distracting and with a sigh, I flip my notebook shut, turning my attention to staring at my peers all pouring in through the door.
The bell rings not soon after and everyone quickly moves to sit down in their desks, the noise dying down instantly to avoid Mr. Weekes flipping out and giving them all detention. The class learned really fast at the beginning of the year that Mr. Weekes didn’t appreciate people standing around after the bell had rung. Sometimes it was like handing out detention slips was his favorite hobby. As if he couldn’t get enough of watching the kids have to serve out a sentence for the smallest of things.
Five minutes pass by and the class starts to whisper, it slowly building into a louder wave of conversation.
“Where is he?”
“Maybe he’s sick and they forgot to get a substitute like freshman year when Ms. Colleen was out with the flu.”
“No, I bet he’s just waiting to burst in and get us all with detention slips for talking.”
“Maybe he got fired!”
The theories circulate around the room and I refrain from letting out a yawn. The kids I’m forced to go to school with can be so dense sometimes. Maybe Mr. Weekes is just late. Why does it have to be something dramatic?
The girl next to me is about to rush out yet another theory about how her mom had heard Mr. Weekes was having an affair with Mr. Stump’s wife, when none other than Mr. Stump rushes in the door, breathing so hard it’d seem as if he’d run a marathon.
“Sorry, about the wait, kids,” he breathes out, clutching a hand to his chest and I feel a split second of fear that maybe he’s having a heart attack when he finally is able to calm his breathing and stand upright. “Mr. Weekes, unfortunately, was let go this morning.”
“Why?” A kid from the back row calls, and I instantly recognize the snotty voice of Pete and have to roll my eyes a little. Little Pete Wentz, always thinking he was entitled to know everyone’s business.
“Well,” Mr. Stump says, sounding flustered as he focuses on adjusting his tie. “He, um, well, didn’t use the school computers correctly and we were forced to make a decision early this morning.”
“Haha, he was watching porn on his computer!” Another boy from the back calls out and the whole class bursts into laughter as Mr. Stump’s face slowly turns to a color resembling something like a turnip.
“Yes, well, anyways, I had to find a last minute substitute, as you can imagine and he’s actually going to be with us for the rest of the year, and hopefully permanently. So, everyone, meet your new teacher, Mr. Iero.”
We all snap our attention to the door as a shorter man, with shaggy black hair bounces through the door. And I mean bounces in a literal term. The man looked like he had on those moon bounce shoes almost…
I let my eyes wander over Mr. Iero’s features. He can’t be more than 23 and he has the prettiest eyes I have ever seen before, they are directly between a hazel and a deep shade of green. His hair makes him look like he is no older than the rest of us, along with his casual dress of only a black button down shirt and faded, black jeans. His lips are curved into a smile, pulled back over white teeth that aren’t 100% straight, but still result in one of the most stunning smiles in what I can only assume to be the entire world.
Mr. Iero is, in one word, gorgeous.
“Hello,” he speaks out, his light voice sounding throughout the whole room. “Well, I guess I’m Mr. Iero, and welcome to English Literature.”
Chapter 2