Have no fear, Jaques Voleur.

By Kris King

Step into the unpredictable life of Jaques Voleur, a clever, tired, and often misunderstood "high school" junior with a desire for calm consistency. At Judd Nelson High, a gritty, paint-chipped building filled with quirky classmates and a colorful array of cliques, Jaques navigates the daily grind of tee

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kostas K
• Release date: Feb 4, 2025
• ISBN: 9781069274519

Kris King

I am the author of this work. For the past 3 years I have worked on it.

Book preview

Have no fear, Jaques Voleur.

Chapter:1 All the watchdogs in the world

God damn it, I think to myself. The Huffs just got a new dog. It’s been looking at me for nearly 3 minutes. I stare down at it intently, with a narrow of my brow. It looks back at me with its dumb face and droopy shaggy muzzle fur. I don’t dare tempt it now. I’m not fast. Well, I’m good when the distance is long. I’m just not quick, especially with all my books in my bag. Guarding their pear tree makes me wonder about my snacks for today. I started to walk to school and remember what I packed for lunch today. Hurm, I think as what I slid into my lunch sack returns to me. Sandwich, moon pie, swiss cheese, and olives, good. Just no hand fruits. That’s a shame. I do like to eat a hand fruit after all the other food is done, especially when I read or talk with friends. It makes me feel like I am out in the fields on a picnic, not in some big boxy linoleum floored room or hallway.

I find my way to school, taking a stroll near the local buildings and open lots. On the way, I notice that the strip mall has some new restaurants of sorts, I arrive at 08:40, and the shortcuts help me get there quicker. It’s the middle of April, so school will not come after us if we come late. Hell, at this grade, they expect you to just get there by osmosis. 11th grade is limbo in some ways. You get there from 10th grade, which is just the second edition of 9th grade, where you are in a new environment. You’re also hobnobbing with the 12th graders, the grizzled vets of the school who have ‘seen it all, but the 11th graders haven’t seen anything yet to them. I personally find it a little confusing, but the one thing we all agree on is that the courses make no sense. I have 4 of them that have no value these days. Let me tell you; cryptology, criminal psychology, corporate business, and European history. I’ll let you know what. I actually like that last one because I’m French, but I'll talk more about that later. 12th grade has all the reasonable courses, like philosophy, fine art, and trade shop. Just to name a few. I actually have all of the classes I spoke ill on before, but they are useless, nothing but filler.

I enter the school in all of its glory. Judd Nelson high. It’s a stout building with a burly exterior. Straightforward floor plan with painted cement brick interior. The paint chips with every passing day, a sign of the building’s namesake being man, something liquid, changing constantly. Unless he did something aside from breakfast club that immortalized him to this place, then this place might not be at the beginning of a decline. I waltz myself over to the cafeteria at 08:45, where we are all supposed to sit until 09:00H, when we go to our classes. I make sure to go to the 5th table on the right side of the room. It’s right next to the window and has a good crowd. There are already some people there. Good: Spencer Limmel, Billie Duran, and Steve Cheese Lamonson. Spencer was a good guy, but he was too dumb to succeed. However, he never gets mad at a loss, so there is hope for him in a sales job. Billie was named after Billy Idol, yes, the rockstar. From what she tells us, her parents are kind of laid back, and she somewhat takes after her parents. Finally, Cheese, the saving joke that gives this group a thing to laugh at, even if that joke is himself. He’s short, doesn’t know when to shut up, and got his nickname from the time we all threw our craft single cheese at him when he got too fond of ‘Yo Mama’ jokes. All those people I called my friends are those in this school who I need as friends. Most of them are tools to me, in the sense that with a little bit of subtle force, I can get one to help me and then pay it off with the idea of being my friend.

I’d say, I said, breaking the silence, you guys have any plans for lunch break? Spencer says, I got a thermos of chili from last night, so the bathroom looks about right. Billie riffs on Spencer, Just buy something from the cafeteria. School food isn’t the real deal, I spit passionately. Spencer looks at me, begging for an answer like I asked a question. Because that shit tastes like cardboard, I say, moving my head with it for emphasis. Billie opens her school bag. I have some sushi, so I guess I have some time on my hands for after. I nod in understanding, not knowing what we honestly will do after we eat. Cheese, I say. Don’t tell me you are going to bring a full English to lunch again, he quips back. No, I have something else from England: curry. Billie turned her head to me and said, Jaques, what do you have? I respond, looking into my school bag. It’s a nice leather and canvas school bag, it doesn’t stand out too much from the crowd, but it looks good enough if you pay attention, inside my lunch bag I see that I have a sandwich, snack and sweets good, it will be the three of us today. Just as she said that the bell went off and out of touch by Hall & Oates played on the intercom. We all got up and walked to our classes.

Each class is 50 minutes in duration, and there are 6 of them in a day. Good thing lunch is a full hour. The sound of the old pop duo and their one-hit wonder of a song floods the hallways, reminding the students to quickly get to their first-period classes for the national anthem and announcements. I look out at all the students flooding into their classrooms and ready for a day at this education. They have all their suitable classes, like physics, wealth management, and electronics. I have a different type of class. It’s criminal psychology. Why is this a class that I have? You may ask, well, I’ll tell you: A year ago, roughly, I had to pick out classes, and I needed several points to pass high school, so it was either pick a class you didn’t want and work on your time off or have time off and choose a class you don’t want down the road. Logically, it makes sense, but realistically, it’s totally illogical. I don’t care about criminals, and I carry a 65% average. The only good side is the women. They are cute blonds who are going to become rich off of a psychology degree. The rest is people like me, who got lumped in because of circumstances.

I walk to my seat near the back of the class, and as soon as I sit down, the anthem goes off. I stand back up and stand it out while looking and seeing that everyone usually is here. Good morning class Spoke our teacher, Ms. Triblasi. Today, we are going to be looking at the new chapter, so please turn your books to page 270 and we can begin. The people in the back and front row did not open their textbooks because we all knew our teacher would speak in an abridged version of the textbook. It was easier to take notes from her voice than from a piece of paper. Even though the smartest kid in the class explained this to her, she still got mad whenever she saw that no one used the textbooks, and they were ultimately just glorified doorstops. Come on now. I want to see those books open. Open books, open minds. People in the front opened their books to random pages, some with nudity, and then Ms. Triblasi began to speak. As you know from the last chapter, most people are driven to violent crime, by two things. She takes out a piece of chalk from the bottom of the board with her bony hands and writes on the board as she speaks, Mental illness ─ and circumstances. So with this in mind, why do criminals steal One of the people at the front of the class shoots up their hand and says quickly, Because of necessity, real or otherwise? Triblasi answered, Correct. She wrote on the board why criminals steal: They also commit their crime, because of revenge against slights. She looks at the textbook for this block of text: Socrates says that no one knowingly commits an evil action, evil is turned into good in the mind. The thief convinces himself that he has a right to the object he desires. He needs it more than the other does. It is rightfully his in his mind. I raise my hand, which is odd because I usually don’t talk much in this class. Hey, miss? Yes Jaques, responded Ms. Triblasi, Are there people who knowingly commit undeniably evil acts? This got her thinking. She looked down at her textbook and continued, As we know from Chapter 2, some criminals go undetected for long periods of time... She rambled off about something to do with them not seeing the error of their ways, but what the hell? I asked an excellent question, and she just blew me off like I wondered why fish are in the sea. This is why I hate this class. If it’s not her way, it’s no way. Ms. Triblasi then called up the class for worksheets based on what we learned today. We all got up and clamored slowly to get them. On the way back from my desk, Randal Armad said, Good question, but this isn’t philosophy. That dandy should shut his trap. I just gave him a fluoride stare and returned to my seat to do my work. Nothing big. It’s just tedious to read a police report and then explain why the guy did some weird shit. I daydreamed about the 5th-period gym class.

I got on to my second class on the 2nd floor, maths. Maths is okay. I just need to take my time with it. I really only take notes here and in one other class, so I usually stay awake in this room. I walk into the classroom, and it’s an open desk plan. I go up to angle my chair so I can see the board, and I organize my papers according to my right side so I can write with one arm and pay attention. Mr. Clearly, the teacher smiled, Good news, today we are going to be learning about statistics. I couldn’t wait for this. Every one of Clearly’s classes is like boiling vegetables. You get the most easily digestible message from the heartiest subject. I loved trigonometry when he taught it. He wrote as he spoke, Statistical analysis allows us to process samples of observed data to reveal trends and make predictions. So, if X1, X2… Xn is a set of values of some measurable phenomenon. The entire class jots down furiously the facts being told to them.

Clearly continues, The average mean is given by X = 1/n(X1 + … + Xn). I can’t believe this guy is teaching us and not doing it by the dollar. As he speaks about the material, I continue to process the information given to me. I look around and see on the faces of people around me the looks of failure. Some of the people who walked in here are humbled right now, and it feels good to see people get put in their place. For example, this one guy, I don’t know his name, but right in front of me, or to the side of me, whatever makes more sense, he is trying his hardest to scribble the most literate thing he can throw down on the paper. As he tugs at his friend’s shirt to help him out, I can’t help but feel that he’s not going too far in the next 5 years. Just a hunch. As the papers are being handed out by the stacks to our tables, I pull out a stack of my own, a deck of standard playing cards. As it would seem to the untrained eye, in reality, they are marked, a few of them. Just enough to not raise suspicion. In the short time that we all take down our worksheets, I notice that it’s quarter to the next class. I raise my voice and turn in my chair. Hey, fellas, I say calmly. What say the 4 of us play a quick game of president and maybe a game of cheat after? Everyone has finished their work, I can’t say if they did it right or wrong, but none of us are psychotic enough to get into our homework early, so everyone indulges my offer. Let the games begin, I play the opening all smart, and with some calm and calculated moves, I secure the victory in my favor. Good game fellas, I say with a jolly vibrato. How about we make this interesting? I then gather the cards and fold-shuffle them. I say a game of cheat, 5 cards, a 50 $ pot. I raised my eyebrow, and they all bought it. Let the real game begin because, before that, I was just chucking bait in hopes that these poor sucks get roped into giving me their money. I deal with the cards, but before that, I use a mechanic’s hand to ensure I'll get good cards. I don’t know what cards they have, but I don’t think I will need to know to win this. The first few rounds of a cheat game are unimportant. It’s the later rounds that matter more, because then you can call on people’s bluff, that’s how you can get a game going with people going from 5 to 25 cards in their hand. After about 4 rotations of me calling bluff on my cards and jouking them out, I walk out of the class 50 $ richer.

At the bell's ring, I bolt to my locker and put away my bag so I could take out my lunch snack. I walk to the lunch hall with my earbuds in. I am listening to Face-to-face by Daft Punk, as I can’t find many people to talk to at lunch. Many of them wouldn’t grow to like me after a while if I began to draw attention to myself. As I make my way to the lunch hall, I see that they are serving meatballs in spaghetti sauce this day. Sounds nice, but don’t get your hopes up, it only costs $4.50 for a reason. It looks like the gored guts of Chef Boyardee splattered on a plate and served by the sweetest 50-year-old woman this nation has to offer. Looking over at the plates of 3 students at the first table, I confirm this, the only thing that this school can get right is burgers. I don’t know why, but they let the students cook them as part of a home ec class. I guess they feel pity for their fellow man, I don’t know.

I sit down at my table and see my 3 good friends there. They have already begun to eat. No matter How is everyone? I say with a distracted look as I shift my mind to my lunch snack. The table erupts in a hollering roar of people in rage at their teachers for various reasons. Spencer is mad at his shop class teacher because he thinks sanding wastes time for him. Cheese is let down because his drama teacher feels that his impressions are trash, and no matter how ham-fisted he inserts them into class. Billie is sad about her music teacher for not giving her more time to practice, she needs to practice at home. All in this jumble of a conversation that we were having, I had eaten my sandwich. It honestly felt funny, like I was listening to a radio show while eating, and they all hadn’t noticed that I wasn’t saying a word. I hold off on my moon pie because I hope to use it later. I wait for the conversation to die down and break the silence by saying, Sounds like you all had a hard time. What say we all head outside? Unanimous agreement among them. Good, because I want to try something As we head outside, I see the various groups in my school; the ballers, the jocks, the nerds, the tech bros, and the bourgeois types. I don’t really like them. They aren’t even that rich. They only care about impressing the people who propagate the chatter around the school and on social media. They’re just some wannabe rich kids, and soon enough, in 4 or 3 years, they will realize that their material gains will not be able to be eaten when they are hungry. Lastly, there are a small group of some elites in the school, these guys are some whole other level of rich. But I think they are poor because they hardly associate outside their clique, making the only thing they have money. As I walk out onto the field, I see it all there: the half-mile track with a football field in the middle of it and some students sitting on top of the goal. Our party of 4 walks past the basketball courts, where nearly all the students hoop and ball their skills up. I never had the skill for a vertical leap, but I make do when it’s time for basketball at gym class. I say to one recognizable face, Hey, Jerome, and this guy a head taller than me comes up and asks me how it’s going. I say, Good, good. How’s the family? And he replies, I gotta say, they keep doubting me and I keep proving them wrong. I quip back, Like always? and he ends the conversation with, As always. that bit there was good. I really don’t give a shit about his family.

We walked over to the trees because the sun was beating down on us today. It was hot, and we had at least 50 minutes left in our lunch break. In about 20 minutes, the upper-middle-class kids will come back from the nearby strip mall and here to kill time, and in 40 minutes, the rich kids will return from the second floor of the strip mall to get away from their trust funds and whatnot. We all gather around one of the oak trees. They are all too big to climb, so I sit at the base, reclining vertically. Billie and Spencer are sitting criss-cross applesauce facing me, and Cheese is lying in a Draw-me-like-one-of-those-french-girls-pose. Life is good for this brief time. I look at my moon pie with disgust at the thought of me eating it. The idea of all of that spongey fluff and preservative-filled marshmallow fluff makes me wonder what had to go into it to give it that constitution. I gave it to Billie, her lunch wasn’t too good, so I felt terrible. I get it was sushi, but it was only 6 rolls. She thanks me, Oh my God, thank you, and Dont worry about it, I can’t stand the marshmallow in it, Cheese overhears this and says, You know that stuff is sugar from the ground up, with a head turn so it feels like he is part of the conversation, Cheese, quit lying down like that, I say with my hand involved Your making us look like a bunch of rehabilitated nudists. Spencer loses his face, which was straight before. It got a bit fruity, you could say. So then Cheese does the most out-of-ordinary thing, I swear this guy can’t go anywhere, he gets up and handstands into some Vogue magazine pose like he’s Prince. I kind of chuckled at it and he wound up smiling too. Sometimes, I like being with these people. The tools can make you laugh.

Just as I was done laughing, I saw Chet and his group rolled up on mine. Chet was a baby-faced guy who hid his insecurities in others. As he came over, I stayed down. These confrontations rely primarily on body language. Sup Chet says nonchalantly, his crew stays silent, they pooled most of their collective skills into other things and left Chet as their spokesman, Just staying out of the sun, it’s how you keep from getting burned I say back, nodding my chin to the field of hot dehydrated people Perhaps you would be better off in the library, Why there? he says with a air of doubt in my reasoning to this quip, Perhaps you could improve your real knowledge, rather cheating your way up the class list, this made his eyes ever so slightly widen and his posure visibly straightened up I don’t need to cheat to get grades, as long as they are better than yours, besides, why are you so concerned on what I get on a test? as those words left this mouth, he leaned in a little bit, I lower one of my hands that are behind my head from before and I respond with You know, if you cheat your way through life, you’re only going to be remembered a cheater, just like with your old girl, remember Lucy, funny that you went to Gorge over there I end it with a smirk on my face, he straightend up his posture immediately and crossed his arms You know what: fuck you man! You’re unhinged and your crew isn’t going anywhere, especially you. He points to Billie, You look like your parents did coke in the 80s, but it was really baking soda. He walked away after that, so I couldn’t have called him out. I tell Billie that he is just angry and probably will not live too long. As usual, we keep talking about various subjects, and the occasional joke from Cheese makes us laugh, but nothing out of the ordinary. Then the Chesterton group comes onto the field, the rich, ultra-elite. They are not Friends with each other. They are just business partners. All of them are getting their jobs by nepotism, and they are some good jobs. The poorest one stands to inherit 5 factories, and that’s still some 1% air around them. They all walk in a sort of V formation, like a flock of birds. In recent times they even call themselves the halks. Every one of them is good at anything they can put their minds to, but they all have that one thing that they can do undisputedly well. I Speak up to their main mustachioed muscle, Edward Greenwell, to try and make some friends, Hey Greenwell, how’s the empire business going? Business as usual, peasant. He says as he turns his back to me, I flip him off because that’s what you should do to arrogant, self-righteous folk like him, and like it was a test, he turns back to me, and I get caught. He turns back around and walks with the other 7 in his group to the library to probably read up on some books about the fall of Rome to ease their minds from economic books. You may think I’m stupid for trying to befriend people who hate me, but I have some reasons. My parents always told me to make friends with the rich, powerful, and intelligent. Coincidentally, all of those people are jackasses. Soon after, the bell rang, and we all had to get to our following classes. We all went our separate ways, and I had to go off to mine.

Gym class is a variable mix of do-your-own-thing and planned activity. Only two guys know what will happen: The gym teacher, Mr. Hernadez, and his right-hand man, Jerome Walsh, the star of the basketball team. Don’t bother getting the low down directly from him. You have to go to one of his friends, and at that point, it’s better just to bring a positive attitude because who knows what’s going to happen in a gym class. After we got done changing into our joggers and shirts, Hernadez lined us all up inside the gym to tell us what we were going to do, Good news, He said with a booming voice that scared the weak and uplifted the strong. Today it’s going to be a mix, you can go outside and practice basketball, or you can train callisthenics, your decision. I love doing calisthenics, mainly because of the variety. There’s the pullup bar, the dip bar, the ropes, the pommel horse, and the parallel bars, and the only thing holding you back is your fear of falling on your face.

I don’t have that fear. I’m pretty good at what I do. I enjoy climbing the old rock climbing wall. I got so good at competitions it gave me an ego boost, but now I don’t have any joy in that because no one wants to try to race me on them. I tried out the monkey bars, and they are fun to cross. There is just a little strain on the shoulders. I don’t mind the shoulder strain. It’s just that I don’t know why I should do it. Why should I want to climb when I could swing? I love using the swinging bar. It’s so fun to go around and jump up. I’d say I have too much fun using that bar, and I don’t think I could go into competitions. I would just have too big a smile on my face to take it seriously.

After the fun of the gym, it was time for English class. I have no respect for my English class because it has no respect for me. I walk into its walls, plastered with rotting motivational posters of muppets and small animals with quotes of It’s okay to ask for help, Sometimes a second opinion is worth it, and the like. The teacher made the class have its foul reputation, Jannet Williams, but I like to refer to her as Bealzabub. Her only joy comes from giving us the least educational books known to man. Her preferred genre is contemporary fiction, and she has no regard for the past or anything made before the modern day as she sees it. I sit at the front of the class and pull out one of the books I use to ward off stupid people. I chose Asterix and Obelix because they are what I should be reading now.

Okay class, Willams said with a chipper ironic tone in her voice. Today we are going to be doing a lyrical analysis The class cheered a little bit because it’s not hard work with the websites and the busiest music nerds going apeshit over what new song just released, just to overanalyze 3 words that hardly rhyme with each other It’s due in 5 school days on Monday, so be sure to pick something you enjoy I scoff a little too loud because she is biassed to pop songs from the 2010s, I heard from one of the other classes that someone tried to review a song from Megadeth and she gave him a fail. Is there something you would like to add, Jaques? she leans over and asks me. No, I say, looking up from my book. Just don’t hold a bias. She took that personally, just as I meant it. She took my book and said, Just do your work and read what you are given. In shock from the book that was in my hands just a second ago, I said, It’s English class, why are you mad at me for reading a book? I give up because she’s ignoring me, and I get out the worksheet for the assignment.

I see that we need to pick a song with multiple lyrics, so I don’t think that any Daft Punk song would count. I go over to the other side of the class, where they have formed a think tank of about 8 people, and I listen in to them and their ideas. I hear names tossed and caught across the faces of these people, ideas thought as good by some dumped by others. Walonson Ryson, one of those elites who rolled with the Chesterson group, came up with Where’s the Love by The Black Eyed Peas. I thought it was strange, but then I remembered that it was basically the cheat code for this teacher, playing off of her biases and her preferences. No wonder this guy is so good at reading psychology. He’s been analyzing her like a textbook. I don’t roll like this. To hell with being smart and cheating the system. I know I can do that when I need to, but not at the cost of sitting for something I stand for. I search up some songs that I like, things I can use as munitions against her, and poke holes in her Hindenburg of a personality like it’s the late 30s. I put pen to paper talking about how Panama by Van Hellen is the most kickass song ever. I know I’m toeing the line between failure, but I don’t care, she’s crooked, and if I pass by the opinion of my peers, then that is still good. The last class is European history. Sometimes, I like this class, but I think its contents could be condensed down to a single large book rather than spread out over many small lessons. Still, I walk into class all the same, and I see the patchwork of students that I know, all of them making up the demographic of people in my grade. Billie is there, and I have an assigned seat next to her in the second row. The tables are arranged like a college lecture hall, so the back seat is higher than the rest, and the word is you can hear from the back better than the front because of the acoustics. No one ever tested it, but the people in the back rave about it. The composition is 31 people; 3 Chesterton , 7 Nerds, 6 people trying to get on the honor roll, 8 people who got shit luck picking class, 2 friends of Chet, 2 people whom I asked if they generally liked European history, 2 guys named Nicomachea and Dale who just spend the entire time going apeshit on arguments between each other, me and actual European and Billie, she’s there because her parents wanted her in here for the adventure of it. The teacher comes in and lays down the leather mailbag-type thing he uses for his laptop. I never got a hold of my European history teacher’s name. He never writes it down, and he never tells us. Dale, the blond one with a puffy face, asked if it was illegal that he hadn’t digressed his name to the class, but he responded that his name could be asked at the office. Still, no one ever asked the office, I think the Chestertons may know it and have it written down somewhere, but that’s just them. As for us, Teacher or Sir is our only way to call him forth for a question. Today we will be learning about the 1700’s, He said with a bored and quick pace, trying to not waste time as he walked into the full class, trying to go with urgency. Let’s begin with England, He said this as he opened up a document with a couple of links to them. He opens up a link and says to make sure to take notes, as this is said, we all see a logo of an enthusiastic cartoon of a man wearing antique clothes and with the slogan: Timeless Historygraphics. As always, he has offloaded his job to someone who is doing it for free and with more passion. No one takes notes. We know where the entire teaching plan is, so there is no incentive to take notes. At this time, we just watch so that way he doesn’t lose faith in us. It happened once when we were learning about the early stages of Russia, and he lost it. Nicomachea asked if Hagar the Horrible was one of the Tsars, and the teacher flipped a desk and ran out to the field. He started running from one end to the other in his dress shoes. This wouldn’t be too off-putting as it was, except for the fact that this was in February, so the snow was up to his knees. He got 1 ½ ways across the field, half because he collapsed from exhaustion and just couldn’t will himself to run anymore. I guess it was good that Nicomachea decided to take pity on him and use his strength to carry him back to class over his shoulder. I

open my binder and pull out a paper for note-taking. It only has time frames on it. I figured that if time is the only thing you need to remember in the videos when you go home to revise your notes, there is more efficiency with time slots than actual words. What are your plans once you get home? Billie whispers to me because no one wants to hear our conversation over some cartoon explaining that the sun never set on the English, I’m not sure. I do hope that there’s no bullshit when I get home, I say back in a slightly lower tone, Come on, you always have things thrown at you when you come home, she said, I say I know, but that doesn’t bother me, she asks me What does? not sure on what to be specific about, I say I can’t explain that now. The lights came back on when the video ended, and our teacher prompted us for a discussion. Greenweld, whose one of many heads of interest is history, piped up first, saying, Well, I believe that even though there was some exaggeration on the narrator's part, the video had lacked some importance regarding English lead trade routes. Without fail, Nicomachea said, Yeah. That shit helped out with the printing press and literacy, making English the most spoken word on the earth, sometimes I hate this kid. I eye-roll at them both because I know our teacher could have said this. He is smart enough to be teaching this. If he’s smart enough to bypass even saying his name, he is smart enough to tell us about old England. Billie notices this and gives me a look of sympathy, I don’t know how to take it, but I’m happy about this. After a more diverse discussion, the argument kids kept refusing to stop debating whether Tommas Hobbs’s contributions helped to aid the growth of authoritarian ideas in African nations. Our teacher started talking again and decided to try and rebuild the original goal of the lesson: Okay, class, time for the rest of Europe. His tone went down after that, All of the other parts from the old world and that junk. He clicked a link from the same content creator, and the video played, and the countries talked about were in chronological order. When France was brought up. I lit up, and I could not begin to talk about how magnificent it was to hear about my nation and my culture against all these people whose nation hadn’t even been considered a state yet. Viva La France. I loved hearing about Napoleon. Truly a sight to behold, but just as I was having fun, the video ended. Our teacher got up and turned the lights back on. He repeated himself, and this time, I piped up, I gotta tell you, this is finally a time when it gets good. How so? asked Dale in a refreshing, calm tone. I try and contain myself with joy as I say, It’s finally when the contributions for the modern age kick in, from- I was cut short by Nicomachea once again, as this hasn’t been the first time he chose to do something like this Hold the line here! It was is and always will be Greece that made contributions, and if you think that your nation of 2040 years late barbarians- I interrupt him. No one talks bad about my nation. What gives you the right? The French made many inventions, most used in modern society. He starts to speak with his hands as he gets more heated. All of them adapted by Greek inventions made centuries. No. Millennia of inventions are all used today in the contraptions of modern society. Believe what you think, but that will not change my people from being better than yours. he then pulled up his hand and palmed it to me. Five steps, years, decades, lifetimes any unit you want. We are ahead of you! I was fed up with his bullshit. He’s always getting himself into these violently worded dialogues that, in my eyes, only made the class longer. Shut your mouth you racist prick I said, gripped with rage. He got up and leaned on his desk, nearly dripping with sweat that ran from his wildly styled hair and roared Make me! Greenweld stood up and sternly looked to Nicomachea to say cease your debating this instance, before I show you why. Nicomachea sat back down, suppressed by fear and said, Fine, but the discussion is still open. This may seem strange, someone as bawdy as him being emasculated by that Chesterton, but there’s a good reason: Greenweld is on the rugby team, and it’s a known fact that he’s the best in the grade in most physical activities. Nicomachea’s only physical feats are in weightlifting, as he sometimes touts his strength. Aside from that, I can only remember him from the beginning of high school. A former nerd, scrawny and shy. Now, he’s just an eccentric weightlifter in a graphically loud Hawaiian. The teacher said, Can someone get the lights while I play the last video As he buried his head in his arms and shook his head a little bit, Nicomachea just sat there, and it looked like he was doing a thousand-meter stare-out into the blank wall like none of this ever happened. Billie gestured to me that the kid might have something wrong with him and as she said this, he whipped out a copy of the Leviathan and while he read it he was casually pointing to pages of it with his friend, Business as usual for him Billie whispered, I know, I say starting a new conversation at a whisper I wonder what it’s like at his house? Billie continues It can’t be all that good. Or it could? I answer this question by saying he could be living on easy street, but his insane mind could mistake it for a constant life of tragedy,

Maybe, Billie nods but he sees the world as normal, at least from what we hear from him. At the most it’s being too smart for his own good, mixed with being racist, that makes sense to me, but I bring up doesn’t he fear his reputation? Doesn't he fear getting beat up by minorities at school, being isolated by anyone who isn't Greek? Billie then offers up some reason to this Either he is stupid because there are no other Greeks at the school, or he is just playing a long irony game, Either way, thats just insane I say ending the discussion with absolute reason. Nicomachea looked up at us and said in a hard whisper, soft enough for us to hear over whatever was playing on the projector, Don’t call me that, please. Oh shit. the two of us mouthed to each other without a sound. I really hope this guy doesn’t hold grudges too much. If today could be a thing, it would be a sandwich left in the rain. It's not too good, but it’s something you have to eat because you can’t face the consequences of not eating it. The final bell rang for the day, and the entire school pooled out, sparing about 40 for their clubs. Chesterton’s all waited for each of their own to go back to the strip mall and do their thing, I used to wave at them, but I don’t anymore. I would just be wasting my time. Chet’s group all ran after one another to get on the bus to ride to the mall, which is about 10 minutes away at this hour with the traffic. I don’t go to either of those places. I have better things to do with my time. Besides, all my friends go home as well, they also do their own thing. I see them come out of the school before I pop in my earbuds, Hey Spencer, I say with surprise How is it? he follows up as he heads home. I'm going home to work on this dang physics. I tell you, I hate it when shit moves, I say back Yeah, I’m glad I didn’t take it.

I then see Cheese as he walks away across the street. Hey, Cheese! Cheese looks over at me and says, Hey Jaques. in a steady voice. I ask him, What are you doing after school? he says, I’m going to the grocery store at the strip mall to buy groceries for my family. Ah Cheese, always down to some wacky off-school hijinks, I cheerfully say. Okay, you all have fun, I’m heading off back home, I said with a fake smile. I genuinely am not too fond of my home. I’ll explain later. On my way home, there was a dispersion of students as I got further and further away from the school. Billie walked home with me for a few blocks until we went our separate ways. Her house is closer to the school than mine, so she doesn’t need to walk far. I take a similar way home, but different than coming to school, usually it’s brighter and friendlier out when I initially get out of school, so the scenery is pleasant to observe, it takes my mind off the inevitability of going home when I don’t want to. I see the bushes of all the wildflowers, but I don’t touch them because they take ages to grow, and picking them would make them go for myself in the later months. Eventually, usually after spending 10 minutes walking, I get home, and I see the front of the house. Mine is a two-story shotgun-style house among multiple duplexes. It stands out from the entire neighborhood. I don’t care about that. I care about what’s inside, and what’s inside is what I don’t like. I walk inside and brush up my white Nikes on the mat. I’m greeted by the usual sights, my father on the couch. He