Tuning (WIP)

[Jonas]

“Trevor, could you please pay attention?” I asked irritably, turning away from the blackboard. The boy snapped his head up and blinked before looking down at the inked tail trailing off his chair.
 
“Sorry, Mr. Bell...” he muttered feebly before digging a pencil out of his desk to copy down the notes I was writing. A few of the other student snickered amongst themselves.

I sighed before returning to the lesson. “Now then,” I continued, dragging the chalk across the board, “the recurrence of blood in Shakespeare’s Macbeth can be seen as a symbol for guilt and responsibility. This can be seen in how Lady Macbeth smears the King’s blood onto the servant’s clothes, and also how she becomes obsessed with washing her hands in the later Act. Furthermore this concept can be linked to—”

*RIIIIIING*

Oh thank heavens. The students burst into chatter the moment the bell sounded as they shoved books into bags, eager to get home and do anything except their homework.

“Just a second!” I called out, “Remember to have your essays ready for hand-in at the end of the week!”

There was a general murmur of acknowledgement with several startled squeals and profanities mixed in. A small handful of students stayed behind after their fellows had filed out of the classroom.

“Mr. Bell, what was the length of the essay again?”

“Mr. Bell, was dramatic irony one of the permitted topics or was that pathetic fallacy?”

“Mr. Bell, could I have an extension? My computer is in the shop.”

Another sigh. “Four pages at 12-point font, irony, and use whatever computer let you type out the biology assignment you gave Ms. Glass yesterday.” I rattled off automatically as I gathered my notes and coat before shooing the lingerers out and locking the classroom door behind me. I adjusted my glasses and glanced down at my watch. “3:45, blast.” I muttered, heading down the hall to the teacher’s lounge.

“Tough day?” Andrew asked when I dropped my notes on the coffee table and slumped down on the sofa.

“Draining day.” I corrected, taking off my glasses and rubbing my forehead. “First period I have a kid who does a Frankenstein presentation that was based on the movie, second period barely saw anything happen because half the class burst out giggling whenever I said “conch”, and fourth—”

“Wait, why would they laugh when you said conch?”

I scowled. “Someone made a phallic joke at the beginning of class.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, fourth period was relatively OK but I’ve got a meeting with Trevor's mother in twenty minutes.”

“Ah yes, parent, the bane of educators everywhere.” Andrew chuckled as he passed me a cup of coffee. “I think I met Mrs. Holt during the open house last year, come to think of it. She wanted to compliment me on my class since her son was enjoying it so much.”

I took a sip of coffee. “Well that’s no surprise. Trevor’s probably going to toon over before he graduates and a drama class is the perfect breeding ground for that.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t say it like that.” Andrew sighed. “You make it sound so... unsanitary.”

“Sorry, but you’ve got to admit that most of the students who go toon take drama.”

“They take an Art.” Andrew corrected. “Music, drama, art, any of the three, not just my course, Jonas. Toons are a creative bunch, after all, so is it any surprise that they flourish in the classes that offer the most creative freedom?”

I shook my head. “No, not really; it’s just... frustrating.” I sighed. “I see kids zoning out in class and getting ears and tails, and I have to wonder whether I should even bother trying to teach them if they’re going to end up tooning over and run off for their own thing.”

“Speaking of running off...” Andrew said with a grin, “I think that’s something you’ll be doing rather shortly.”

I sat up on the couch. “What’re you—” I began, but then I noticed the clock. “Oh, HELL!” I shouted, jumping off and running out the door.

[Stormkit]

Interesting, I have to wonder just what happens when someone 'toons out' (you know, aside from not paying attention) and how exactly they go about 'doing their own thing'. Also I have to wonder why Jonas hasn't already been toon'd :p

[Virmir]

Awesome!  You're running with my idea.

Very nice work so far!  You're filling a toon-void with these tales, and I thank you for it.

Looking forward to the next part!

[Geo Holms]

Alas, one of the rare times I wander into the Writer's Guild and I'm quite intrigued by the setup here. I sincerely hope there is more in this because you've set up a fun foundation to play with. (And totally digging the teacher POV. Teachers don't get enough writing love. Seems like the students get all the fun.)

[Jonas]

The clocked ticked over to five past just as I entered the workroom. Very careful to conceal my panting, I took a seat at my desk and shuffled some papers around before looking up at Mrs. Holt and Trevor, whom she had evidently brought along.

“Thank you for meeting with me.” Mrs. Holt said briskly. “I would like to discuss the grades my son has been getting in your class.” From her handbag she pulled out a stack of papers. For a moment I thought she had an entire argument written out and prepared before realizing that they were Trevor’s tests and assignments. “Trevor,” Mrs. Holt began, dropping the stack on my desk, “has gotten consistently poor marks in your class.”

I looked at her expectantly. She looked at me expectantly. Evidently I was supposed to respond to this. “Well, that’s because he has consistently done poorly in my class. If he doesn’t get at least an 80% or higher on his next two assignments, then he won’t be able to pass the course.”

“And you don’t bother trying to find out why this is?” Mrs. Holt asked incredulously. I almost pitied her for how taken aback she looked. Before answering I glanced over to Trevor. He didn’t seem to be paying attention to our exchange if the peaked ears and tail were any indicators—good.

“No, ma’am, I don’t bother trying.” I answered, flatly. “I have been teaching the same five books for ten years, and in every class there is at least one student who simply cannot handle the mindset required for this cou—”

“But Trevor is such a creative boy!” She interjected, pulling out even more papers from her purse. “Just look at all of these comments from his past teachers! Surely you can stand to be less rigid in your essay requirements”

I sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “No, I can’t. English simply isn’t about creativity. It is fact and logic based. Interpreting texts requires an understanding of literal and implied meanings, not the creation of whatever a student feels like. To succeed in my course means that Trevor has to find the deeper meaning in the texts he reads, and that requires him to have a mindset grounded in reality—not one that prefers to daydream.” At least the kid will make a good toon, I thought absently.

Mrs. Holt froze. “WHAT!?”

I jumped. Trevor jumped. I’m quite certain the janitor down the hall jumped. “S-s-sorry?” I spluttered, completely bewildered. “I d-don’t—”

“My son,” Mrs. Holt began; her tone steady and direct. “is a bright, clever child who is going to achieve great things. Nothing—I repeat, NOTHING!—gives you the right to tell me he’s going to be some layabout cartoon character!”

Oh, frazz—did I say that out loud? “Mrs. Holt, I—”

“Trevor, come. We’re leaving.” Mrs. Holt snapped as she stood up. Trevor, whose cat ears and tail had been shocked away by his mother’s shouting, obeyed meekly. “Umm, bye, Mr. Bell.” He muttered before following his mother out the door. I waited ten minutes silently in my office before slipping out and going home.

[Stormkit]

Some things I noticed:

1) Trevor's 'peaked ears' were a sign of NOT paying attention? That kind of an interesting turn around. Usually peaked ears mean they ARE paying attention, but I suppose in a way the very existence of those 'ears' sort of prove that he's not.

2) I feel for Trevor, I really do. English seems to me like it SHOULD be creative but essays are always so strict. Why should we find the 'official' deep meaning when there could be so many more? Is it really so necessary to find hidden meanings the author never put in the work in the first place?

3) Wait... the teacher was... panting? I bet this has to do with some sort of twist ^.^

[AlexShrub]

I'm guessing the panting is from running to the PTC.

Quite an interesting, and awesome, universe ya got there, Jonas.

[Jonas]

Yes, the panting was from the running. And "peaked ears" means that they're pointed/triangular, like a cat's/fox's/many other animals. I think you confused it with "perked".

[Jonas]

I grabbed a frozen dinner from the freezer and popped it into the microwave before throwing myself onto the couch. I hated days like this. They were dreary and stressful, but in some masochistic way I liked them since they were a small break from the routine I’d been living for ten years. When I was in school, my friends would joke that English teachers must go insane from teaching the same books year after year and seeing the same essays produced assignment after assignment. In a way, I still agreed with that sentiment. The repetition and monotony wasn’t driving me insane, but it was certainly killing me.

 I liked most of the books I taught, and I still thought that my lessons on them were important. It was just the students that bothered me. By my third year of teaching the essays the kids were handing in had become so predictable that I could tell what it would read like from the first sentence. There were papers written at the last moment without time for a second glance that were riddled with typos. There were papers made of copied sections from Spark Notes with every fifth word replaced in an attempt to slip by me. There were papers filled with clear arguments and points that wove quotations seamlessly into sentences. And then there were the papers with clear imagination behind them.

The microwave dinged and I pulled myself off the couch to get my meal. Between bites of reheated meatloaf, I let myself remember the final type of essay I would receive. Those papers were always interesting to read. The students who wrote them would always come up with an original thesis—something out of the blue that I could have never considered. They could find links in the stories that showed strange connections that were used to support almost outlandish ideas. Last year I had been given an essay that drew connections between Shakespeare and science fiction. The year before that was a comparison between Macbeth and the U.S Civil War. I loved reading those students’ works, I loved seeing how they could find support for such bizarre assertions, and I loved the enthusiasm and joy evident in their writing...though it broke my heart to fail these students each time, even though their writing was the most enjoyable to read. Every time I would explain how their works—while innovative and somewhat supported—simply could not be given a good mark because they were not factually based on the text. I would try and convince them to channel their creative minds into finding original, concrete connections and writing about those instead, but it never worked. I would give the same speech to that one student each year, but the second it was over they would be back to forming allegories between Animal Farm and Lord of the Flies.
 
It never ended at the grades, either. The students would graduate, go off into the world, and then a few months down the line I’d hear about how they gave up on reality and tooned over. They would stick it out with real lives for a bit to try and find a happy medium, but then they’d give in and run off to one of the cartoon towns that kept popping up. That would be the last time anyone ever heard from them. It was the same path Trevor was going down. I could see the same signs that were present in every one of my past students: daydreaming in class, inspired but illogical essays, and parents unable to see that their child needed help.

[Virmir]

Continuing to enjoy this one!  Keep at it.

[Lopez]

A very moving story. A lot of people undoubtedly can identify with both Trevor and the teacher. As individual people, we have trouble connecting with the reality of the world around us, it's natural. We're subjective. We can't help it. But there are some people who are simply more subjective than others, and their way of thinking just doesn't correspond to the way the world works.

Poor guy...I hope there's some hope for him.