Confessions Of A Parochial School Student.

Short Author's Note here; Some of you may notice that I changed a character's name. I did this because I wasn't happy with his original name, so apologies for any confusion and I hope you still enjoy this!

~Ami


Part One

All characters and situations are the property of the author.
Any resemblence to living or deceased people is purely coincidental. The author is aware that there are schools with the same name as the one within this story. This, too, is merely a coincidence.

~*~*~

~*~*~
Part One

The last bell sounded, shrill, yet expectant. I was at my locker, digging through it in search of both my books and the paper I'd spent weeks preparing for and writing. Where are they? I thought to myself in a minor panic, where are they?! I was normally not this unprepared! I finally found them. The books. Not the essay. I groaned, picking up a text on grecian history that had fallen from the stack of books piled hap-hazardly on the top shelf of my locker. I shoved it into my bookbag. I would need for it my second class.

Thoughts of Greek History with Mr. Turner faded from my mind at the realization that I was now overly late to my first class and I didn't have my assignment with me. That I must have left it at home in the rush to get to school on time. Great. Perfect. A wonderful start to a wonderful day. Why did I have to be late to his class? Why did mornings have to be so damn early!? Ugh. And he expected me to function? More than function. To enteract intelligently. Gah. I hadn't even had time for breakfast this morning!

"Althea," I started at the sound and saw the principle approaching, making certain the corridors were empty of students, "Don't you have some place to be right now?" she tapped a pudgy finger pointedly upon her watch face and I gathered up the rest of my things, slammed the locker door closed and spun the lock. "Since this is only the second day of school, I won't write you up. But, hurry along, young lady!"

I didn't have to be told twice! As I rushed down the hall, I mentally considered the uniform we, the girls, were forced to wear; plaid blue and green pleated skirt, matching tie cinched at the neck, white blouse, white knee socks and optional dark blue sweater or jacket depending on the weather.

The boys wore essentially the same save for slacks instead of skirts, dress shirts, wider ties and more masculine jackets or sweaters. My skirt came to my knees; and my legs, (still slightly tanned from the summer sunshine), were bare between the tops of the socks and the hem of the skirt. I've been told they were my most attractive asset, and I wished that I could have worn my new black sling-backs with the half-inch heel to better show off the slender curve of my calves.

Instead I, as every other girl in the school, had a choice of brown or black loafers. In the ancient times of my grandmother, who'd also attended St. Al's as a girl, gleaming black buckled shoes were the norm. I'd worn my hair down today and it was constantly falling across my shoulders into my eyes.

Belatedly I wished for a barrette.

Ah, well. Wish in one hand...

"So, you finally decided to join us this morning," a familar, rather cold, voice issued from the front of the classroom after I had opened the door to let myself in. There were about twenty students in the room. Nearly all of them wore expressions of various stages of apprehension and fear. I knew why. The teacher, Mr A.S. Lismore, was not known for his leniency. He'd only been teaching at St. Aloysius for three years but in those three years he'd quickly acquired a certain reputation.

Rumour had it he was King's College and Sheffield University educated and even taught at both illustrious schools before venturing across the ocean to take a job as a teacher in an American parochial school. Where these rumours originated I did not know. Though, I can't say that I have any real reason to disbelieve them.

"Sorry, sir," I said in a hurried mumble. A lot of the teachers were more informal, but it was clear from his very first day three years ago that he expected to be treated with the utmost respect and therefor a "sir" while addressing him always seemed appropriate. "I spilled coke on my alarm clock and I think it's broken...I won't be late again..."

"I hope you used the extra time wisely, Miss Jacobs." Mr. Lismore said, instead of acknowledging my apology. He levered his clear azure blue eyes on my face, causing me to look away from the intensity of his gaze. "You have a paper due this morning."

He quirked one dark brow with a slight cock of his head. I struggled to come up with a believable enough excuse as to why I hadn't brought it with me. "It's finished, Mr. Lismore," I began, not at all comfortable being the center of attention like this. I could feel every single eye in the room on me and I imagined that I could hear the single, collective thought; "Thank god it's her and not me!"

"Well?" he prompted, his voice low, distingushed English accent clipped and precise; "I haven't all day. Are you going to stand there with your mouth agape or are you going to hand in the assignment?"

"I don't have it," I said, my heart was beating fast against my ribcage, "But, I did do it! I swear, Mr. Lismore! I spent the entire week every night after school working on it!"

"You will recieve an incomplete, Miss Jacobs," he said, turning away, the dark suit jacket he wore over his crisp white shirt had chalk smudges near the cuff of his right arm, most likely due to erasing the blackboard before I'd arrived. The very board he now faced and began to scrawl in barely legible characters the books we were to read over the next few weeks.

"...chapters one, two and three of Warlord of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs..." he was instructing the class, as I turned to find my seat. I sniffed a bit and thought the chalk dust in the room must be affecting my allergies as my eyes began to feel watery and itchy. "...make an example out of Miss Jacobs and arrive early...with your finished assigment."

"Are you crying, Miss Jacobs?!" he asked, pausing with the lesson plan and plasturing me with a peircing stare I could feel half-way across the room, as I arranged myself at the desk. He must have heard me sniffling. I wasn't crying! I had allergies, dammit! With a mixture of annoyance and incredulousness, he went on; "I was under the impression this was a school for young adults. Not a daycare center!"

There were several muffled titters at my expense, but I kept my head up. I wouldn't give any of them the delight of seeing me cowed. "I have allergies, sir." I said, clearly, emphasising the word. I kept my own face devoid of expression, even though I was seething inside. I would never allow even an inkling of my emotions to leak to the surface. He didn't need more fodder with which to humilate me later. I waited for him to turn away and continue the lesson.

As he spoke, rich tembre of accent rising and falling with the words, his voice began to weave a melodious spell upon the ears of the attentive pupils in the room. As I listened, silently memorizing the key points of his speech upon the use of symbolism in literature, my fingers traced the outline of a carved heart in the wood of the desk. At St. Al's the schoolboard still hadn't been able to afford any new desks and so we were stuck with the old, wooden, lift-top variety with the built-in chairs.

They were uncomfortable to say the least and a student's backside was likely to fall into a numbed state by the time a lesson had drawn to it's conclusion. I wriggled absently in my seat. I wasn't bored. On the contrary, I found Mr. Lismore's lessons, for the most part, to be extremely interesting and engrossing. Some of the things he talked about I would be willing to bet were not originally on the lesson plans of the previous instructors of his subject. That he encouraged his students to think outside of the confines of regulated texts was one of the many things to set him apart from his peers, I thought.

His standards of a student's work were still at college level and he refused to lower it for an American high school. That could be frustrating, I found myself thinking, especially when one has spent days, weeks, preparing for a test or writing a paper...

"Miss Jacobs," he had paused and once more I found myself the star attraction as chairlegs scraped the floor and heads swiveled towards me, "See me after school."

He said nothing more, only turned to address a nearby student. A young lady with dark hair bound in twin braids. The ends dyed a bright red. Her bottom lip was puffed with was appeared to be a bee sting, though on closer inspection one would notice the tiny hole which a miniscule ring or stud had previously filled. After school that same hole would be covered by something small and shiney. Mr. Lismore was in the process of ripping her essay to shreds in front of her, all the while taking her to task over her sloppy writing, lazy construction and how her paper wasn't fit to line the inside of Sister Augustine's pet parrot's cage.

The girl's newly pierced lip began to shudder before a fat tear was swiftly fisted away, quickly followed by another. I felt my insides twist in pity for her. Yet, the feeling of sympathy only lasted for a moment before another, unfamilar sensation took over.

I found myself crossing my legs in an attempt to ease the sudden prickling feeling that had begun between them as I watched and listened to him cruelly scolding the poor girl, whose face was now redder than the red of Vanity Sinclair's lipstick. Yes, I am fully aware of the irony of someone being named after one of the seven deadly sins attending a catholic school. I'm sure Vanity had heard a zillion jokes. I secretly thought the name fit her better than any other name she could have been given.

Mr. Lismore hadn't ceased in his tirade. The girl was now visibly sinking down into her chair as if she expected it to swallowed her up at any moment.

Was I becoming...aroused...at the sight of someone being verbally assaulted?

The thought hit me with horror. It had never happened before, I tried to rationalise. At this school someone was always being reprimanded for something. I sat on my hands to keep them from wandering beneath my skirt and had a sudden epiphany. It wasn't merely that someone was being yelled at. Although, Mr. Lismore wasn't yelling, I use the word more as a figure of speech. He was hardly raising his voice. It was his tone and the glare from his eyes, whose color seemed to have altered to the hue of cerulean ice, that wrecked havoc with his students' emotional states whenever they found themselves at the mercy of his wrath and wit.

I clenched my fists under my thighs. It was him. I stifled a groan. It was him alone...reproaching a pupil...that was affecting me so. With my feelings of dawning terror and a sudden rush of hormones, I chewed the insides of my cheeks until I tasted the coppery tang of blood. I thought of his last words to me and swallowed back the abrupt sense of anticipation with the tiny peices of skin.

To be continued...