The students shuffled in dribs and drabs into the first class of eleventh grade. Some had arrived ten minutes early, while others entered to the serenade of the late bell. For the most part, they were tired and sunburnt and achingly hormonal. They sighed en masse, preparing wearily to leave butt sweat marks on the blue metal seats. The teacher walked in haggard and hungover, but he managed to hide it quite well, because he had a Masters degree in education. His presence inspired immediate annoyance. A burp rang out, a toaster strudel fanfare.

“Ok everyone,” said the teacher. “Welcome to Homeroom. I am Mr. Jacobsberg. I hope you all saw the note I sent about a week ago, asking you all to bring in an object that means something to you, so we can get to know each other before we get down to business.”

In response, someone blew their nose loudly, the flapping of viscous matter into the tissue quite clear and horrible.

Mr. Jacobsberg cleared his throat, gazing absently above a sheaf of papers he would not address for the rest of the period. “Ok then. Everyone, in turn, will please come up here, share their name, give a sentence or two about your object, and tell us a fun fact to cap it off. The funner the better.” His face glowed with unintended menace, like the Teletubbies baby sun, enjoying the torturous task he had put forth.

A small, mousy girl strutted to the front of the room. “Hi I’m Maggie,” she started. “This is my Cartier bracelet. It’s not the most expensive one, but it still cost my dad a lot of money. He bought it for me when I got my first B minus last year. I wear it every day. At least I will until it goes out of style.” Maggie held her arm out and shook it so that the class could see the bracelet shimmy on the end of her thin wrist. Simultaneously, the nose-blower excavated a hard booglet and flicked it heartily toward her. She didn’t notice because her nose was far too far up in the air, but it landed on the toe of her black high-top converse.

“And a fun fact?” prompted the teacher.

“Oh, I also knit pink sweaters for the roadkill that my twin brother taxidermies,” said Maggie.

“I like roadkill,” said someone in the back. The procession continued.

“My name is Tom,” said Tom. He proceeded to tack a small photo to the wall with one of those white, flat head push-pins. Mr. Jacobsburg flinched at the desecration of the precious plaster. Everyone had to squint to make out the image.

“This is my favorite photo of myself,” Tom continued. “It is a picture of me eating the best grilled cheese that I have ever discovered, from when I was out in Ohio. I plan to move to Ohio when I graduate just to be closer to the grilled cheese. You can also see, in the background, my mother. She told me I had to mention her, but she’s pretty lame.”

As he returned to his seat, he added, “I’ll leave that up there until the end of class in case anyone wants to take a better look. It looks cooler up close. But don’t touch it. I don’t want your stupid ass fingers all over it. Oh, and for my fun fact, I have fourteen toes. Sometimes this worries me, but whatever.”

Another girl made the walk to the front. As she went, some kid in the back of the classroom yelled, “What are those?” She was wearing clogs. She ignored him.

“My name is Lucie. This is an X-ray of my entire body,” she said, holding up a dark, translucent piece of plastic. “As you can see, I only have one kidney, one lung, half a liver, no reproductive organs, and no spleen, gallbladder, or appendix. All of these organs I have donated to science or to those who are in more need of them than I am. It makes me proud knowing that people are out there living longer because of me. Of course, as soon as I die, all of the rest of me will go to science. I’ve also told my doctors that as soon as old age gets the best of me, they can take some heart valves and half of my brain, since I won’t be using them much anyway. My fun fact is that I am like eighty-six percent positive I know the identity of Jack the Ripper. Questions?”

“Why are you still alive?” asked a curly-haired boy from the middle of the room.

“I think you mean how am I still alive? That’s quite simple actually…” started Lucie.

“No. Why? You’re so annoying I could kill you right now.”

Lucie swallowed loudly.

“Thank you for your feedback, uh, Carlo,” said the teacher hastily, referring to a photo chart. “Any other questions? No? Well then, thank you Lucie. Who’s next?” The silence was itchy. “Ok, Carlo. You seem eager to talk. Why don’t you go? Show us what you got!”

“Name is Carlo. My fun fact is that I’m starting an Arson Club, and we meet today if you want to join. ” He then removed from a cooler what appeared to be a Ziploc bag containing a moist, pink washcloth.

“This also has to do with organs,” Carlo started. “This is the entire small intestine of a… of a deer. Questions?”

“Uh, yeah,” said a girl. “Where did you get that?”

“From a deer. I promise.”

“Do you hunt?” asked Lucie.

“Yes. I love to hunt.”

“How long have you had that intestine?” asked Tom.

“About a week.”

“What are you gonna do with it?” asked Tom again.

“I’m choosing between brining and boiling or a nice tartare.”

“Oh, ok!” interjected the teacher. “Let’s move along.”

One girl simply burped the ABCs, and another student stood up and did the most incredible interpretive dance. Not an eye was left dry in the classroom. It would later be said that he made all the worries in the world float away with his gentle movements, that he looked like a swan who had transformed into a butterfly who had transformed into a willow tree in the breeze. The teacher was interviewed on this matter, because he had a Masters degree in education.

“And finally,” prompted the teacher, “who do we have here?” He looked from his photo chart to an absurdly tall girl sitting in the far corner of the room. She was tall enough that her baby hairs trembled in the lackluster breath of the AC unit above her head.

“I’m Case. Short for Casey. Actually, can I do this from my seat? I’m tired.”

“Sure,” said Mr. Jacobsberg.

Casey held up a rock, no larger than a baseball. The rest of the students turned and craned to watch her. “This is a rock. I found it on my way to class this morning, because I don’t have anything else that means anything to me, and if you have a problem with that, you can see me outside after class. Questions?” Everyone raised a hand.

“What do you see of yourself in this rock?”

“What made you select this rock from all the other rocks that you could have chosen?”

“Have you tried licking the rock?”

“What does the existence of the rock say about man’s technological progression during the Industrial Revolution?”

“How strong would you need to be to kill somebody with that rock?”

“If you had to choose between the rock and a hard place, which would you choose?”

Casey stood there in silence, snarling. “It’s just a rock,” she said.

“Can I have it?” asked Carlo.

“Blow me,” said Casey.

“Sure,” said Tom.

“Ok, ok, ok,” said the teacher. “Now it’s my turn. Figured it’s only fair to torture you like this if I participate, as well.”

“I love torture,” said someone quietly from the back of the classroom.

Mr. Jacobsberg held up what appeared to be a bag of dust. “This is the first apple that a student ever placed on my desk when I became a teacher thirty years ago. I would not be the same person without all of my experiences in the classroom. Each of my students means so much to me, and that is represented in this apple here. It is my will to have the remains of this apple cremated along with my body. Questions?”

Someone in the back of the classroom farted, and it smelled like education.

————

Olivia Frances Hill is a copywriter who eats her broccoli with ketchup and wears mostly black. Unlike many writers, she has no accolades and does not live in the Pacific Northwest. Her passions include Nerds Gummy Clusters, true crime, and diners.