Their teacher seemed to linger on this depressive thought for moments on end. The more time elapsed, the more he sank into his chair and the less movement he was seen to make.

After a few minutes, it was as if he had frozen into place, a depressed statue- immortalized by the hideous brown tweed jacket, leather tie and sunglasses that never left his face.

He had gotten so still that Nevil caught himself contemplating the idea of sneaking up on Mr. Booysen, as to unzip his fanny pack and finally inspect the contents inside. The long wait would be over and everyone’s curiosity would finally be satisfied.

However, Nevil quickly brushed off the idea but made sure to give the man one final glance before resolving to nap at his own desk for the remainder of the period.

Mr. Booysen’s eyes were masked behind the brown gradient of his Aviators, so it was hard to tell whether he was still awake- or alive, for that matter.

Good enough for me, thought Nevil and that was when he shrugged his shoulders and lay in his arms, more than content with copying the apathy of his teacher.

That was when he heard the noise and looked up…

“Alright!” yelled Mr. Booysen and jumped up from his seat. He clapped his hands together, as if trying to motivate himself more than his students. “Before our beloved Stephanie here sends me into an even deeper spiral of crippling depression, let’s try and get some work done today…”

Nevil darted his eyes from their teacher to where Stephanie was sinking into her chair, looking guilty about her earlier behavior.

Irritated, Nevil leaned over and tried for her attention on the other side of the classroom, his voice a whisper. “He’s the one teacher who didn’t give us a hard time. Now look at the poor man!”

Stephanie refused to acknowledge him. All she could do was to crouch low in her seat and keep staring ahead of her.

His arms behind his back, Mr. Booysen strode back and forth down the front of the classroom, his fanny pack bouncing with every step. “Let’s see…what shall we talk about today?”

He mumbled a few suggestions and, upon getting an idea, interrupted himself. “Got it!” That was when he picked up a piece of chalk and started writing on the board.

“For today, we will be doing ‘Active and Passive voice,’” he said with renewed energy and turned around to face the class. “Who would like to guess whatever that thing is?”

Nobody raised their hands.

Upon noticing this, Mr. Booysen shrugged his shoulders and shook his head as he scoped the entire classroom. “Anybody?”

Still, nobody raised their hands.

Holding the chalk up in his one hand, Mr. Booysen slipped his remaining hand in his pants pocket, leaning on his hip, and unenthusiastically waited for an answer. “I can stand here all day and teach, though I’d prefer not to…So please, can we get some participation that would make my job less boring?”

The class remained silent as the grave.

Still holding the chalk in his hand, Mr. Booysen waved it in circles as if it were a magic wand. “…and still nothing…” he sighed, turning around to face the board again. “Could just as well have worked at a morgue and made friends with a bunch of cadavers.”

He stretched out his writing arm and started jotting down on the board, though one might have assumed he was a medical doctor with how unrecognizable the man’s handwriting was at times. 

“Active voice has us construct sentences in the order of Subject – Verb – Object…” he yelled out behind him. “Passive voice has us do the reverse.” He then turned around and pointed the piece of chalk at the class. “Can anyone give me an example?”

Again, the class remained dead quiet.

It surprised Nevil that even Stephanie hadn’t volunteered to give an answer. She quietly kept to her books and simply took notes of what was being written on the board. Maybe she, too, had reached the end of her rope, for this period at least.

As he stared out over the disengaged group of learners, Mr. Booysen pursed his lips with a look of irritation that puffed out his moustache. “Fine,” he begrudgingly conceded. “If you don’t have the brain capacity or will-power to construct even a full sentence, then at least give me part of an answer, will you?” 

Without waiting for their response, he swiveled on his heels and continued writing on the board. “Let’s make a sentence in the active voice together.” Upon turning around, he asked. “Can someone give me an example of a subject with which we can start the sentence?”

At this moment, Nevil saw a faint shadow grow over his table and felt an odd presence sneak up behind him. Suddenly, the window he was leaning against felt colder than usual. He slowly cocked his head back and landed his eyes on someone peering in from the hall outside.

At once, the man lowered his eyes to meet with Nevil’s and that was when he recognized the face.

It was Mr. Percival Hickinbottom.

Their principal had always been tall and elegant, yet slim and fickle. Middle-aged, he had short curly hair, an outdated sports jacket with elbow pads and was never seen without his purple bow tie that went out of fashion a hundred years ago. He had always tried to maintain an elegant poise that radiated a sense of dignity, even though it had benefited him little in this school he had been a part of for more than 30 years.

Like trying to eat caviar with a barbecue tong, the sophistication of Mr. Hickinbottom was always going to be incompatible with the barbarism of Stupendous High.

Yet, for all the agony it would have spared him, he had never eased on his personal rigidity, as what Mr. Booysen had admitted to doing a long time ago. The result was that, at best, their principal could always be spotted snooping around the school premises, looking as if he had just bitten down on a sour raisin, waiting for the next distasteful incident to cross his path.

Mr. Hickinbottom had still been on psychiatric leave after some of the more recent events at the school. So, it had surprised Nevil to see him back so soon.

But there was little time for more contemplation on the matter, as he was still caught in an unintentional staring contest with his principal. Nevil wanted to look away but felt like he couldn’t.

Mr. Hickinbottom’s bulging eyes glared down at him with the same intensity as an attack-chicken fixating on its prey.

It was all Nevil could do to remain absolutely still, while slowly sinking into his chair-

“Can somebody give me a stupid subject!” yelled Mr. Booysen from the other end of the classroom, clearly unaware of the window-stalker.

That was when Mr. Hickinbottom, while keeping his abnormally round eyes fixated on Nevil, tapped with his long, bony finger on the glass, gesturing him to answer the question.

Unsure of what this meant, Nevil felt compelled to raise his hand. Upon gaining Mr. Booysen’s attention, he hesitated. “Mr. Hickinbottom?”

He heard a sigh behind him and quickly jerked his eyes back towards the window.

That was when he noticed that Mr. Hickinbottom had dropped beneath the windowsill, awkwardly hidden from his teacher’s sight. Slowly, the man raised another long finger that gestured for him to slowly turn around.

And as Nevil did, he saw Mr. Booysen’s face light up. “Finally! Someone in the class can give me an example,” he celebrated but admitted confusion “…albeit a strange one…” Nonetheless, he shook it off and seemed to run with the idea.

So, he jotted down the name of their principal as the subject of the sentence.

Upon turning back around to face the class, he excitedly pointed to Veer-Rash Patel. “You!” he demanded from the exchange student. “Give me a verb for our sentence!”

Veer thought for moments on end, before coming up with an answer that seemed to satisfy his apparent desire for amusement. “Urinated…Sir.”

Mr. Booysen’s face froze in place with a look of disappointment. He rolled his eyes and seemed to whisper something under his breath, but reluctantly allowed it. “If that’s what will get you to engage, then so be it…”

He then added ‘urinated’ as the verb of his sentence.

Mr. Booysen, now more carefully, turned back around to face the class, asking no one in particular. “Would anybody care to finish off this sentence with an object?”

This time, most of the class raised their hands.

Mr. Booysen pouted his lips as he examined the group through his sunglasses, his voice unimpressed. “Oh dear, should I be concerned?”

Nevil felt the presence behind him again and slowly glanced over his shoulder.

Mr. Hickinbottom had resurfaced to reclaim his original snooping position. This time, he ignored Nevil and focused those bulging attack-chicken-eyes on the blasphemous scene that was playing out before him.

Mr. Booysen stroked his moustache a few times and eventually settled upon Stephanie to give him an answer, even though her hand wasn’t raised.

“Do I have to partake in this exercise?” she sighed, reluctantly looking up from her book.

“Yes,” he answered, looking satisfied with his choice. “We are all in this too deep to go back now, you included.”

“But I-” she protested.

“Please, Stephanie!” he beckoned her, while gesturing for her to remain calm. “I would only trust someone as…hoighty…as you to finish off this sentence with as much…dignity…as possible.”

Stephanie sighed again, before reading the incomplete sentence on the board and unwillingly providing the word ‘wall’ as the object to the horrendous sentence before them.

“Alright,” yelled Mr. Booysen as he rushed to finish the lesson. “Mr. Hickinbottom urinated on the wall!”

For the last time, he turned back to face the class. It seemed to pain him as he asked, “Can anybody tell me what this sentence looks like in the passive voice?”

Nevil raised his hand a final time, figuring they might as well finish it together. “The wall was urinated on by Mr. Hickinbottom?”

“Brilliant!” exclaimed Mr. Booysen as he tossed the chalk aside and clapped his hands together. At once, he raised up the class like a choir conductor and had them repeat the answer in one voice.

“THE WALL WAS URINATED ON MY MR. HICKINBOTTOM!”

The next moment, Mr. Booysen choked on his own words as his eyes landed on somebody outside the classroom.

Never so quickly has Nevil seen someone’s face transition from ecstatic pride to utter fearfulness in a second…

“Mr. H-Hickinbottom?” their teacher coughed out as he swallowed all amusement. “W-we didn’t know to expect you back s-so s-soon…”

Standing by the threshold of the door, all that the tall, scrawny principal did was to glare at him with those disappointed, attack-chicken eyes. The man’s face contorted with wrinkles, as if he had just smelt the stench of betrayal.

He pointed with a long finger to the bottom of the hallway.

“Your office, again?” Mr. Booysen asked guiltily, without waiting for a reply. “Alright,” he agreed bravely. “I’ll be there.”