(Read the last post if you haven't already.)
Soon he heard a voice: "Michael! Wake up!"
Mike opened his eyes to find himself in a desk that was three sizes too small. It looked like he was back in his fifth grade history class at Davey Crockett Elementary. He was supposed to be eleven years old, but he still had a large grown-up body that wasn’t able to fit into the small desk. As Mike rubbed his eyes, the kids in the class snickered at him.
"Have a great nap?" Mrs. Haversham said. Mike stared on.
"Look,” explained Mrs. Haversham, “I'll say this again slowly so you can understand me: Are you ready to give your 3000-word oral essay on all the battles during the Revolutionary War?"
"Essay?"
"The essay I assigned a week ago? The essay that must be perfectly enunciated, perfectly worded, flawlessly edited, superbly typed, and completely researched with at least five book sources to get a passing grade? The essay that's almost 90% of your average?"
"I didn't know, Mrs. Haversham,” whined Mike.
"Come on, you!” she said, “Quit lying. You've had enough time already. You must have written something."
"But I…"
"Shut up and give your report,” snapped Mrs. Haversham, “You have ten minutes to give it, and they've already started. Failure to step up and start your reading in ten seconds will result in an automatic F for this whole class." Mike got out of his desk at the furthest end of the classroom, while his chair made a loud squeaking noise that made him jump.
Mike walked towards the chalkboard, but found himself walking in place. There was also a slight chill in the room.
"Three seconds!" A lump the size of a golf ball formed in his throat. His blood chilled all over, but he ran as fast as he could. Mike banged his face against the wall. While rubbing his now swollen nose, he sounded out that he was okay and then cleared his throat. He finally delivered his report, regardless of how underdone it was. But why was he so chilly?
Mike didn’t really remember anything about the Revolutionary War battles. He just knew about Benedict Arnold. So he started: "Uh…okay…so…Benedict Arnold was an important and vital part of the history of the American Revolutionary War." Mike’s classmates snickered at him. "He was born in America…the British colony Americas. He liked the British and decided he wouldn't hurt them or whatever. So…Who has questions about that?"
"Hey, Rhetton!" said Trevor Hawkes, the class clown, "Are you out of clean clothes or what?"
Mike stammered, "Um, what does that have to do with Benedict Arnold?"
"Just look at you," said Fran, who was trying not to throw a giggle fit.
Mike realized why he was feeling so chilly. He was completely naked. So he tried to hide behind something.
"Stop wasting time!" yelled Mrs. Haversham, "So you're buck naked. Big deal. Just finish your report before I flunk you."
Hearing this threat, Mike calmed down and continued while covering his nether regions with his two hands.
"So one day in the Revolutionary War, Benedict Arnold talked with King George. He said, 'Hey, kingy! I can help you crush the Continental Army!'"
As he finished this statement, the low pressure in Mike's intestines was finally at its breaking point. It flowed out of Mike's system as a fart that was louder than a thunderclap. Mrs. Haversham gritted her teeth. "Michael…did…you…just…break wind…in my class?”
Mike continued, “So King George said, ‘All right, Arnie! All ya have to do is be a spy and...’”
“I’ve heard enough, Michael,” said the teacher. “I was going to give you a D for your lack of a physical copy, misunderstanding of the subject, and a wardrobe, but your slovenly behavior and painful recitation of facts has just given you an F.” She glared at Mike. “Step outside with me.”
Mike said, “Uh, can’t I get another chance?”
“GO!” bellowed Mrs. Haversham.
The naked Mike walked outside the classroom and into the hallway. Mrs. Haversham followed and slammed the door behind them.
“Do you know your problem, Mike?” Mrs. Haversham said, “You have no ambition. You sleep in class, you barely do homework, and you don’t remember previous lectures. You think school is unnecessary.” As she said this, Mrs. Haversham grew taller. “But the truth is, the real world and its system are tough for you, and school toughens you up.” Scales started popping up on her face, she developed a snout and tail, and her arms shrunk. “So unless you straighten up and commit completely to your studies instead of farting around...” With that, Mrs. Haversham had completely transformed herself into a 20-foot tall Tyrannosaurus Rex and roared, “THE REAL WORLD WILL CHEW YOU UP! LIKE WHAT I’M GONNA DO TO YOU!”
When the Teachersaurus Rex lunged to take its first bite out of him, Mike quickly dodged her snout. Seeing the door to the boy’s room, he ran over to it. Since Mrs. Haversham was a girl, he’d be safe. The T-Rex Haversham roared, “NO RUNNING IN THE HALL!” as he darted in. Soon he was in his old house’s bathroom, and his father was by the toilet. He was pouring a canister of pills into the toilet. When he was finished, his father turned his head to Mike with burning eyes.
“Walkin’ in on me in the bathroom when you’re nude and frantic, huh?” his father said, “No wonder Giselle’s gonna dump you. You’re more like me than you think...Don’t tell Mom this time!” Mrs. Haversham’s giant head burst through the door and roared at Mike, while Mike shook in a fetal position.
***
Mike darted out of his bed in the Nightmare World, with more realistic memories of Mrs. Haversham’s class. When he was eleven, around the same time he learned his dad’s secret, Mrs. Haversham did flunk him. She took him to the hallway to chew him out about either applying himself or completely failing at life.
Mike also remembered that ever since that moment, he vowed to apply himself more to his studies. He studied history day and night and made straight A’s in harder courses, until he was accepted into Harvard with a major in history. Then he studied for top-level classes that focused on historic eras from Feudal Japan to McCarthy-era America for most of his free time. Mike remembered that the more he studied in these history courses, the higher people’s expectations for him were. So he had to keep his straight A’s, stressing day and night, trying to forget his dad and his bad experience with Mrs. Haversham while getting more tense.
Wait, my dad...thought the awakened Mike, What pills were those? Why did he dump them? Was that related to the secret I had to keep from Mom? Mike now remembered that his dad called the pills “garbage,” but why were they when he was the one in assisted living?
The female voice soon bellowed, “Stop thinking about Nightmare World events! You have to escape again!” He started remembering Mom explaining to him a month after he found his dad flushing down pills that his father wasn’t “all there.” He had schizophrenia. He remembered his father sitting on a table, talking to himself. He remembered his dad clipping panels out of newspapers, muttering about messages from other universes. He tried to remember going fishing with his dad or playing catch, like they did in the past, but all he remembered was his father strangling him, saying he’d kill him for telling Mom about the pills. Mike shuddered and heard his mother’s voice:
“The doctor said your dad...thought he was in an alternate universe. He kept saying that I wasn’t real, or our house wasn’t real. He had a unique form of schizophrenia. He was given medication to treat it, but he didn’t want it....You need to understand that schizophrenia is genetic. You might have it too.”
The final memory he had was the worst. It was the assisted living home where they had sent Mike’s dad after the nervous breakdown where he strangled Mike and lost his voice roaring like a wild animal. Apparently, he was still treatable and putting him in assisted living would do him better than sticking him in some “Cuckoo’s Nest” asylum. But Mike remembered his father slouching in an almost comatose state in a recliner, breathing heavily without saying a word. His baggy, glaring eyes burned into Mike’s subconscious like two suns when he first saw him like that at the age of twelve, making the somber figure look like a tiger balefully eyeing tourists at a zoo. His dad’s hands shook violently while he eyed his son, which made him more intimidating. Mike’s father was a vegetable in that room. Even now, when his son was twenty, his father still sat silently in the same room in the same assisted living home, still probably wanting to strangle his family and escape the horrible parallel universe deep down inside his thick, tortured skull.
Mike drew the line there. He had to continue finding his world where he could fly. So he slept some more.
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