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Everyone said the best teacher to be a student teacher for was always Professor Scott. Not because he was a great teacher or anything, no, he was a terrible teacher. It was because of how he used his student teachers. Dallon was realizing it first hand.
It was the very first day and he was excited. He wanted to learn from the teacher who had the highest success rate of successful teachers. He walked into the lecture hall with a pep in his step, a smile on his face. He was the first one in the hall, no students, not even Professor Scott and he was a bit worried. Did he have the wrong room? He was pretty sure he didn’t.
It wasn’t long before a door slammed to the back of the lecture hall and a man stumbled in, throwing a briefcase onto the desk in the front. Dallon walked down and stood next to the table. The man hadn’t shaved, looked like he’d barely changed his clothes after getting out of bed.
“Professor Scott?” Dallon asked and the man grumbled out a yes before falling back into the chair behind the desk. He pulled a flask out of his pocket, downing the whole thing before he looked at Dallon.
“Are you my new student teacher?” He asked and Dallon nodded, giving him a smile. He was wondering how this man could produce good teachers.
“I am,” Dallon said.
“And I assume you have a power point ready for class today?” He asked and Dallon’s smile fell from his face.
“A power point? You didn’t say anything about me doing any instructing in the emails. I don’t have anything prepared,” Dallon mumbled and Professor Scott laughed.
“Should have known better. You will be instructing. Hope you know the subject,” he said and Dallon felt any ounce of excitement leave his body.
He stood there and watched as students filed into the lecture hall, taking their seats and waiting for the lesson to begin. Dallon kept checking the clock. Ten minutes before, five, two, one.
They all stared at him and the professor, waiting and wondering what would happen. Professor Scott pulled out another flask and started on that one and Dallon realized he would not be getting any help from him any time soon. Dallon stepped forward and cleared his throat.
“Uh, hello. My name is Dallon Weekes, you can all call me Mr. Weekes. I will be your student teacher for this term,” he said, one student raising their hand. “A question?” He asked to the student.
“Yes, Dallon,” they said.
“Mr. Weekes,” he corrected.
“Dallon, I was wondering what topics we were going to cover?”
“What’s your name?” Dallon asked, already deciding he wouldn’t like this guy.
“Mr. Urie,” the student said and Dallon knew he wouldn’t like this guy.
Dallon ignored his question, clearing his throat and looking back at the professor. He had his feet propped up his desk, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. If he wasn’t snoring already, he would be soon. He walked over to the laptop connected to the projector. Dallon wasn’t sure why he was doing it since he didn’t have anything made. Some part of him thought it would be funny. He spent so long in those seats, just like the students in front of them. He figured it would make the day better for an eight in the morning class.
“Please take notes from the powerpoint. It will be very important to your grade in this class,” Dallon instructed. There was a corresponding groan from the entire class and Dallon tried to keep himself from laughing.
He turned around, looking out at the faces of confusion. There was no powerpoint. He had not prepared anything. All Dallon pulled up on the screen was the screen to make a new powerpoint. It still said ‘Click to add title’ and ‘Click to add subtitle’ in the boxes. Dallon didn’t even bother to make it fullscreen, the orange banner showing all of the tool options.
He smiled at the students.
“Now, we will start. We are going to begin with the five pillars of Islam. They are faith, prayer, fasting, Almsgiving, and The Hajj.” He paused, nobody writing his words down. “Class, please, copy off the powerpoint, this is vital to your grade.”
He had a pointer for the projector that he lifted. There was a small click noise but it wasn’t quite loud enough and with no powerpoint, the page never switched. So, he improvised.
“Click,” he said, earning a few chuckles from the class.
After that first day, the class had come to expect there not being a powerpoint. He did, however, give them the tip that the test was based around the book they were supposed to have checked out before class started.
They got past the fall of the Roman Empire and were learning about the plague. He knew that it wasn’t a very interesting topic. He could easily admit to falling asleep during those lessons himself. There was only so many times he could say that the Mongol’s used the black death as biological warfare before he just became a broken record.
He had done it on his own personal time. He sat down and read through every chapter he had on the plague, on what surrounded it. He made it into a song, using something he thought was iconic enough that every college student would know the tune without having to think of it. The song was absolutely perfect.
He had found a YouTube video of just the instrumentals and he queued that up while the class sat there. It had the effect he wanted, everyone immediately recognized it.
The professor was already passed out at his desk and Dallon didn’t care if he woke up the man. He pressed play and jumped up on the desk, singing his own lyrics. He didn’t care that there were phones out in the audience, just closed his eyes and continued on with his song.
Uh huh, it’s the Plague
Gonna kill you in a few days
A pandemic so severe
The Black Death caused such horror and fear
And there ain’t no cure for that, girl
You’ll be dead in no time flat, girl
You’ll get acral necrosis from the Yersinia pestis
And it makes your tongue all black, girl
Gonna bury you out in back, girl
Ooh fleas on rats (fleas on rats)
Started in China don’t know how
But the Mongols used biological warfare
At Kaffa hurled plagued corpses at the Genoese
The Italians fled back to Sicily and in 1347
Black Death said “hello” to Europe in the form of infected fleas
From port cities along trade roads
Buboes swellin’ in the nodes
And it spread real fast like that, girl
Better flee when you see a rat, girl
People livin’ for the now, bro
Like the book by Boccaccio
Or you could be a flagellant, girl
Flog yourself till you repent, girl
Ooh, fleas on rats (fleas on rats)
5 kilometres a day and in 5 years
Killed two-thirds of the population
Some blamed the lepers of Jews
Did they poison the wells?
It led to peasant revolts, loss of faith
And serious persecution
People carried pouches of herbs
To protect them from the smell
Doctors didn’t know what caused it
Bolt your doors if your family’s afflicted
Bodies in the carts, girl
Skeletons in the art, girl
But the decreased population
Let to amelioration
Of the peasant folk, hey
They could ask for more pay
Ooh fleas on rats (fleas on rats)
Let me hear you say:
This plague is Bubonic B-U-B-O-N-I-C”
A pandemic so severe
The Black Death caused such horror and fear
And there ain’t no cure for that, girl
You’ll be dead in no time flat, girl
You’ll get acral necrosis from the Yersinia pestis
And it makes your tongue all black, girl
Gonna bury you out in back, girl
Ooh fleas on rats (fleas on rats)
When he finished, there was a hand up in the audience.
“Mr. Urie?” He called, trying to keep himself from panting after singing.
“Was that Hollaback Girl by Gwen Stefani?” He asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Yes, a great song turned into a great teaching lesson,” Dallon said, quite proud that at least one student (and now the whole class) recognized the iconic song and also that he had managed to pull it off.
“Second question, you’re gay right? That was the gayest thing I’ve seen. That beat the two twinks fucking each other gay porno from last night.”
Dallon was glad that the class wasn’t close enough to see his red cheeks as he slowly got down from the desk.
A few months passed and the end of the term was coming to an end. Dallon had to admit that he was quite pleased with how well he had done.
“Remember to study! Finals are tomorrow!” Dallon called as the students were filing out of the room.
He doubted that the night before would change much of the scores.
Dallon spent that night in the library. He had some of his own studying to do for his class and he just wanted to spend some time outside of his small little apartment. There was a group of people off in some back corner being a little louder than normal and Dallon was reaching for his headphones when a chair at the table pulled back. He looked up to see Brendon and was a little miffed to see him.
“Hey teach,” Brendon said, his grin a little lopsided.
“Are you drunk?” Dallon asked, turning around in his chair to see the table that Brendon had come from in the corner. He could see the poorly hidden bottles of alcohol.
“Well, we started out studying and then it turned into a drinking game,” he paused, bringing a hand to his chin, “But no, I wouldn’t consider myself drunk quite yet.”
Dallon just gave Brendon as he turned back around to his computer.
“Help us study,” Brendon said, standing up. He was pulling on the sweater that Dallon was wearing. It was obvious that Brendon wasn’t going to just give up so Dallon sighed. He closed his laptop and grabbed it before standing up.
Dallon was lead over to the table and a chair was pulled up for him.
“A game,” Brendon prompted, everyone looking curiously at him. Brendon seemed to be the only one with a plan. “Dallon-”
“Mr. Weekes,” he corrected, still trying to push his students to think of him as a teacher, even if he wasn’t actually yet.
“Dallon here, thinks that we should study. I agree. You know, with finals and all,” he said, pausing as his friends groaned. “A drinking game. For every answer we get right, Dallon takes a shot. Any question we get wrong, we all take a shot,” he said and everyone looked at each other before nodding.
Dallon was the last to agree but he did. He knew how little they had paid attention in class and he knew he’d get out of this without tasting a sip of alcohol. He hadn’t ever drank before and planned to keep it that way.
It was his over confidence that did him in.
Despite not paying attention, Brendon was shockingly smart. Dallon quickly found that his tolerance for alcohol was very low. Question after question and shot after shot, Dallon regretted agreeing to those terms.
“Okay, guys, we should let Dallon ease up on the alcohol, he can barely ask questions,” Brendon said and Dallon was thankful for that.
They called it a night shortly and Dallon stumbled his way to his apartment before promptly passing out.
The alarm in the morning was harsh and Dallon hated himself for the previous night. He was just thankful it was finals and he didn’t have to lecture anything.
He smoothed his hair down with a little bit of water, hoping it passed as acceptable. He walked into the classroom, sitting at his seat as the students filed in and took their own. Dallon watched as Brendon walked in, smiling and cheerful, like the alcohol had absolutely no affect on him.
“Dallon, did you not get much sleep? You look a little rough around the edges,” he said and Dallon let out a quiet groan.
Dallon was thankful for the quietness of the test. Aside from pencils and muffled groans and the occasional stiffled cough, he could put his head down on his desk and think about every reason why last night had been a mistake. He smiled as students handed in their tests until there was only one left in a seat. He glared weakly at Brendon, wishing he could wipe that smug grin off his cute face.
He wanted to hate Brendon for the hangover but it was his own choice.
Brendon walked up to hand in his test, standing there for a moment.
“How’d I do, Mr. Weekes?” Dallon was a little shocked at not being called Dallon by Brendon. He reached for the paper and after a quick glance over it, it looked correct. He was actually impressed after how little Brendon had paid attention during lectures.
Brendon leaned against the edge of the desk while Dallon stood up and grabbed his things.
“So, since I’m not your student anymore,” Brendon started, smirking at Dallon. All Dallon did as a response was to raise an eyebrow.
Brendon leaned forward and kissed his cheek, slipping a piece of paper into Dallon’s pocket.
“Call me if you’d like a date sometime. I’ll hold off on the alcohol.”