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There was a big group in for detention today. Professor Valjean sighed as he looked at the group, and began taking attendance.
“Combeferre?”
“Present.”
“Courfeyrac?”
“You bet, teach.”
“Enjolras.”
Silence.
“Enjolras.”
“Yes, yes, present.”
The list continued - Grantaire, who only rolled his eyes, Eponine, a brunette girl who sat with a casual smirk. Cosette, a pretty blonde who had never been in trouble in her life. Joly, Lesgle, and Musichetta were all seated together near the back. Jean Prouvaire had a flower in his hair and was smoking something that was swiftly confiscated with a strict warning. Bahorel was there too, strong and silent near the back of the room, and finally, Feuilly, with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He caught sight of a boy who was there and had not been taken note of in attendance. “And who are you?”
“Marius Pontmercy, sir.” The boy answered.
“I don’t have you on my list.” He frowned in confusion.
“Oh, no, I don’t have detention. But I’m not being picked up for a few hours, and it’s raining outside.”
“I… See.” Well, if the boy wanted to be there, there was no stopping him.
“This is detention. There will be no speaking.” He looked at his notes. “You will each write a letter about why you are here today, what you’ve done and why it was wrong, and finally, why you will not repeat your behaviour. You will be free to go in three hours. I will be grading papers next door.” He got up and left the door open behind him.
Combeferre was there because of something he’d done the week before. He remembered the incident vividly - he’d been defending Courfeyrac against a teacher.
*flashback*
“Courfeyrac, if you could please sit still and pay attention, maybe you wouldn’t be so incompetent,” the frustrated teacher growled. To anyone who didn’t know Courfeyrac, his responding laugh would seem perfectly normal, but Combeferre knew his friend well. He was stiff, and clearly upset at being called out like that. The teacher wasn’t done. “You don’t belong in a classroom if you aren’t capable of learning anything, you stupid boy.”
And Combeferre could see the frustrated tears his friend was blinking back, playing it off with a swagger, and his blood boiled. The usually mild-mannered student stood. “Excuse me,” he said coldly. “I’m not sure what gives you the right, professor, to speak to a student that way. If Courfeyrac doesn’t learn well the way you teach, it doesn’t make him stupid. Not everyone learns the same way. And you are a teacher. Your job, sir,” he said the title with a dry sarcasm, “Is to teach. To help your students learn the material. not to mock them when you find yourself incapable of rising to the challenge of changing how you do things. You aren’t acting as a teacher at the moment, you are mocking a student like an immature and ignorant bully, and that makes you the stupid one.”
*end flashback*
Courfeyrac had looked at him with awe. It had made the month of weekly detentions worth it to see the other teen smile like that. And he knew the letter he’d written wasn’t going to end his detentions, but it did say everything he thought it ought to.
To whom it may concern,
My name is Combeferre, and I am in detention for speaking on behalf of a bullied student. Wether the bully is a teacher or a student should make no difference - we as students are taught not to be bystanders, not to allow the suffering of other students. In a anti-bullying presentation given last month, we were informed that standing by while a student is assaulted verbally, physically or emotionally is as bad as being guilty of committing the crime ourselves. As such, I was merely reacting as the school had led me to believe was my duty.
Clearly, such behaviour was wrong. I should have known that double standards would apply to the teachers of this fine establishment, because they have so much more power than a mere student.
I will never again dare to contradict a teacher or call out inappropriate behaviour by an adult as clearly our education in self-respect and respect of others only applies so far as it doesn’t infringe on the delicate sensibilities of those more powerful than us even if I, the student, am in the right.
Most sincerely,
Combeferre.
-------------------------------------------
Enjolras’ reason for being in detention was related, in fact. He’d heard, as most of the school had, what Combeferre had done. And the social justice warrior had taken it upon himself to free such a student from the unjust confines of a detention for no more than defending a fellow student in a just cause.
*flashback*
“Have you heard what Combeferre did?”
“The quiet one, spoke about moths for our public speaking unit in english?” Enjolras asked Feuilly, who looked excited.
“Yes, yes, that one.” He regaled Enjolras with the epic tale, ending in outrage about the unjust punishment. By the time he was done, Enjolras was determined.
“He is a hero. He won’t spend a second in detention if I have anything to say about it.” But merely speaking to the principal wasn’t enough - words could be effective, but not to the ones with all the power, unfair though that was. No, action was needed here. He learned the dates of Combeferre’s detentions, Wednesdays after school, and planned and plotted. And when the first came… He was ready.
Enjolras stayed in the bathroom until the school was empty. He snuck out again, and crept, unseen, to the nearest fire alarm. All it took was a smash, and the glass shattered. He pulled the alarm with a victorious smirk - only to see the principal watching him with a deadly look in his eye.
*end flashback*
The fire station was called, and the situation explained. The detention was unaffected, and Enjolras was to join Combeferre in his detentions for the month as well. He had fumed and shouted and argued, but the power was in all the wrong places - this was a dictatorship! A horrible imbalance oppressing the students! - and Enjolras could no more escape detention than Combeferre.
To the Bourgeoisie,
I am here under false pretences and protest that I have done no wrong in the protection of an oppressed and wrongfully imprisoned student in my year. I will not stand for this injustice, and know that I will be leading a protest in the student body on this matter, and petitioning the school board and parent council.
The continued oppression of the voices of students has gone on too long. It is time that our voices be heard. We are not all puppets for teachers to mold into perfect clones. We are entitled to have our opinions be worth the same as a teacher’s, and we deserve equality. We will fight to be treated and taught properly, without bias or favouritism, in the way that each student will learn best, and no one can take these rights from us.
I formally refuse to apologize and stand by the statement that I would do it all again given a second chance, and have success this time.
Yours in solidarity,
Enjolras
———————————————————
Combeferre had always been Courfeyrac’s best friend, but his defence had made him his hero. And when Enjolras had gotten in trouble trying to help his friend, well, that made Enjolras a friend too. Which, in turn, was why Courfeyrac had gotten into this particular scrape.
*flashback*
“God, can you believe that freak, Enjoral, or whatever he’s called?” One of the football players had scoffed after practice. “I can’t believe they let fags onto the field now.”
Courfeyrac glowered, and noticed around the same time as the player that Enjolras was, in fact, in the room, putting up some posters for his next protest.
“Hey, fag. Get out of here, I don’t want you ogling me, it’s disgusting. Fucking freak.”
Courfeyrac spun and turned on him furiously. “You know, you’ve got a lot of talk for someone I caught practicing blow jobs on a banana behind the bleachers last month.”
The bully roared, and Courfeyrac dodged the tackle before decking him on the nose with a solid punch,a nd kneeing him in the groin, sending him to the ground. He shook his head and turned around - to see Coach standing in the doorway. He swallowed.
*end flashback*
Courfeyrac glanced at Enjolras, who gave him a small nod in return. He smiled to himself a bit, and started his letter.
Hello,
Apparently punching someone when they called my friend all sorts of names I won’t repeat is wrong. Now, I might be stupid, according to some, but I know one thing for certain. I did nothing wrong.
Okay. Maybe physical violence wasn’t the answer. But he was totally asking for it. I’m not apologizing.
It was apparently wrong because physical violence is not an appropriate way to solve our differences and I also broke his nose and he had to go to the hospital. I disagree. I think it’s all a bully like him would understand. But like I said - you people think I’m stupid so what do I know?
Anyways. I won’t do it again. Unless he does it again. Hopefully a broken nose taught him a lesson.
Courfeyrac
—————————————————————
Bossuet’s reason for being in that room happened pretty much simultaneously to Courfeyrac’s adventure. He’d just finished playing in the football game. They’d won, he was pleased, and maybe a bit distracted as he wandered into the dressing room - to find a surprise.
*flashback*
“Ahhhh!” Several high pitched screeches jolted Bossuet into attention. A quick look around informed him that he was currently in a room filled with girls. Most of whom weren’t wearing shirts… because it was a locker room… and not his. Whoops.
“Sorry, ladies.” He tried not to look, but no matter where his eyes went, there was a half naked girl. He tried to back out as quickly as he could, but the screams had brought the girls’ coach into the room. She didn’t wait for explanations, screeching, “Detention!” in her shrill voice, before hauling him out by his ear.
*end flashback*
It had been an honest mistake. He just had /really bad luck/. But none of that had mattered, and here he was. With a sigh, he picked up his pencil, which promptly broke the tip when he set it to paper. With a now dull pencil, he began to write.
Dear Reader,
I am an unlucky person. This was an honest mistake.
I am in detention because I accidentally wandered into the girl’s locker room after basketball practice. It was an honest mistake. Had I done it on purpose, it would be wrong because ogling girls in the privacy of a female-only space is unfeminist and basically a shitty thing to do. And I would never do it on purpose. I am very sorry and I will never do it again unless my luck gets even worse and I make mistakes, I am human, okay, seriously.
I don’t like writing letters.
Lesgle
———————————————————
Jehan was staring into space, eyes rimmed with a bit of red from the joint that had been so abruptly taken from him. He smiled dreamily. His detention was one that happened rather often, if he was honest,a nd always for the same things.
*flashback*
Finally. Lunch. Jehan escaped the crowds in the halls to find a private piece of grass. He lit the joint he’d kept in his pocket all day and lay down on the grass, watching the clouds. That one looked… huh. It was so beautiful… a gentle shape, morphing into something new as the wind shaped it… so like life. And one day it would end for that cloud. It would grow and change and one day it would be time for it to go. It would end in a blaze of glory, maybe, a thunderstorm with thunder and lightning under its skin, or perhaps a gentle spring rain, watering the flowers, its death bringing forth new life… How poetic, really. And weren’t humans similar, in the end? They grew, and changed, never quite the same person from one minute to the next. And one day the growth would end and they would return to dust, feeding the soil and the plants and giving new life….
Two hours passed, Jehan’s thoughts twisting and turning through the intricacies of life and death and their meanings. When he finally glanced at the time, he realized he’d missed his last two periods. He’d have detention, again. But he could use the time to work on the new poem he’d been thinking of, so he didn’t mind.
*end flashback*
Jehan picked up his favourite pen, and began to write in swirling letters.
What is death?
Nothing but a continuation of life, perhaps,
the end of one
beginning of another
And so what are we, then?
Are we truly no more than the dust,
temporary as the clouds,
with an end decided for us,
ending in the crackle of glistening light
and a roll of sound as we meet our ends
or a whimper as we fall
to feed the life coming up beneath us,
What is death but new life,
As with the clouds?
It was no letter, but he wasn’t really one for letters anyways, and his poetry was more important.
——————————————
Cosette just looked angry. She hadn’t done a damn thing. She didn’t cause trouble. She did her assignments, stayed quiet in class. And to give her detention for something so petty…
*flashback*
“Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, if I may speak with you a moment…”
Cosette followed the professor from the room, expecting a comment on her latest essay, or something. “Yes, professor, what can I do for you?”
“Would you care to remind me of the dress code, young lady?”
What? Oh, for… She stared at the teacher incredulously. “Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing?” Her shirt covered her shoulders, and her midriff, and everything in between. It was a long shirt, and fell halfway to her knees, and her leggings were some of her favourites, comfortable and in excellent shape.
“Your outfit may be distracting to the boys in the class. I’m going to have to ask you to change.”
“I have nothing to change into.” She couldn’t believe this! But she tried to patiently control her temper.
“The you’ll have to go home, I’m afraid. And school policy means I have to give you detention for breaking dress code.”
Cosette scoffed angrily, and grabbed her things from her desk to storm away. Dress code, please.
*end flashback*
Cosette fumed as she remembered, and her pen flew as she wrote her scathing letter.
To those perpetuating rape culture amongst impressionable teens,
Yesterday I wore an outfit none would consider revealing. In fact my skin was covered from neck to ankle. And yet I was sent home.
Consider this - when a middle aged man who is married with two children is looking at me sexually, is it my fault? Am I to blame for being distracting? I think not. This attitude, and the attitude behind a dress code, which is written specifically to limit any who identify as girls, perpetuates a rape culture blaming the victim for the assault they suffer. In no circumstance is the victim to blame, for any crime. By insisting women cover up to allow men to focus, the behavioural issue in young men who believe they have a right to stare and be distracted by an anatomical body part that all people have is encouraged. I have legs. This should come as a shock to no one,a nd if a boy can’t control himself or focus in the presence of them, then maybe it is him who doesn’t belong in a classroom.
I will continue to dress the way I see fit and refuse to be told otherwise. I am unapologetic in my own sense of self-worth and will not be diminished or controlled for the sake of a boy. If you can teach a dog no, you can teach the same to a human male.
Thank you for your consideration,
Cosette Fauchelevent
———————————————————————
Feuilly glanced at the clock and sighed to himself. What was he supposed to do? He was in his final year of high school, and he was determined to one day do better for himself than he was now. He didn’t get money from a rich but distant father, like the other boys in his group home. No, he had no family that he knew of, and he had to make his own way. And he was going to graduate and go to college but that meant earning money now. So he’d picked up some shifts at work for someone who needed time off, and it had meant skipping class to get there on time.
*flashback*
If he wanted to make it to work on time, he had to leave now. He grabbed his bag and slipped out of class noiselessly. He’d perfected the art of blending in, going unnoticed.
Work went smoothly enough, as always, and when he returned home, he had the expected messages waiting. He had detention for being marked absent from two classes that afternoon. With a sigh, he thought of his pay check, the money he was making, and made a note of the times. At least none of his detentions were during a shift.
*end flashback*
Feuilly set pen to paper, thinking as he wrote.
To my Latin and Math professors,
I am in detention because I skipped class. I hope you understand that I had an important reason for doing so. I was offered a shift at work and while I know grades are the most important thing, without money I cannot attend college no matter what my grades are. Skipping class, however good my reasons were, was still inappropriate and disrespectful to yourselves, and I will strive to catch up and excel regardless.
Your pupil,
Feuilly
———————————————————
Okay, maybe Bahorel had been asking for it, he admitted to himself. He should have been more subtle when arranging the fight club meeting, and fliers were perhaps not in the best of taste. He didn’t know who had reported it, of course, but it hardly mattered. The club would meet, with or without him. And maybe he could use a week off.
*flashback*
Bahorel strolled down the hallway with his fliers. Fight Club, he’d written in large letters over the top of it. It consisted of a list of places and times where the club could be found, and he pinned them up to every board with a smug grin. The locations were, of course, coded, but anyone who had been before would know how to read it. He was quite pleased - it would bring more people out, he was sure of it. He hung his last flier, and looked on it proudly, before looking past the board and seeing the head of the math department looking on disapprovingly before he was hauled to the principal’s office.
*end flashback*
He supposed he was lucky not to be expelled, really, but still, the detention was an inconvenience. There was a meeting tonight, and he should be there. With a shake of his head, he steadfastly ignored the paper he was meant to write - english wasn’t one of his strongest suits and he wasn’t a fan of letters.
————————————————————
Joly frowned. He was sick! Even if the doctors refused to see it and he had to fake his own notes, he knew enough about medicine to know he was sick and shouldn’t be in school. Of course, no one believed him, and he’d been read the riot act about how forging doctor’s notes was a criminal offence.
*flashback*
“This is a crime, young man. These notes should be turned over to the doctor in question, who may or may no choose to press charges. If he did, you would be convicted of forgery, and could end up in jail. You’re 18, so it will go on permanent record. Were a few days off worth it, young man?”
He fumed. “I was sick,” he protested. “The doctor didn’t see it, said I was imagining it, but I was definitely sick! And I couldn’t go to school like that, what if I caught something that made it worse, or gave it to someone else?”
*end flashback*
No amount of protestation had helped, and he’d been given a set of detentions for all 17 forged notes. The doctor had, mercifully, not pressed charges, but the detentions were a problem, as far as he was concerned. And not fair.
M. Doctor,
I am sincerely sorry for falsifying your signature. However, I was truly ill and could not obtain the documentation from you, and I didn’t want to infect anyone else, so I do not regret my actions. I did what had to be done, and as a physician, I am sure you understand the desire to keep others healthy.
I will not do it again because if I go to prison I know I won’t be able to maintain my health, but when I am a doctor I will give out better notes to people who need them.
Yours,
Joly
—————————————————————
Grantaire had no intention of writing the letter. He hadn’t even really intended to come to detention, but he was a fly on every wall, and hearing which students were going to be in detention today, well. It would be an interesting room to be in, that much was certain. And, though he would never admit his motivations, Enjolras was there, and where Enjolras was, Grantaire wanted to be. His not-so-secret infatuation was going to be the death of him, he thought with a sigh.
Grantaire didn’t have a story, so to speak. Not one event. But several little things had accumulated into a detention, once someone had noticed.
He hadn’t turned in a single assignment. Not a project, not the homework. He hadn’t done a thing. He turned up to class, sat in the back, and did absolutely nothing - and no one noticed. He took pride in that, really. He was always dismissed as a hopeless case. He’d never amount to anything, he had no motivation. Maybe they were right. But no one noticed when he handed nothing in because his marks were still shockingly high. He aced every test, and got perfect on every exam. And it had taken all semester for anyone to notice he wasn’t handing anything in. So here he was, with every teacher demanding he complete the assignments and submit them before the end of the semester,a nd here he was with no intention of doing any of it. He just kicked back and waited for the others to finish writing so the fun could start.
—————————————————————————
The last two students were there for the same reasons. Eponine and Musichetta, trouble makers extraordinaire. They should have been expelled years ago, most teachers concurred, but somehow there was never enough evidence to give them more than a handful of detentions.
*flashback*
“Have you got them?” Eponine asked in a whisper.
“Right here.” Musichetta held a fistful of scantrons. “All the final exams. I copied out the answers.” She stuffed them back in her bag, mask over her face from breaking into the scantron office.
“Excellent.” Eponine smirked. She immediately went to her computer, opening up the discreet chatroom. A few lines of writing, conversation back and forth, and she watched money be uploaded into the account they had made together. In return, she typed up the answers to Musichetta had found. It was a prosperous business, everyone wanted these answers - and some were wiling to pay a lot for them.
Until they found out that one of the students was actually a teacher in disguise.
*end flashback*
No one could prove anything, when the time came. Ep and Chetta had broken a few school rules when they were investigated, but no one could prove, with the chat room deleted, that the pair of them had stolen anything. And here they were in detention, a few grand richer and smugger.
-------------------------------------------
This detention marked the occasion of the first time all of the above students met together. Prof. Valjean knew the school would never be the same again.