Chapter 119: Diverging Paths

Human lifespans are all too brief, yet the civilizations they forge are vast by comparison. It is hard to imagine that this world is governed by such fragile existences. Our civilization has not been extinguished or broken by death; those sparks, carrying thousands of years of history, are passed into the far reaches of the long night because there is a profession that exists precisely for this inheritance.

Ophelia Hill, a twenty-four-year-old woman, was in the prime of her life, like a wine that had just finished breathing. Last month, she had earned her teaching credentials and successfully passed the interview for a substitute teaching position at Brampton Manor High School. If nothing went wrong, she was well on her way to her own personal summit of success.

"Miss Ophelia, since your resume indicates that you have no prior teaching experience, I must remind you one last time: children are not all innocent. They can possess pure malice, and all of this may be the trial you are about to face."

"Mr. Scott, I believe I will be a qualified teacher until Mr. Pervis returns."

"Let us hope so."

Ophelia gently pulled the door of the vice-principal's office shut. Only when she confirmed the corridor was empty did she cover her mouth and take a deep breath. This was her first real job since graduation—a teacher, a teacher of French literature. Although she was only a substitute for now, it did nothing to dampen the joy in her heart.

She looked out the window; the breeze was gentle under the bright, warm sunshine. She looked down at the vibrant children on the playground. Though they were only high schoolers, they looked no different from their parents' generation.

They would grow up to be diligent workers, responsible citizens, and kind-hearted strangers. This is the next generation of this country, Ophelia thought, and I am their teacher. She smiled as she walked toward the school exit.

A man leaning against the chain-link fence caught her attention. He was in his forties, his hair as sparse as most men his age. He looked as if he were enduring something, or perhaps waiting for something. Ophelia hesitated for a moment, then walked over.

"Excuse me, do you need any help?"

To her surprise, the bald man looked up, his expression one of disbelief, as if he had just discovered a new world.

"You can see me? You can see that I am here?"

Ophelia felt a flicker of fear and stepped back. Before she could react further, the bell for class rang. The bald man lowered his head and headed toward the classroom. Only then did Ophelia notice the folder tucked under his arm. Even after he entered the classroom, the students inside did not stop their commotion.

Ophelia understood. He was a teacher the children did not like, which was why they ignored him. Children were like that; they did not care about the consequences of their actions. They only wanted amusement.

Ophelia sighed and left the school. She decided to have dinner at a restaurant; there were times when one didn't have to get by on cheap sandwiches. These small rituals had sustained her throughout her work-study years in college.

It was a short yet long night. Ophelia didn't sleep at all. She spent three hours just deciding what to wear to meet her students the next day. Even when the alarm went off, she changed her mind at the last minute, opting for a black coat that, while not quite age-appropriate, felt more solemn.

Compared to the yawning students, the rosy-cheeked Ophelia was full of spirit. She paced the corridor, contemplating how to deliver her first lesson.

Time, however, is an arrow shot from a bow; it only moves forward, never leaving enough time behind. The preparatory bell rang, and Ophelia adjusted her attire once more before marching forward, as unstoppable as Alexander the Great on his eastern campaign.

"Hello everyone, my name is Ophelia Lester. Because your previous French literature teacher, Mr. Pervis, is on leave, I will be teaching you in his stead." Ophelia turned to write her name on the blackboard, but before she could finish, a voice jumped out from the back of the classroom.

"Miss Ophelia, since you are qualified to be a French literature teacher, which teacher in this school are you the mistress of?"

Ophelia turned. A black boy wearing a colorful baseball cap was chewing gum in the back row, looking at her with a provocative expression.

*Damn it,* she thought, the rebellious kids from minority groups were always the hardest to deal with.

"What is your name?" Ophelia tried to maintain her smile, appearing as if she didn't care at all. She recalled the advice a professor had once given her: never show that you are bothered by their rude remarks, because once these children realize that words can affect you, you will spend every class listening to them rap.

"Roy Garcia." The boy stood up, looking at her with a sour expression.

"Roy, if one had to be a mistress to teach French literature, then Mr. Pervis would likely have struggled to pass the school's interview."

Laughter erupted in the classroom. Ophelia continued, "I was a bit worried that you all might not know much about France, but Roy's performance gives me great confidence in you. By the way, please sit down. Since you already know the concept of a 'French mistress,' then French literature shouldn't be too difficult for you. I will hand out a piece of paper to each of you. You can write anything you can think of regarding France—even if it's not literature, that's fine. Anything at all."

"Anything at all?" the boy named Roy spoke up again.

"Roy, I'm glad to see such enthusiasm, though it would be even better if you raised your hand before speaking next time. Yes, anything at all." Ophelia nodded.

Ten minutes later, Ophelia went through the papers she had collected. As expected, they were filled with mentions of Napoleon and his mistresses, or the pizza shop run by a Frenchman on the corner. The last sheet was unsigned and contained a deeply misogynistic remark. Although Ophelia felt a wave of nausea, she chose to ignore it.

"According to the curriculum left by Mr. Pervis, this week we will cover the two earliest schools of French poetry, which serve as the link between the Middle Ages and the Renaissance: the Rhétoriqueurs and the Lyon School."

Unsurprisingly, the first half of the class barely maintained basic order, but by the second half, most of the students had started chatting.

When the bell rang, Ophelia had to dismiss the class in a rush. It wasn't until the last student had left that she truly understood what the vice-principal had meant the day before. These children had been invisibly abandoned; they were not the sort to boost college enrollment rates, and they remained in school simply because of the regulations of the Board of Education.

Ophelia tried hard to make her lessons vivid and interesting, but these students only cared about which forward on the school football team had slept with whom, or who had been caught by the principal smoking marijuana in the bathroom. They were blind and foolish, caring nothing for their future or themselves. Ophelia had asked them more than once what they wanted to be in the future; the most visionary answer she had received was to become a restaurant cook.