Dr. Z strode confidently into the classroom and underhanded a stack of paper in a long arc, generally toward the vicinity of his desk. The stack landed with a SLAP that reverberated through the room, and momentum set it sliding crazily across the polished wood until it reached the edge where, barely, it resisted pitching over the side. Such was the daily entrance of the esteemed English Teacher. He barged in. The stack slid. It, somehow, failed to scatter into a haphazard mess on the floor. Like Clockwork.
Though his title was actually: Mr. Zibowitz, everyone from the his students, to the janitor, and the principal himself, called him Dr. Z. Never one to dilly-dally, he immediately turned around, snatched a shard of white chalk the length of a pencil eraser, and attacked the chalkboard, sending a series of screechy taks resounding through the silence. Not once in his career did he bother with the tired practice of rollcall. It wasted his time, belittled his students, and solved no problems. His class, though, entertained while it informed, so nobody skipped anyway, and anyone unlucky enough to take ill, begged a friend to bring lecture notes and homework. Such was the respect teenagers held for his style and wit, a shining testament to his insight.
On the board, one word stood in stark contrast, underlined with a fading squiggle: Latin. English class or not, only Kyle gawked at the day's subject; the other pupils knew Z, his tack infamous and reliably relevant. He wore a wide smile that spanned his entire face. "Alright!" he began, exuberant. "Who here knows Latin?"
That was certainly new. Not one hand, of course, rose even timidly. The silent message, we don't know Latin. Still smiling—a wicked and sly look beyond measure—Dr. Z whipped his arm into the sky, possibly hoping to inspire a response. Still nothing. Undaunted, hand still waving, "Come how, don't be shy. I know for a fact a handful of you knows at least a word or two of Latin; possibly even a whole phrase!" he bellowed.
The class rippled and examined itself, unsure who That Person might be. No candidate presented herself, no boy or girl volunteered to be the sacrificial farm animal in some doubtlessly convoluted jest Dr. Z planned. Kyle looked at Jason Manny, Jason shrugged his shoulders and turned in his desk, silently inquiring if maybe Sam Zerbinski knew. Zerb didn't know. Neither did Karen, nor Lorelei, or anyone else facing mildly accusative eyes in the temporary ruffling tumult.
"Maybe I should rephrase that," Dr. Z said. "Who here is Catholic?" His eyes scanned the room anew, a glint of mischief shone brightly there. As he expected, uncertain hands reached up, the owner of each befuddled, but apparently Catholic. Still no sign of suspicion at his true purpose, just a wide assumption participating was an open invitation to the conspiracy.
"Oh, don't worry. I'm not going to yammer on about religion; this isn't church," somehow managing to pronounce the semicolon as only an English teacher could. "But I've got a word you folk will recognize." Nothing. "Deus," he finally said.
Oh... that Latin. A tide of recognition washed across the faces of the teens. More than a few grimaced at the newly obvious ploy. "Yes!" he shouted. "Deus. God. Now that you're on to me, how many of you really know Latin?" He had them then. They knew Latin! It was magic, as if they learned it from him and not church, bored out of their minds while the priest droned and babbled fluently in indecipherable gobbledegook. This was fun!
"Now that I have your attention," he began, "I'd like to run a choice phrase past you, since you're all probably wondering what Latin has to do with English. More than you'd realize, but that's a lecture for another day." He paused to catch his breath and sip from a nearby glass of water; teaching was thirsty work indeed!
"Deus Ex Machina," he said. Another sip. "You've probably heard the phrase before, maybe some of you even think you know what it means, after consulting an encyclopedia or asking an especially studious parent. But I'm here to tell you what it really means!" he declared, turning a single eye upon them for emphasis.
Kyle, despite himself, leaned over in his desk in rapt attention, impossibly looking forward to a lecture for the first time in memory. This was Kyle's fifth day in English at Lincoln Way, and he already knew Dr. Z was accomplished and thoroughly competent, but today the man exuded inspiration so strongly, everyone caught themselves trapped in the current.