Run by Michaelbrent Collings Page B

serious. 
    "Sounds funny, doesn’t it?  But maybe that’s right.  Isn’t it just possible that a five-year old, someone whose own sense of reality isn’t fully shaped yet, could confuse real life with a game?  When you can’t tell the difference between the people next door and the people on your video game, is there a difference?  Are the people in the machines more real to some of us than the people in the supermarket?"
    The class quieted.  John smiled to himself again.  He could see that some of them - most of them - didn’t think his statement was correct.  But that was all right.  They were at least thinking about it, instead of just absorbing every single word he said without trying to make sense of it for themselves.  "Kids today are all supermodels," he had told Mertyl once.  "If they aren’t physically bingeing and purging, they’re doing it intellectually, swallowing everything that you give them and then puking it back at you at exams and hoping it doesn’t leave a bad taste in their mouths.  I want to be someone who teaches them how to eat a good, balanced meal that will actually help them in some way."
    Now, the class looked like it was preparing to tuck into a feast.  The first words were confrontational.  A small African-American boy named Jonas spoke up without raising his hand, his high-pitched voice lowered as he tried to speak forcefully.  "You gonna spread that line about how TV and video games are the reason kids are shooting each other in L.A.?"
    "Maybe."  See what they did with that.
    "That’s crap, Mr. Task.  You can’t tell me that some kid plays Metal Gear and then goes out and shoots his best buddy ‘cause the game made him do it."
    "You think it’s crap?"
    Jonas nodded.  Standing up to the authority figure.  That was all right with John.  They were welcome to hold their own positions.  He enjoyed it when they did, in fact, as long as they didn’t stomp on anybody in order to stomp on that person’s argument.
    The class waited to see what John would reply.  He didn’t say anything, though, because at that moment the classroom door opened. 
    And she walked in.
    John almost lost his breath.  It caught in his throat, trapped there, and for a frightening moment John worried he’d forgotten how to breathe at all. 
    He didn’t know why the girl affected him like that.  His love for the children in his class was completely on the level of teacher to student, of an older brother who ached to show them the way through life.  So why he should have this strong physical reaction to the girl who stepped into the class was beyond him.  It was strange; baffling. 
    More than that, it was...what? 
    It was recognition. 
    There was something familiar in her face, something about her bone structure.  Something about her cast aside the gloom that shrouded John’s past, and for a split second he thought he could remember.  A bolt of lightning seemed to flash through him, burning out his insides and leaving behind cold ash that sent shivers up and down his skin.  Then the moment passed and the gloom once again drew itself over his memory.
    At last, his mouth remembered its job.  "May I help you?" he asked.
    The girl held out a yellow slip of paper.  After a moment of serious deliberation he was able to move his feet and walked toward her.  Further control returned as he approached her, and in the few feet between them, he was able to convince himself that there was nothing special about the girl in the doorway.  But only on the surface.  Beneath his conscious thought, he knew he was telling himself lies, and knew that she was important. 
    The paper she held was a transfer permission slip.  She was a new student.  But usually new students came with a week or two’s warning.  John looked around, stalling while he simultaneously tried to figure out what to do with her and what to do to gather his shell-shocked wits about him.
    The answer presented itself in the