the teacher cleared his throat dramatically at the front of the classroom, adjusting his slim-fit blazer as if it were a cape befitting royalty. The bell had rung five minutes earlier, but he'd spent the time fussing with his laptop, projecting a slideshow of his own headshot onto the whiteboard, a posed photo of him in a tweed jacket, leaning against a stone pillar that screamed "Oxford quad."
The class had settled into their seats, murmurs dying down as they waited for the new teacher to begin. Kota, already slumped in his back-row desk by the window, had tuned out the delay, his head dropping forward as exhaustion from last night caught up. The ritual, the endless phases, the drain it all blurred into a heavy fog that made his eyelids impossible to keep open. He'd drifted off without realizing, chin resting on his folded arms, binder open to a blank page.
Finally, Sebastian launched into his introduction, voice dripping with that posh, clipped accent that made every word sound like it had been polished at a finishing school.
"Good morning, class. Or should I say, future scholars? Allow me to introduce myself properly, as I believe first impressions are the cornerstone of any meaningful intellectual exchange. I am Sebastian Rupert yes, the Sebastian Rupert who graduated summa cum laude (Which means with highest honor) from Oxford at the tender age of twenty one, though my friends there—my dear, dear chums from the debating society and the rowing club—call me Bash. But only them, you see. Only those who've earned the privilege through shared late-night discourses on Kant or rowing victories on the Isis. And let me be clear: I will only be your friend if you are at least half as smart as I am, which, by my calculations, requires a minimum GPA of 3.9 to even look at me as equals. Anything less? Well, darling, that's just not sufficient for the caliber of companionship I cultivate. At twenty-three, I've already lectured at symposiums in Cambridge yes, the real Cambridge—and consulted on curriculum for elite prep schools across the pond. I've published three essays in peer-reviewed journals before most of you could legally drink though, of course, I abstained from such frivolities to focus on my studies."
Kota hated this pretentious fucker already. The voice alone grated high-pitched in that affected way, every syllable stretched for emphasis, like he was performing for an invisible audience of admirers. It was like if Theo had been stripped of everything hot about him, the quiet confidence, the genuine kindness, the way he made you feel seen without trying, and turned into a total jackass. Theo, with his flustered whining and hidden sweetness, was worlds away from this self-absorbed twink who probably spent more time on his hair than on actual teaching. Whatever. Kota's eyes had already drifted shut again, head pillowed on his arms. He was guaranteed a pass anyway Theo's influence saw to that so it was about time to snooze. The exhaustion from last night pulled him under like quicksand, the teacher's voice fading into white noise.
Sebastian continued yapping, oblivious or uncaring about the class's varying levels of attention. Some students leaned forward, nodding eagerly, easy to impress in a school where most subs just played videos or handed out worksheets. Others exchanged eye rolls, whispering behind hands. But Sebastian plowed on, gesturing grandly to his slideshow, which now displayed a timeline of his "achievements." "You see, I entered Oxford at seventeen, seventeen, darlings! While most lads my age were fumbling through A-levels or chasing skirts, I was debating epistemology with professors twice my age. The entrance exam? A mere formality for a mind like mine. I breezed through with distinctions in every subject, naturally. And let's not forget the scholarships—full ride, of course, because brilliance like mine doesn't go unnoticed. I was the youngest in my cohort, yet I graduated top of the class, my thesis on postmodern narrative structures hailed as revolutionary by the examiners. Revolutionary! Can you imagine? At twenty-one, I was already consulting for literary journals, my insights shaping the discourse on contemporary fiction. And now, at twenty-three, I've graced this humble institution with my presence to mold your malleable young minds. It's an honor for you, truly—though I must say, the commute from my uptown loft is a tad pedestrian, but sacrifices must be made for the greater good of education."
Kota remained unimpressed, even in his half-asleep state. The bragging washed over him like elevator music. Theo had entered Harvard at fifteen—fifteen!—then Oxford at eighteen, with masters in English and math by twenty-one. And Theo didn't yap about it like this guy; he just did it, quietly, with that flustered charm that made you root for him. Sebastian, on the other hand, sounded like he'd swallowed a thesaurus and chased it with privilege pills.
The greatness monologue dragged on, Sebastian pacing the front of the room like a peacock, hands waving for emphasis, his slim frame accentuated by the fitted blazer and trousers that screamed "I summer in the Cotswolds."
Eventually, the intro wrapped after what felt like an eternity of self glazinf, and Sebastian pivoted to the day's lesson. "Today, we'll dive into the art of the personal essay, a form I mastered during my Oxford tutorials. Your assignment: compose a 500-word piece on your favorite teacher. And, in a gesture of unparalleled generosity, if you select me as your subject, you'll automatically receive a ninety-nine percent. Yes, you heard correctly near perfection, just like my own academic record. The rest? Well, earn it through merit, as I did."
The other students cheered scattered whoops and claps, fists pumping in the air. Easy grade. No one wanted to slog through an essay on some boring old sub when they could slap together 500 words of ass-kissing and call it done. Pencils scratched immediately, laptops opening with clicks. Sebastian basked in it, chin lifted like he'd just won a Nobel.
But then his sharp eyes landed on Kota, head down, soft snores barely audible over the scribbling. "You," Sebastian called, voice slicing through the room like a whip. "What's your name?"
Kota woke with a start, head jerking up, binder page stuck to his cheek for a second before he peeled it off. Confusion washed over him—what was going on? The class? The new teacher? His brain lagged, still foggy from the ritual hangover. "Uhh… Kota."
Sebastian lit up like someone had flipped his ego switch to overdrive. "OH, THE GENIUS! I saw your grades in the faculty lounge flawless, a 4.0! Even I passed with a 3.9, though that was merely due to a pedantic examiner quibbling over a footnote in my thesis. But you! A prodigy in this humble establishment. Remarkable. Truly, it's individuals like you who remind me why I deigned to teach here to nurture the rare sparks of brilliance amid the mediocrity."
The class murmured, eyes flicking to Kota some jealous, some curious. Sebastian made it all about himself, pacing closer to Kota's desk with a flourish. "You now have my permission to ask me to be your friend. An honor, truly, for anyone. At Oxford, my circle was exclusive—only those with GPAs rivaling mine, or at least pedigrees from Eton or Harrow. But you? You've earned a chance. Imagine the discourses we could have, over tea, perhaps, discussing Derrida or dissecting Joyce. The privilege! The elevation!"
Kota stared, unimpressed. The pretentious fucker was still yapping, but the words blurred into noise. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take before his head hit the desk again. The class watched, waiting for his response.