by Cassandra O’Sullivan Sachar

            “Now, Drake, I want you to be on your best behavior this time. It’s your last chance,” Mrs. Anderson told her son before he climbed out of the old station wagon.

            “Whatever, Mom, just be here on time to pick me up,” Drake muttered in return. He grabbed his nearly-empty backpack, freshly purchased by his mother for his new school.

            Mrs. Anderson waved goodbye as her teenaged son shuffled into the building. A large, concrete structure almost glistening in the moonlight, it looked almost like a prison, she couldn’t help noticing. Of course, that was exactly where Drake was headed if he didn’t clean up his act. Expelled from every public school in the area and rejected by the private schools, Drake Anderson was every teacher’s worst nightmare, a fact that shamed his mother.

            She had hoped and prayed for a son; she really had. Little did she know that, despite loving him as much as a mother could, her sweet, chubby baby would grow into a foul-mouthed, disrespectful juvenile delinquent. She and Drake’s father had tried everything, but even Mr. Anderson had given up on his son, packing up his belongings and disappearing one Friday afternoon several years before. Mrs. Anderson and Drake had come home from the principal’s office to find nothing but a brief note: “I can’t handle the boy anymore. Sorry.”  

            Poor Mrs. Anderson became even more devoted to nurturing her son, thinking she must be at fault for his behavior. In addition to her full-time job at the day care center, she started picking up shifts at the grocery store to pay for parenting classes, searching for ideas on how to reform her son. But nothing worked.

            Day after day, Mrs. Anderson received complaints about Drake’s behavior. The teachers called and told her about the foul language, name calling, spit ball throwing, and bullying. The neighbors came over, yelling, demanding she repay them for broken windows and torn-up flower beds. Even the police had called on a few occasions with warnings; Drake had been caught throwing rocks at children on a play ground.

            No matter what, Mrs. Anderson held out hope that it was all a phase. Her fifteen-year-old son would one day become a contributing member of society. She just had to wait it out; she was sure of it.

            But when Pike High School called her in for a conference, she knew Drake was in hot water. Mr. Hamilton, a slight, graying man with a cold voice, calmly explained that, according to the student code of conduct and a vote from the school board, Drake was expelled once again. His vicious threats to a teacher could not be ignored: He was done.

            “There’s nowhere else for him to go,” Mrs. Anderson had managed, twisting the handle of her purse as she attempted to keep her tears at bay. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know what to do.”

            Something in Mr. Hamilton’s demeanor lightened. Perhaps he pitied this woman who had to raise such an abominable young man. Maybe he understood that she really was trying her best at parenting. It’s possible that Drake simply was a bad seed. “There is one place that will still take him,” he said. He reached into a drawer on his desk and pulled out a glossy pamphlet.

            After hesitating, Mrs. Anderson reached out her hand and took it. “Jackson Hill Night School? Is this a high school?”

            “I only recommend certain students for this program,” Mr. Hamilton said in his serious, deep voice, “students like your son. Mostly, the students who attend that school have been, uh, unsuccessful in traditional school settings. Jackson Hill has quite a way of straightening students out.” He smiled to himself, thinking about some of his former difficult students and the radical changes that had taken place in them after even a short stint at Jackson Hill.

            “Um, like a military school? A boot camp?” Mrs. Anderson asked, unsure. She had been through the process of switching schools so many times before, only to have her hopes crushed again and again. Drake wouldn’t behave anywhere.

            “I wouldn’t say that. But I think you should give it a try. It just might work.”

***

            Drake Anderson walked into the cool, dark building. It seemed deserted; where were the other students? 

            “What kind of stupid high school takes place only at night?” he mumbled. He had been told by his mother that one of the school’s guiding principles was that students had less aggressive tendencies in the evening, making learning more likely to occur. Whatever, Drake thought. He didn’t remember hearing anything like that in biology class. Oh, right, he probably hadn’t been paying attention.

            “Drake Anderson,” a woman’s voice stated. He looked up to see himself staring directly into the eyes of a glamorous woman. Tall, thin, and wearing a black tailored suit, she looked like a model, not like one of the dumpy, potato-bodied teachers he was used to. He must have been so distracted that he didn’t even hear her walk up to him.

            “Yeah, that’s me. What do you care?” Though she was extremely beautiful, even this wasn’t enough to elicit a polite response from Drake.

            “I wasn’t asking,” she said in her light accent, one he couldn’t place. Eastern European, maybe? Her red lips curled into a small smile that didn’t reach her cold, gray eyes. “My name is Dr. Kozak. I am the principal here at Jackson Hill, a school where we do not allow disrespect. You will learn to behave. It is our way.”

            Drake opened his mouth, about to begin one of his usual profanity-laced tirades. In the past, such sentiments would have no effect on him whatsoever—no stupid principal would scare him. Somehow, though, he couldn’t form any words, his mind was  blank of insults and his tongue thick and sluggish in his mouth. He stared, transfixed, at her pale skin and her straight, dark hair.

            Dr. Kozak seemed unfazed by Drake’s lack of communication. She grabbed his arm by the elbow—not roughly, but not gently either—and led him down the hall. Drake’s shoes made dull thuds on the tile, yet Dr. Kozak seemed to glide, soundless.

“Here is your first class of the evening: English, with Mr. Luca. I shall leave you here and highly recommend that you do everything he says.” With that, she left.

            One foot plodding in front of the other, Drake practically stumbled into the classroom. He didn’t understand what his problem was; nothing fazed him, let alone some stupid lady principal. Pausing at the doorway, his gaze swallowed the view. At first, it seemed like most of the rooms in the various high schools he had attended: cinder block walls, a whiteboard in the front of the room, a teacher’s desk, and about twenty student desks. Something was off, though.

            “Ah, Mr. Anderson. We’ve been expecting you,” a man’s deep voice drawled.

            Drake found himself looking up into two black pools, the eyes of Mr. Luca. Not knowing what to do, he grunted to indicate that, indeed, he was the person who was expected.

            “I can tell we must work on sharpening your articulation skills,” the teacher said. “We have reserved a seat for you, here in the front. All of the new students must sit in the front.”

              Drake plopped down into the chair, his face burning. He felt embarrassed, but he didn’t understand why. What was it with these people? He had gone to new schools so many times before, and he had never felt intimidated by anyone. He stole a quick glimpse to the side to see the other students, his new classmates. What were they thinking about him? Not that he cared, of course.

            Drake had never had any real friends. Whenever someone tried to strike up a friendly conversation, he would lash out and drive them away. But he had always been noticed. Now, as he looked left and right, he saw the two boys, stone still with their eyes staring straight ahead, like Drake didn’t even exist.

            It was only then that he noticed what was different in the classroom: It was completely quiet. No one was laughing or having a conversation with a friend; no one was tapping his pencil; no one was popping gum. No one was moving at all, except for their slow, steady breathing. Drake contemplated his new teacher, trying to understand what kind of control this thin, tall, pale man had over them. Most teachers he knew acted like they wanted to be the students’ friends and just fawned all over them with their sappy, overdramatic caring. This dude was not that type of teacher.

            “A question, Mr. Anderson?” Mr. Luca snapped at him.

            Drake shook his head. He never listened to teachers; what was wrong with him?

            “Well, then, class, you have met our new student. Now please get out your novels.”

            Obediently, nineteen pairs of hands reached into nineteen backpacks and extracted nineteen books. The only noise was the brief shuffling and the small tap on the desk as each book found its mark.

            Only Drake failed to produce the novel. He knew his mother had purchased everything he needed, but he didn’t care about going to this lame new school and what stupid supplies he needed. Now he wished he had packed his bag with more care.

            “Turn to page 59, where we left off,” Mr. Luca stated. He surveyed his students for compliance, his black eyes settling upon Drake. “Problem, Mr. Anderson? Already?” The teacher’s voice was ice cold.

            Drake cleared his throat. “I, uh, forgot my book.” He couldn’t understand why he felt so small, so insignificant.

            “Then we do indeed have a problem. We simply don’t tolerate any type of misbehavior. And it’s one of my favorites we’re analyzing, you see. Bram Stoker’s classic, Dracula.” Mr. Luca smiled, showing two rows of perfectly straight, white teeth.

            Drake’s blood ran cold in his veins as his teacher’s fangs emerged from that eerie grin.

***

            Several hours later, Mrs. Anderson watched her son hurrying to the car. Anxious to find out how everything had gone, she vowed not to ask any upsetting questions. “Hello, Drake,” she said as he got in, bracing herself for his inevitable cruelty.

            “Hi, Mom,” he replied. “Thanks for getting here on time. I appreciate it. I have some reading to complete tonight to be ready for school tomorrow.”

            Mrs. Anderson’s mouth dropped open in shock. Had Drake ever greeted her politely before, and had he ever talked about doing homework? Ever? Those teachers at Jackson Hill certainly had a way with troubled students.

            Indeed, they did.