I thought it was a prank, so I played along at first.
“I don’t bite,” I told them. “You can sit here.” I pointed to the empty desk dead center and at the front of the class, directly in front of my desk.
They - my first class as a certified teacher - all stared.
“Miss,” said Beth, a big girl, shy and anxious, “Roy is sitting there.”
I chuckled. They looked confused. Sweat gathered in the small of my back.
“Okay, then.” I began the lesson. When it came time to hand out a worksheet, Beth raised her hand again.
“Miss, you forgot Roy.” She deflated in response to my darkened expression.
I dropped the remaining pile of assignments on my desk. It wasn’t as loud as I thought it would be. “I’ve already lost patience with this game. Beth, see me after class.”
Work began, and many glanced toward the empty desk with worried faces. Progress was very slow. A few had put down their pencils. This work was easy. I didn’t understand.
“What is the problem, folks?”
I looked to Beth, but I’d effectively destroyed that relationship before it began.
Another girl, Savannah, more confident, rebellious even, jutted out her chin before she spoke. “How can you just ignore someone?”
“What?”
She pointed at the empty desk. “He’s been sitting there and, like, just looking sad this whole time, and you’re okay with that? Seriously.” Defiant, she waited for my response.
“As I stated earlier,” I said, calmly, firmly, “I’ve had enough shenanigans.” Before Savannah could speak, I pointed toward the exit. “Get out. Principal’s office. Now.”
The girl swore under her breath as she collected her things and left. I paged the office and told them the girl was on her way for disrespect. None of the other kids would meet my eye.
I sat at my desk and waved my hand at them dismissively. “Finish your work.” This was going to be a difficult class. It was my first, however, so maybe that was to be expected.
As I gradually rallied my spirits and gathered my composure, the vice-principal appeared in the classroom doorway, beckoning me toward the hallway with his finger. He didn’t look happy.
When I stepped out, Savannah was there, arms crossed; she’d been crying.
“Savannah says you’re intentionally ignoring a student in your class,” the VP stated.
I shook my head. “Sure,” I said, trying to keep the situation light, “I’ll show you.” I backed into the classroom and pointed to the empty desk. “There he is.”
The VP’s eyes narrowed as he took in the sight. “Go back to your desk, Savannah.” I was invited into the hallway for a more private chat. “I know you’re new,” he said, “and maybe this is some modern technique out of teacher’s college I don’t know about yet, but at Buchner Collegiate, we address all students, and make everyone feel like they’re worth our time and consideration.”
I was confused and thought he hadn’t understood. “Of course. I would never -“
“Good,” he said. Like so many principals, he ended the conversation abruptly and walked off, some kind of short man’s flex over someone perceived as lesser. It was only my first day, but I decided I did not like this VP.
Frustrated, I returned to class and dropped an assignment on Roy’s desk.”
“There ya go, Roy,” I said, emphasizing the last word. The period ended, and the next group came in. Once again, the desk at the front remained empty. I didn’t say anything and went ahead with the lesson.
A hand went up slowly after I handed out another assignment.
“Yes?”
“You missed someone,” the boy said.
I sighed. “Let me guess. Roy?” I gestured with the pile of papers to the empty desk. The kid looked to his colleagues for support before reluctantly nodding. Again, I dropped a worksheet on the empty desk, on top of the first one from the previous period. “There we go. All better?” I didn’t wait for an answer before moving on.
The next class, after lunch, and the desk remained vacant. I beat them to the punchline and made sure “Roy” got a copy of the assignment, and nobody objected. At last, I thought the ordeal had ended.
Then I was paged to the office. The VP and the principal were waiting at a round table. They wanted to discuss my student.
“Roy Vine,” the VP said. “Students have been coming all day to say you’ve been mistreating him, neglecting him.”
“What? That’s ridiculous.”
The principal lifted her finger. “All students need our attention, compassion, and understanding.” She folded her hands and glanced around like a disappointed parent.
I was the kid in this scenario. “Roy doesn’t exist,” I told them. “It’s some kind of prank. There’s just an empty desk where he supposedly sits. And I didn’t neglect him. I put assignments out for him all day, just to try and end the joke. I’ll show you.”
Reluctantly, they agreed to go with me to my classroom. The assignments were still there with one major difference: All of them were completed. All of them were signed by Roy.
My classroom had been locked. No one had been in or out. I begged them to let me see the footage, and it only confirmed this fact. The most damaging information against me and my sanity, however, came in the form of a file containing Roy’s personal information.
On paper, he exists. There’s no photo and no birth date provided, but there is a phone number.
I called it after my disastrous meeting and admonishment with the admin. There’s only static on the other end, static and a distant voice I strain to hear, speaking words of evil, detailed descriptions of horrific mutilation on people and animals, read like a grocery list.
Sometimes, it’s just names. Names of students who would later die in the same car crash. One went missing.
It’s all very tragic, I’m assured by colleagues and admin, but nothing more.
Pretty sure I lost my mind after that. Kept my job though. Fun fact: You can still be a teacher without sanity. It might even be encouraged.
No one questions why a student would be in all three of my classes, over and over. I’ve been a teacher for fifteen years as I write this email. Roy’s been there every time. I know because everyone else can apparently see him, or, at least, knows he’s there.
I even tried getting rid of his desk, but room is always made or a custodian brings an extra. Roy will sit in the back but prefers the front.
He does his work when I’m not there and earns strong results. In fact, he’s my top student and always passes with ease. Yet he’ll never graduate and never go away.
Help me, Mr. Cleriot.
Anyone. Help me. What should I do about Roy?
This story has received an unexpected update.