“Sorry I'm late!”

I look up to find Marlen standing in the doorway of the classroom. Short skirt, two top buttons of her uniform blouse unbuttoned, her make-up a bit over the top, but some schoolgirls do wear it like that. The only problem is her serious expression. It doesn't quite fit with the rest of her image.

“Giggle,” I tell her. “Add some flirting. You’d try to use your charms on a male teacher.”

She lets out a short, unconvincing giggle. It’s only my second lesson with this class, so they're still pretty bad. The rest are just sitting quietly, watching our interaction, their hands in their laps. I hate new groups. It gets better when they start getting a grip on things—until I remember who they are, and then I feel bad about helping them improve.

“Chat,” I tell them. “The moment the teacher isn't looking, you should talk, check your phone, laugh about something. Teens always find something to laugh about.”

They shift in their chairs. Some lean obediently to whisper to their friends. A girl in the front row sighs and looks out of the window, looking convincingly bored. With the never-changing photographic scenery plastered over the fake window, of course you’d be bored. It shows a few trees and a green lawn with a building on the other side of it. A few students are sitting on the grass, frozen in their conversation. No depth to the picture. I used to imagine what could be inside that other building, what I might find around the corner, how the grass would feel under my feet if I walked there barefoot. Now the fake windows just look like wallpaper, something you don’t notice anymore.

I return my attention to Marlen. “Try again.”

She steps outside, forgetting to roll her eyes, even though we’ve talked about that at length during our first class. She walks in again, and stops, as if surprised to find a teacher in the classroom, and then she giggles—very good.

“Hi, Mr. Cyan!” she says.

At some point, I started to introduce myself by different names to every new group, using colors for names—just a random decision, probably brought about by the lack of color in my surroundings. I used to be Mr. Green, Mr. Brown, and some others. I'm beginning to run out of colors. I bet there are many more that I don't know the names of, and I could easily google them if I had internet, but I don't, so I can’t. Can't read any news online. Can't watch cute cat videos. Can't find out how my family is doing, whether they’ve gotten over their son going missing.

“Well, hello, Marlen,” I say.

“I’m so very sorry that I'm late!” She throws her shiny hair back flirtatiously—nice touch. “Please don't give me a detention!”

She probably shouldn't mention detention unless the teacher does, but I let it slide. It kind of fits with the silly personality she's chosen for herself.

“Fine,” I say. “Just a warning this time. Take a seat.”

I face the class as she walks to her seat. The whispers die down, and sixteen pairs of eyes stare at me. I get that feeling again, like the first time, as if something horrible is about to happen. As if they're about to pounce on me and tear me into pieces or something. I'm not even a real teacher. I'm too young to be one—although there are teachers in their early twenties, which is how old I think I am now. There are no clocks and no calendars here, and time acts strangely without clocks and calendars.

Sometimes I get to watch new movies—they let me, so that I could remain relevant. If you wait until after the scrolling credits, you can see which year the movie was made. So, I think I've been here for about five years. I must be twenty-one years old now. Which makes me wonder how much longer they’re going to keep me around. They need me to teach high schoolers to act like high schoolers, and I'm already out of their age group. I’ve moved from the role of their pal to that of a young teacher about a year ago, trying to remain relevant, but I still feel like my time is running out.

They want people to have personal experience that could be transferred to them. I had real experience of going to school, but none of being an adult. They have others to teach them that. People of other ages, other backgrounds, other walks of life. People that I’ve never met, occupying other white-tiled rooms that I've never been to.

Movies are my only escape. Books, too, but it's good to actually see new faces and situations unfold on the screen, rather than imagine them in my head, as one does with books. I overuse my imagination as it is. Without any new input, my brain walks in circles, trying to make things out of the existing material, digging out faded memories, putting a new spin on them. How about that time when we visited Grandma Paula’s farm and I nearly drowned? What would have happened if I had? What would my life have been like if I got rescued too late, ending up with brain damage or something? What if my sister drowned? What if a zombie apocalypse started while we were at the farm?

They allow me the movies, but not the news for some reason, which is dumb. Staying up-to-date would require getting updated on the news. What if there're new laws regarding education that a high schooler should know about? But no, they prefer to keep me in this sterile bubble.

My world consists of three rooms—the classroom, the cafeteria, and the small room where I sleep and spend my time when the classes are over. It's usually off limits for the students, but I've had some private lessons with those who wanted to experience visiting a friend's house or having a sleepover. As much as I've gotten used to them, I couldn't sleep a wink with one of them lying on the mattress on the floor in my room. I kept imagining that I would wake up to them looking different, maybe sitting on my chest, preparing to chew my face off or suck my soul out of me, or whatever it is they do when they stop pretending.

I've never seen them do such things, but it always feels like they might.

I've seen them change their shape.

I don't want to see that again.

The walls of the three rooms and the corridor connecting them are covered with white square tiles, with splashes of color where fake windows display pieces of scenery—a lake, a lawn, a tree, a city street. They don’t bother with consistency. Five tall windows along the corridor show five different views. The window in my room displays a black night sky with dark trees beneath it, probably because I sleep there.

I wonder how they're going to dispose of me when they decide that I'm no longer useful.

I hope it'll be fast and painless, at least, and not too scary.

I look around the classroom full of monsters.

“Open your books,” I say. “Page twelve.”