Lessons from Scylla

[ Note: Contains occasional strong language. ]

I. Drifting Through Safe Waters

Over the classroom loudspeaker, a student’s voice crackles with pep: “Good morning, Valley High! Big shoutout to our girls’ volleyball team for crushing the Bulldogs last night, 3-1! Next up, spirit week starts Monday—get those costumes ready!” Students trickle in, some slumping into seats, others scrolling phones. A 12-foot banner sprawls overhead—inky black, speckled with a starry Milky Way sprawl—above a school calendar pinned to October 2021: “Shoot For The Moon—Even If You Miss, You’ll Land Among The Stars!” A tall, lanky figure weaves through the desks, dropping graded biology assignments. His shoulder-length brown-gray hair peeks from a gray ball-cap, stamped with a yin-yang of polyhedral dice—a “1” and a “20.” Matching grey Vans scuff quietly on the linoleum.

Sometimes all you get to pick is which dice to roll. Hey there, readers, that’s me, Dan Carver, your typical, everyday Biology teacher. This hair? Blame Covid—barbershops closed, and I said fuck it, I’ll just hack at it myself from now on. Been pacing this room fifteen years, juggling pencils and ignorance. My job’s keeping ‘em breathing, learning a little science on the side.

Ten minutes in, the class buzzes with a DNA replication lab. Students huddle in groups, snipping paper nucleic acids, taping double helices. The door swings open, and in struts Latoya Jenkins, 5’7”, all swagger—fresh braids gleaming, volleyball jersey tucked into ripped jeans, a chunky JanSport slung over one shoulder. Her school Chromebook dangles in one hand, iPhone in the other, case matching her neon-green nails. She flashes a grin at her lab group, barely glancing at Dan as she slides into her seat.

That’s Toya, folks—volleyball star and chronic latecomer. D+ student, but damn, I’m proud of that win last night. Her mom and I chat sometimes; we’re working on getting that grade up. Covid hit her hard, like most of ‘em, but she’s got grit. She’ll figure it out when she’s out in the wild. For now, it’s my gig to keep her on track—happy, healthy, graduation-bound.

“Hey, Toya,” Dan calls, voice warm but teasing, “look at those braids! Home job or stylist?

She tosses her bag down, smirking. “Home, Mr. C. My aunt hooked me up."

“How long’d that take?” He’s genuinely curious, leaning on a desk.

“These? Couple hours, no biggie.”

“Nice. I was thinking longer.” He tilts his head, dragging a hand through his own hair with a theatrical flourish. A few students glance up. “This mess?” he tugs the bill of his hat, “—tons of work.” He winks.

“Yeah, Mr. C., tons of work!” Toya snorts, her grin infectious. A ripple of chuckles spreads through the room.

Dan pauses—a beat honed by years of classroom rhythm—then claps his hands. “Alright, alright,” he chuckles, “grab some scissors, cut those DNA strands, and see if you can help your group catch up.” One of Toya’s lab partners slides over a stack of paper nucleotides and a pair of blunt-tipped scissors. She dives in, still smirking.

Mr. Carver’s focus shifts like a gardener tending blooms, drifting to the next lab group with a nod and a quiet nudge—“It’s easier to color in the adenine before taping it down.” On to the next, then the next. Admin won’t catch him parked at his desk, lost in a screen’s glow. In class, he’s a perpetual motion machine, never settling—like a bee drifting from flower to flower, he buzzes from desk to desk, startling a dozing kid with a sudden “You good?” It keeps them sharp, alert, expecting his shadow at any moment.

- - -

Dan glances at the clock—eight minutes until the bell. Every lesson plan bows to that tyrant. A hand shoots up across the room. He adjusts his path, quick-checking one group’s daisy-chain of nucleotides, another’s basil-sprig helix, then spots Toya sneaking a peek at her phone. Damn phones. He reaches the questioning lab as Miguel, a wiry 10th-grader, holds up their model, pointing at “DNA polymerase” scrawled where “helicase” should be.

“Mr. C., we’re stuck,” Miguel says, frowning. “How’s the DNA polymerase supposed to unwind the strands? Our model’s got it splitting them, but that’s not for making new ones, right?”

“DNA polymerase doesn’t unwind anything,” Dan starts, voice steady. But then his breath hitches, slowing. “Uh… your labels. Check ‘em. That’s a different enzyme.” His face flattens, eyes glazing. “Sorry, guys, I… can’t help more right now.”

My dear readers, you are seeing the result of the migraine aura kicking in. It’s an old bastard of a guest—drops by every six weeks or so, never welcome. I’m used to it, not scared. No stroke, just a brain throwing a tantrum. Imagine this: view the world through your phone camera, live feed video, held an inch from your eye. Swing it fast—light’s too bright, sound stabs, everything lags. That’s me now, slogging through the haze like my brain is on delay.

Dan’s vision fuzzes, a blind spot blooming to the left of both eyes. He stumbles toward his desk, weaving past students with practiced care—no collisions. He sinks into the chair, Vans sliding across the floor, and wills his fingers to the keyboard. Slowly, deliberately, he pecks out an email then places his head down on the desk waiting for the headache pain to really start, and the bell to ring.

To: diana.king@valleyhigh.org, javier.vega@valleyhigh.org

Subject: Migraine—Need Sub

Diana, another migraine hit. Need a sub ASAP. Javi, can you check on them during your prep? Emergency plans attached. Sorry, and thanks.

- Dan

II. Crossroads Over a Soccer Ball

A younger Dan Carver, buzz-cut and bleary, sprawls across the cold, black slab of his classroom table, staring up at cracked ceiling tiles, fighting sleep. It’s past midnight; faint murmurs drift from the lab where two students tinker. It's past midnight!? The rest of the Science Olympiad kids have already bailed, prepping for tomorrow’s showdown.

“Okay, it’s set. Let it go.”

Clink!... clink… clinkclinkclink. Glass marble pings off the hard floor.

“Hell yeah!” “Nailed it!” “Friggin’ bullseye!”

Dan bolts up like a jack-in-the-box, scrubbing sleep from his eyes with a yawn. He shuffles toward the noise, spurred by their cheers and the promise of crashing at home before having to haul a vanload of teens in the morning.

“How’s it going?” he calls, voice brightening. Caleb and Nate, a pair of juniors, scoop up marbles and lead weights, buzzing with that endless, ragged energy of youth on a mission. On the table sits a Physics teacher’s dream: a carefully crafted foot-tall trebuchet, its axle purring on a pair of 608 skateboard bearings, an adjustable swinging basket dangling full of split-shot weights, driving a throwing arm tuned for pinpoint carnage.

“We’ve got it locked, Mr. C!” Caleb grins, waving a lab notebook stuffed with data and a boxed physics equation—two constants highlighted like trophies. “Target’s toast tomorrow, no matter where they stick it.”

“Yeah, first place, baby!” Nate chimes in.

“Awesome.” Dan fist-bumps them both. “Let’s pack it up and grab some shut-eye.”

Caleb snags a tabbed-up Astronomy: A Beginner’s Guide to the Universe, bristling with notes. At the door, he hoists it with a red-eyed smirk. “Might cram a bit for ‘Shoot For the Stars’ too.”

“You’re nuts, Cal,” Dan quips, half-serious. “Just don’t snooze through your alarm and miss your ride!” They laugh—low, tired, but electric—as lights flick off and the door locks.

- - -

A soccer ball smacks Dan’s leather boot, yanking him awake from that decade’s old bouncing marble sound. He’s slumped in a chair in Javi’s room, lunch hour, grey-tinged long hair spilling across the desk. He lifts it with a swipe, tucking it under his dice-stamped cap. A wiry, 5’5” Latino in Adidas Sambas—Javier Vega—bounces on his toes, grinning like Dan’s about to join a pickup game.

“Wake up, foo! You sleep like a corpse!” Javi taunts. “C’mon, boot boy, kick it back!”

That’s Javi, my Valley High lifeline. Eight years back, his first gig here, he juggled soccer coaching and a teaching credential—brutal combo. Chemistry’s his game, but one year he tackled Physics with me, shadowing my classes, scribbling notes, then mimicking my lessons. Guy’s a grinder. Kids flock to his room at lunch, and so do I—beats eating alone. I’m about to share some bad news with him.

Dan musters a feeble kick; the ball barely rolls. Javi traps it with a quick foot-flick, juggling it between his Sambas in a little dance, then lobs it back half-hearted. “What’s with the clunker boots? New look?” he nods at Dan’s feet.

“Yeah,” Dan says, smirking, “decided on dressing like a man, not a kid in Vans anymore.” He nods at Javi’s Sambas.

“Oh, you accusing me of dressing like a kid now?” Javi bounces the ball off his foot, a playful grin quirking his lips. He dances it back toward Dan, then drifts to his desk when Dan doesn’t kick it right away. “These Sambas got style, foo!”

“Yeah, those fit you. It’s just me,” Dan chuckles, standing up. “Felt kinda fake in the Vans, like I was trying too hard to be one of them. Time to switch it up.”

That Science Olympiad dream’s still rattling around in Dan’s head—Valley High’s first-ever win, years back. Those kids—Cal and Nate—beamed. Cal went on to Berkeley after that, BS in Physics, Master’s in Astrophysics. Fucking incredible, right, readers? Makes the grind worth it. Hell, I’d miss this gig.

Dan, grinning, strolls over to Javi’s desk. “Thinking about that SciOly team from ’12—kids like Cal, off doing big shit now. Makes teaching worth it, huh? Wonder what we’d do without it.” His smile fades to serious. “Uh… got some news yesterday, though. Those migraines? MRI results came back.”

“Aw, man, you gonna die?” Javi grins, leaning back. “That why you’re talkin’ about not teaching?”

“Well, it’s complicated. Let’s pull up a Wiki page on AVMs.” Dan types out the search info on Javi’s computer and they both go over it.

Wikipedia: Arteriovenous Malformation (AVM)

An AVM is a tangle of abnormal blood vessels in the brain, connecting arteries to veins without capillaries. This can weaken vessel walls, raising the risk of an aneurysm—causing a hemorrhagic stroke. Treatment? Surgery, or radiation to seal it off—success varies, but risks include brain damage or death.

“Aw, man, you are gonna die!” Javi cackles. “Brain surgery or just wait for your head to pop someday?” He rocks back in his chair.

Dan’s eyes lock on Javi’s. “It’s no joke—30% chance of brain damage with surgery, could blow any day without.”

“Serious?” Javi’s chair thumps forward, voice low. “So what you gonna do?”

“Not sure, man,” Dan says, cut off by the lunch bell’s shriek. He whispers, softer now, “Not sure.”

Dan fist-bumps Javi and heads out. Javi’s grin fades. He stares at the ball, then boots it hard into the storage room door—thwack. It ricochets back; he misses the catch, and it rolls past the classroom door just as two students poke in. “Hey, Mr. Vega, everything alright?” they ask, hesitating.

“It’s fine, guys, come on in,” Javi says, forcing a smile as the room fills.

III. Choosing the Narrow Path

As the school year ends, Dan buzzes around his classroom, new Doc Martens thumping softly—black leather, thick yellow threading, soles popping against the linoleum. Students hunch over Chromebooks, most tapping at the final exam’s Biology study guide, a few sneaking peeks at phones under desks.

Toya’s at her station, rocking a full ‘70s-style afro—deep brown coils streaked with caramel highlights—gold bangles clinking as she chats with a classmate. Dan glides up, spots her phone face-down in its black-and-yellow case (good girl), then eyes her screen. No study guide. Instead, a Google Doc glows: “Scylla vs. Charybdis: Sacrifice in The Odyssey”—an excerpt analysis. She and her partner murmur about Odysseus picking the monster over the whirlpool, debating which loss stings less.

“Hmm… The Odyssey.” Dan quips, “narrowing it down to the tough stuff, huh?”

Toya smiles, steady. “Yeah, this is due today. Gotta get it done.”

“Well, you know, this week’s study guide could bump that Biology grade up…”

“Yeah, but that’s a long shot now,” Toya says, shrugging. “Mom’s got me in summer school. Easier C that way.”

Stings like hell, doesn’t it, readers? She’s dead right, though—summer school’s a damn joke, a gimme for grades. Never taught it myself; it’s just babysitting. Years pacing these rooms, and you see it—kids carving their own jagged paths to that diploma. Some make it, some don’t. And hold up! Check it out—am I now seeing Mr. Carver’s eyes clock those boots of hers? Same Doc Martens—yellow threads, black leather, fresh as hell. No freakin' way!

“So, sacrificing one class to save the other?” Dan says. “Sorry it’s not Bio, Toya, but you’re picking what works for you. Gotta respect that.” He slides a foot forward with a squeak, loud enough for the room to hear. “And check this—we’re rocking the same damn Doc Martens! Twinning!”

The class ripples with giggles. Toya grins, eyes lighting up. Dan winks and drifts off, tending his garden of students—some budding, some pruning—as they grind on.

- - -

Later, Javi’s room hums at lunch—kids sprawl across desks, some cramming for finals, others just chilling. Dan slumps in his usual chair, munching a sandwich, spinning a pencil around his thumb. With five minutes to the bell, the last student shuffles out.

“Check out my new Doc Martens.” Dan slides a boot forward.

“Nice, got that urban edge,” Javi says, glancing up from his desk.

“Right? But get this—Latoya had the same pair on today. Exact same!”

“No way!” Javi laughs. “You ditched Vans to not mimic the kids, and now they’re copying you!”

He hops up, snags his soccer ball, and starts juggling—quick taps, foot to knee. Dan stares at his sandwich, chewing slower.

“Been having nightmares,” he mutters. “Brain exploding during class, kids screaming, posting it on TikTok.”

Javi lets the ball drop, rolling it under his foot. “Dude, that stress’ll kill you faster than the aneurysm. Get the surgery.”

“Think I will.” Dan leans back. “Got a consult this week—might schedule for right after finals are done.”

“Good. Recover over summer—no veggie Dan on my watch.” Javi smirks, nudging the ball toward him. “No way in hell they’re getting me to teach Physics again!”

“Ha!” Dan stands, dodging the ball as it rolls past. “Asshole.”

“Hey, for real, though—” Javi traps the ball, voice softening. “Glad you’re fixing it. Keep me posted so I can swing by, yeah?”

“No prob.” Dan heads for the door, boots thumping.

IV. Lessons from a Still Shore

Students tap at Chromebooks in Dan’s old classroom, some scrolling phones under desks. Above a calendar pinned to September 2022, a 10-foot banner unfurls—sketches of tiny bacteria, towering elephants and bold green letters proclaiming, “From Microbes to Mammals, Every Life Form Matters!” Mr. Eric Hensley, a pudgy 25-year-old in a rumpled polo, fumbles with the projector, droning about photosynthesis.

Javi sits at a back desk, mentoring gig in full swing—scribbling notes, watching Hensley like a hawk. Reminds him of his own rookie days, sweating through Physics lessons in this same room. Glancing around he sees new decor, fresh 10th-graders—no trace of that buzzing bee. Javi fumbles a pencil, tries spinning it around his thumb. It clatters to the desk. Gonna miss that son of a bitch. Lunch can’t come soon enough.

- - -

Javi’s at his desk, no kids today—just not feeling it. Dan’s empty chair stares back as he chews a lukewarm tamale, tasteless. He pokes at emails, half-assing it.

Then his phone buzzes—Dan’s texted a photo? Holy crap, about time! Javi ditches the emails and snags his phone, grin breaking wide.

Dan: [Image: Caleb Weston, 31, grinning in front of UC Berkeley’s Campbell Hall brick facade.]

Dude, this is Cal Weston. The Gazette did a story on him

[Image: “Stellar Path: Local Grad Shines at UC Berkeley” - Once a standout at Valley High, Weston’s now an adjunct astronomy professor at his alma mater…]

Can you believe he’s teaching astronomy at Berkeley!?

Javi: Wow, amazing. All these knuckleheads and one-in-a-thousand pulls it off big.

Dan: Yep. Makes it worth it.

How’s the new guy holding up?

Javi: He’s getting there. Kids are roasting him alive. We’ll see if he lasts the year. Me, a mentor. crazy, right?

Dan: You’ll crush it. Just keep him afloat.

Javi: Hey, how’s it going… with the brain? Getting better?

Dan: Yeah, not as rough as a month ago. Still texting slow. Don’t know what to do with myself. Early retirement is kinda nice. Just me and Toby now. No kids to deal with. But it not normal having nothing to do.

Javi: Put your brain to work. Write some stories.

Dan: LOL

Javi: For real dude. I’d read em!

Bell rang. Gotta go. Love ya, foo.

Dan: You too. Take Care.

Dan grins at Javi’s last text, one hand on his phone, the other tossing a tennis ball to Toby, his German shepherd, across the back patio. After a final catch, he shuffles inside, brews a fresh coffee, and settles at his desk. Hours slip by—research, reviews, a few clicks on Amazon. One last nod at the screen, he hits enter, sips his mug, and walks off smiling.

Order Placed September 23, 2022. The Elements of Style and other writing books—$75 well spent. Survived the monster, slowly navigating onward.