The Only Thing We Have To Fear

Possibly Titled Part 2

Roman rested his head in his hand and his elbows on the desk. 

"Do you know why you're here?" Mr. Fish asked.

Roman smiled because as long as he stared into the fish tank on Mr. Fish's desk, it looked like the fish was talking.

"No, Mr. Fish. Why am I here?" he asked in a condescending tone that mimicked the way one might talk to a dog.

Mr. Fish sighed. "You used an expletive in your candidacy speech, and you disrupted lunch today by standing on a table, which, needless to say, is unacceptable behavior."

The fish in the tank swam very slowly around the little bridge at the bottom of the tank and looked at its reflection in the glass. Its direction made it look like it was looking straight at Roman. Roman smiled. He giggled a little when it opened its mouth and little bubbles came flying out as Mr. Fish spoke.

"Mr. Tally, please stop looking at the fish," he requested.

"What fish?" Roman shot back.

Mr. Fish sighed, regretting his decision to put a fish tank in his office. "Never mind," he grumbled. "Look, I'm going to have to write you up for this."

"Mhmm," Roman hummed. "And what will that enTAIL?"

"Two days of ISS," the fish bubbled.

"International Space Station?"

"In school suspension," Mr. Fish growled through gritted teeth.

Roman considered this while he observed the fish tank. There was a single goldfish that was maybe an inch or two long, and it lived in a spacious tank that had an automatic filter, a little fake bridge, a little statue, and hundreds of little blue rocks lined the bottom. "Kitty, kitty," he muttered, noting Mr. Fish's predatory tone of voice. 

Then Roman sat back and considered the office he sat in. The ancient carpet was made of hundreds of little blue loops the same shade as the rocks in Mr. Fishie's tank and just as warn out and dirty looking. The polished wooden desk bridged over Roman and Mr. Fish's legs, and the trophy on the shelf looked just as generic as the one in the tank.

Then there was Mr. Fish himself. His golden yellow hair reflected the little light his dimly lit office offered, and it shimmered like scales when he moved his head. However, his scowling brown eyes held more emotion than the fish in the tank.

"Okay," he said, if only to fill the silence.

Mr. Fish pushed aside his papers and clicked his pen, setting that down too. Then he waited in anticipation.

Roman let silence fall between them once more before asking, "Do you hate your job?"

Mr. Fish regarded him with mild surprise before chuckling. "No, I don't hate my job." He studied Roman for a moment more before asking, "Why?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, it just seems like you don't really like your job. You seem frustrated."

"That's very insightful of you, Roman," he responded. "I don't hate my job, though. I'm frustrated with you specifically."

"Why?"

"This isn't a cry for help, or a cry for attention, or an indication of a bad homelife. Your case is unique. You are making these conscious decisions for no discernable reason."

"What if I told you I had a reason?" Roman pondered aloud.

"Then maybe I wouldn't have to give you any kind of punishment and we could just talk this out like rational adults," he answered reasonably.

Roman pondered internally. Is telling him a good thing to do? No, that would undermine everything I've worked for. I can get there from here, but I can't get there from there. "And if that's not what I want?" he asked tentatively.

"Then we'll have to keep playing this game," Mr. Fish concluded.

"Aren't games supposed to be fun, though?" Roman asked fairly. "I don't find this very fun, and I don't think you do either, or you wouldn't be scowling like that."

Mr. Fish studied his face some more. "Fun as in... the way monopoly is supposed to be fun and isn't."

Roman slumped back in his chair. "No, this is more like chess."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm more curious to see if you'll beat me," he crossed his legs and his arms, "than I am searching for fun."

"That equation doesn't check out," he replied. "That implies a battle of wits. There is no wit to any of this. You are making poor choices and I am the authority figure that has to hold you accountable for your actions. If anything, this is a game of cat and mouse where I am clearly the cat, and you are choosing to be a rat."

"So, I could be a dog if I wanted to be?" Roman asked, his face lighting up with pride.

"Sure," Mr. Fish nodded. "But you have to choose not to be a rat first."

"Don't be a rat," Roman reiterated. "Gotcha."

Mr. Fish nodded as though he were satisfied but didn't let Roman leave just yet. "You're a perfectly capable young man, Mr. Tally," he started. "I would hate you waste your talent and potential on further shenanigans. You're doing well in your classes, and you have quite a talent for public speaking. I think that if you just thought about the consequences of your actions a little more, you may find yourself in a high place."

Roman nodded. This time, he wasn't just nodding to indicate that he had heard. He took Mr. Fish's words to heart. Now wasn't the time for messing with people or letting his grades slip, it was time for proper action to be taken.

The bell signifying the end of lunch rang and Mr. Fish dismissed Roman back to class. He pondered his next steps wisely. By the time he sat down for English, he had already decided:

Step 1: get elected class president at all costs.