The Teacher A-TECH Doesn’t Want You Knowing About

Despite the Maverick Pulse being a “student-run” newspaper, I was almost taken into custody trying to write this article. Almost killed. All for trying to uncover the secret of A-TECH’s forgotten teacher—that teacher’s name: Mr. Coffee.

It was the usual night of procrastination, February 12, 2019, 9:32PM, writing away an article to get published before Ms. Stern starts grading what I have done for the newspaper; all for those letters equivalent to my life’s summation to rise before mother takes away my ability to play Fortnite for a month (but then forgets about it a day later). It was then I remembered that amber cardboard box with the words “Mr. Coffee” shining across the packaging, in the corner of Stern’s classroom. It made me chuckle.

Until I inspected it further.

The box has been there for years; since I was a freshman, as a matter or fact. I could tell: running my finger across the dust gathered on the side, it felt of rotting age and deterioration. No one, not even Ms. Stern, dared mention it, nor dart an eye at its proximity. “Why?” I wondered. So I asked Ms. Stern the next day, but I got no response.
I called out again.

No response.

I yelled out at Ms. Stern, hoping she’d hear me.

No response.

I felt like my questionings were cries from the afterlife, where no mortal could hear me as loud as my vocal cords could achieve, as I was dead and they weren’t.

But clearly, clearly that wasn’t the case. As dead as I felt after looking at the grades for my AP calc test yesterday, I knew I was still here with everyone else.

So I brought it up to the fresh prince of Advanced Technologies Academy, Mr. Jonathan Synold.

Yet, he never responded.

Then I asked him, “Do you know about Mr. Coffee?”

He slammed his drawer shut so hard, you could hear the nails snapping under Synold’s force from a mile away. He faced downwards, a dark shadow enveloping half his face like a snake devouring its struggling, helpless pray before swallowing its last cry for help. He seemed a bit upset.

“How do you know about Mr. Coffee?” interrogated Synold with a growl to put the cruelest 5-headed demonic spirit to shame.

“I saw it at Ms. Stern’s classroom.”

“Ms. Stern’s been dead for forty years now.”

My heart felt an icicle stab through every artery at Synold’s words. My breath was vacuumed out my lungs. I was speechless.

“For…forty years?”

Synold stepped back, let out a sly breath, and turned to peek through the closed window shutters.

“After Gakuru became CEO at CollegeBoard, AP exam prices increased an additional 1% to total $800 per exam, and students were forced to get creative for those sweet, sweet college credits and their precious futures of theirs,” stated the prince. “Stern, poor Stern thought she could help raise money by betting Gakuru that she could defeat a lion faster than him, but we all know how that turned out.”

“Anyways,” said Synold, pacing the office. “You wish to know about Mr. Coffee, do you not?”


The man simply stood there, facing me with the largest grin one could ever imagine. Absolute unit.

Why was he standing there doing nothing?

“Uh…hey, Mr. Synol-“

“Unfortunately for you, it is too late!” shouted the prince with a laugh so hearty, you could taste the week-old oatmeal in your mouth.

Armed forces quickly infiltrated the scene, sending Synold’s office door flying into the wall, shattering the photos of his children into dust, and leaving the office open-air. A taser was held up micrometers away from my neck and a baton seconds away from my bottom. And just as the police took out the handcuffs, I stated “Wait, you’re not allowed to do that.”

“And why is that?”

“Because,” I smirked with a villainous smile. “If a teacher isn’t here in this room after 15 minutes has passed, I’m legally allowed to leave. And guess how much time has passed?”

“Oh heck, are they allowed to do that?” whispered the officer with the freshly-shaven handlebar mustache and chromium Ray-Bans.

“Yeah, I think so…” muttered the officer without pants.

“Gosh darn it, I’ve been bamboozled again…” grumbled the sad Synold, defeated. He sat down in his leather spinny chair, attempting to lick off the last remaining coffee ground from his shattered mug.

The taste was bitter.

Disclaimer – This article is not real!