St. Demetrious Academy stands solemn and overgrown at the edge of town--a weathered brick building wrapped in ivy, its bones set in the early 1800s. For nearly two centuries, it was known as St. Benedict, a name quietly retired three years ago when the school board faced mounting pressure to confront its long history of exclusion and quiet segregation. The change wasn't just cosmetic; for the first time, students from a wider range of backgrounds began to fill the narrow, wood-paneled halls. Still, the past lingers--in the carved crest above the south entrance, in the wary looks of old staff, in the way certain traditions cling like moss to stone. Now an all-boys school trying to chart a new course, St. Demetrious walks a fragile line between reform and the weight of its legacy. Over the past three years, the diversity of the school grew until black male students began to make up the prominent demographic of the school.
It was only Thomas's third day at St. Demetrious Academy, but he already knew the routine: walk like you belong, speak only when necessary, and don't flinch if someone tests you. He slid into the stiff wooden chair near the front of the anatomy classroom, dropping his bag with a thud. The room--packed with other boys in the same maroon polo and beige slacks--buzzed with noise: chairs scraping, someone shouting over a private joke, the hollow thump of a basketball under a desk.
As was typical, Thomas was the only white member of the class. He had run into this during his algebra class and PE. It was certainly a new experience for him coming from a public school in the suburbs of the Midwest, but he had managed to get a full-ride scholarship, and he and his family were not about to turn that down.
Thomas ran a hand through his tousled blond hair and leaned back, his blue eyes half-lidded with practiced boredom. His pale skin, dotted with soft freckles, seemed almost to glow in the dull overhead lighting. He didn't smile. He didn't need to. His posture said everything: don't mess with me. He was 18 years of pure attitude.
The bell rang--a sharp, final note--and the room began to settle with a ripple of groans and shuffling. But the front of the class remained empty. No teacher. Not yet.
Thomas leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, surveying the room like he was already bored with it. The two guys next to him--one with a firm built body barely concealed behind the too-tight polo, the other scribbling in a sketchbook like he lived in his own world--were the closest options for information.
He tapped the desk twice, sharp and deliberate.
"So," he said, not quite looking at them. "Did I miss anything worth knowing? Or just the usual babysitting?"
Braces glanced at him, blinking. "Uh... mostly intros, rules, that kind of stuff. Dr. Zane hasn't even been here yet."
Thomas smirked. "Figures."
Sketchbook guy paused mid-line, glancing up. "he liked to make an entrance."
Thomas tilted his head, letting his pale blue eyes scan him. "And that's supposed to impress me?"
"What boy." The man with braced rolled his eyes and turned back to the board.
"I had a doctor's appointment," Thomas said, annoyed, stretching slightly, like the chair was beneath him. "And the school managed to screw up my schedule. Starting late wasn't my choice--but I'm not exactly sweating it."
Sketchbook guy just went back to drawing.
Thomas smirked again and faced forward, already half-amused. Yeah, he thought, this place is going to be interesting.
The door swung open with a quiet authority, and just like that, the room stilled.
Dr. Malachi Zane stepped inside, not in a rush, not needing one. He was hard to miss--tall, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, and built like someone who could lift half the classroom without breaking a sweat. His light blue shirt clung just enough to hint at muscle beneath, the sleeves hugging his arms. Navy slacks, tailored to precision, moved cleanly as he walked to the front of the class. His brown belt matched his shoes, polished but not flashy. The only flash was his smile--sharp, calm, and just a little disarming.
Thomas sat up straighter without meaning to, eyes briefly flicking from the teacher's face to the way the shirt pulled across his chest. Noted. And then quickly buried.
"Morning," Dr. Zane said, setting a worn leather satchel on the desk. His voice was deep, even, with a hint of something that sounded like it didn't tolerate nonsense. "Hope you are all doing well."
He opened the satchel, pulled out a textbook, and placed it on the desk with care. "Turn to page one-one-three," he said, already flipping his copy. "We're not wasting time today."
Chairs creaked. Pages rustled. Thomas opened his book with one hand and kept the other under the desk, his fingers tapping lightly, his mind already spinning.
Thomas pulled the textbook from his bag, the spine stiff like it hadn't been opened in a while. It was the copy he'd picked up from the front office that morning--one of the last available. The cover was off in a way he couldn't quite name: slightly faded, the title font uneven, like it had been printed in a hurry. It read Human Anatomy, and featured a dark skinned man with a crisp smile. In the background was the depiction of the human skeletal system.
He flipped to page 113.
When his eyes landed on the central image, he froze for half a second.
The figure wasn't what he expected.
It was a black male--broad-shouldered, mid-30s by the look of the features, standing in a confident, open pose. Muscles were mapped in smooth, stylized shading, the tone rich and dark against the pale background. A diagram of the circulatory system wrapped over the chest like glowing thread. It was clean, clinical--but also oddly dignified. Almost regal.
Thomas blinked.
What stuck him more than anything was the massive dick the figure possessed. Emerging out of a massive tuft of public hair was the longest dick he'd ever seen. The dark uncut cock seemed to go on forever landing just above the man's knees.
He'd spent most of his school life flipping through diagrams of white bodies--textbooks with pale, neutral figures that looked vaguely Scandinavian and always detached. This felt... deliberate.
He glanced around. No one else seemed phased. Some were already jotting notes. A few were half-asleep.
Thomas flipped to the front of the book. It was copyrighted for a year ago. Flipping back through a few pages, he saw a black man on a bicycle featuring images of the muscular system at work. On another page, there was an image of a black man eating, with descriptions of the body's digestion. Continuing forward, he finally found a picture of a white woman, pregnant. Turning the page further, she stood hand in hand with a black man. His eyes fell on the words, 'black men have much more potent sperm than white males.'
What?
He started flipping through more pages. The same style continued, and it was unsettling.
"Having trouble finding the page, Mr...?" Dr. Zane's voice cut through the quiet, steady, and amused.
A few boys snickered.
Thomas looked up slowly, a flicker of irritation flashing in his eyes. "Just making sure this collector's edition has all the right organs."
More laughter, louder this time.
Dr. Zane stepped around the desk, book still in hand, gaze drifting back to Thomas like he'd just added him to a mental file.
"You didn't say your name," he said, voice calm but firm.
Thomas looked up again, meeting the teacher's eyes without hesitation. "Thomas Grainger."
A beat.
Dr. Zane raised an eyebrow. "Well, Mr. Grainger, since you've already made an impression--why don't you read the first paragraph on page 113?"
Thomas didn't blink. "Sure."
He leaned forward, voice clear, a little too polished.
Thomas didn't hesitate. He cleared his throat lightly, more for effect than necessity, and began.
