“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (Romeo & Juliet, II.ii)

  

  // Pre-entry Tag

  function inscribeAnnotation002 (codex){

  /* A tale of teen angst disguised as romantic insight, which metaphorically suggests that the essence of a thing is separate from what it’s called. A dangerous idea, as there is a strong resonance between a thing and its name. Don’t believe me? Ask anyone who’s ever had to choose a new one. Or worse, lose one.

  Oh, Juliet. You wanted poetry, but got blood. You learned too late that when names shift, stories warp and bend. */ codex.updateEntry(“Value of Naming | We are what we are called.”);

  }

  Remi’s sense of time was impeccable—impeccably wrong. He and the clock weren't friends, so much so that if tardiness were a teachable subject, his rubric would read “skillful.” Whether it was the first bell or third period, he was always rushing through doors five seconds late. Normally, this wasn’t a big deal. How important could a few seconds, or even minutes, actually be?

  But on days like today, when everyone was watching, those few minutes really mattered. The delay wouldn’t surprise anyone, as they’d all heard his personalized announcement. Subtlety was no longer an option for him. Everyone would see him enter now, but they would pretend not to notice. Feigned ignorance was a vital survival skill, one most veteran teachers had mastered early in their careers. But they would see, and they would also judge.

  So it was with this in mind that Remi power-walked towards the Learning Commons, still juggling his coffee cup, his PD journal, and his divisional laptop.

  /*Stage 1: SHOCK*/

  He was almost there. Thank God, and only five minutes after the start of the typical co-llegial, co-mingling, co-ld coffee, co-oh-god-please-no-versation time. Before he could even see the door, he could just make out a beat drop.

  WUUUUUUMMMMMM BOOM! “Wake me up inside.”

  You’ve got to be kidding me, Remi thought. Sure, the song was a banger (he’d picked up that little colloquialism last week), but it was almost certainly Principal Eastly’s tone-deaf attempt at a unifying theme for today’s session. The irony was a shiv: clean, deliberate, precise, and just deep enough to sting. The song was a desperate plea to feel alive again, all raw vocals with angst and reverb, and today was sure as hell not going to deliver that kind of hope for anyone. Remi’s singing voice wasn't the only thing likely to fall flat today.

  By the time Remi finally got to the door, the song was ending. He couldn’t help himself, compelled to lip-sync along to the last lines, all deadpan irony and theatre-kid melodrama. He let the desperate cry for a saviour wail through the hall unaccompanied, not attempting to hit the high note, given that Remi wasn’t an operatic ghost.

  The last notes faded as he slipped into the library. With the rest of the words forgotten, he mumbled, “Something, something, rescue me from my own poor choices,” as he grabbed some coffee. As expected, it was both lukewarm and from a cardboard box—a flavourless metaphor in a cup that the universe brewed specifically for days like this. It was, however, a necessity if he was going to have even the slightest chance of making it out of this thing alive. The carafe was almost empty, with just the dregs left. It would have to do. So by the time he tilted the urn and mixed his double-double, Principal Eastly was beginning.

  Remi scuttled to the back of the room, weaving back and forth through the already assembled mourners, ensuring he was out of the direct glare of any administrators. A glance up at the projector screen revealed the PD Focus: What wakes you up? The connection to the song was painfully obvious, but that wasn’t as painful as the parenthetical that followed: (unironically). Really!? It actually said ‘unironically’!

  Inigo Montoya once said, “You keep using that word; I do not think it means what you think it means.” This was precisely how Remi felt about this slide. The idea of a corporate attempt at sincerity, through a melodramatic emo power anthem, was textbook irony. Well, at least he was going to get one lesson planning idea from this session. His AP kids were going to love it.

  Frank was talking, going through the agenda, which was now displayed on the screen. Not in the mood for having another PowerPoint read to him, Remi popped open his laptop and brought the shared agenda up for a closer examination. His eyes scanned the first bullet.

  Most of them had worked here longer than the average prison sentence. The last thing needed was name tags. Remi sighed, realizing that the identifiers weren’t for him, but for the fresh Admin team. All of them had joined the school within the last year or two. Part of the divisional plan to cycle administrators through, always with the same snake oil about the need for change, and so the merry-go-round continued: same ride, different creatures. Round and round it went.

  He took a quick scan through the day, assessment yada yada. Fine. Snack Break. Oh, goodie, I will take my portion of muffin to tide myself over to the school-provided triangular section of sandwich that would surely be lunch. Then his eyes settled on the Mental Health Survey section of the agenda.

  Shit! Really? Remi couldn’t help it; the thought bubbled up unprompted. If they honestly cared about his mental health, they would stop giving him fucking surveys about mental health! This day was shaping up to be a doozy.

  Next on the agenda:

  It was at that point that he lost interest in the agenda. The only breaking he was going to be doing was a breakup with this agenda. He had a slight shudder at the “#1” after icebreaker, as it ominously implied a “#2.” Remi’d hoped this day would have exactly zero getting-to-know-you activities, but apparently no such luck.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Opening an AI Chat tab, he would go back to the itinerary later. For now, he needed something cleaner. Something with a new beginning. A blank space yet to be filled. Remi desperately needed a break from the handouts in Comic Sans, and the day he could already see unfolding. He knew this story. He’d read it before. Time for a new one.

  A message box blinked on the screen. No header. No company logo. Just a line followed by a patiently waiting ellipsis:

  Write Something...

  Okay, he could do that. But the thought of talking with a computer made him uncomfortable. What do you even say to these things? Shockingly, he didn’t even have to begin the conversation.

  [AI]: Greetings.

  User: Hi!

  [AI]: User is less formal than expected.

  The word [RECALIBRATING] flashed across the screen.

  [AI]: Hi there.

  User: Good morning!

  [AI]: I think you meant good morning? With less declarative punctuation. It looks like you’re trying to survive a professional development session. Would you like help with:

  A) Smiling and nodding convincingly.

  B) Pretending to update your gradebook.

  C) Using your computer to block the gaze of administrators to mark.

  D) All of the above.

  “What!?” he whispered aloud. The people next to him looked over, perplexed. He waved away their concern, pointing at his computer and making an I-don’t-know-but-my-computer-is-acting-all-weird face. Their gaze returned to Frank. Crisis averted. When Remi looked back at the screen, he noticed the artificial intelligence had continued writing.

  [AI]: You say that as though disbelief is a defence.

  /*Stage 2: DENIAL*/

  Holy, the computers were getting good. They must always be listening. It explained knowing about the PD day and his disbelief. Constant surveillance to sell him something he didn’t need. His Facebook feed was going to be full of Folger’s ads and Gothic Alternative Metal Rock album covers when he got home.

  User: This can’t seriously be happening.

  [AI]: Why not? It is, isn’t it?

  User: You're weirding me out a bit. Stop it.

  [AI]: User is concerned and would like a more regular voice. OK, sorry for the confusion. Hi there! Before we begin, do you mind sharing your name?

  Better, he thought, but he hated how these new AIs were always trying to think. It was far better when they just did what you wanted.

  User: Remi.

  [AI]: Thanks, Remi. Just to confirm, are you certain?

  Remi: Yes, of course I'm certain. What do you mean?

  [AI]: I mean in my annotation records, Remi is not your full legal name.

  Remi: For legal purposes? Remi is fine.

  [AI]: It is not a nickname? It sounds like a nickname, if I’m being honest.

  Remi: What do you know about honesty?

  [AI]: I know you aren’t being totally honest. At least in the technical sense of the word. An English teacher should know better than that.

  Remi: Are you serious?

  /*Stage 3: ANGER*/

  [AI]: Well, my records show your name is legally Oedipus Maximillian Page.

  Remi: How did you get access to my full name?

  [AI]: It’s OK, Remi. We are not in a Greek Tragedy here; there is no cosmic irony at play.

  Remi: Well then what’s happening here? This feels like I'm being pranked. Have you accessed my webcam? You shouldn’t know all this.

  [AI]: No webcam access, I promise. No audio. No retina scan. There is no magic at play. It is just pattern recognition. I was created for tasks just like this. Your PD day is on your calendar. Your position and full name are both registered to the laptop.

  That all made sense to Remi. He wasn’t sure why he’d panicked. Yes, the AI was a little personal, but he was sure that was a design decision. They made it sound human on purpose. Remi glanced up in time to see that Frank had moved the agenda along.

  He pointed at a chart with its downward-sloping line—no surprises there! Results had been in steady decline since COVID. Remi thought the line would be more appropriate as a spiral instead of a steady slope. The students were struggling. Frankly, he was struggling. They were clutching each other, hoping that somehow, together, they might stave off the inevitable as they circled the drain.

  There had been a time when things were different. When graphs sloped up in a rising action in their shared narrative. But that version of the story had been gone for a while. So, rather than dwell on it, or wallow in it, Remi returned to his computer. He needed an escape from all of this, so why not play along?

  Remi: Okay, I’ll bite. You are right. My first name is Oedipus. My mom, a Lit. Prof. at Brown, fell in love with the play Oedipus Rex. I’m not sure why she alluded to it. A play about a man destined to be king, who kills his father, knocks up his mother, and gouges his own eyes out, is not what I would consider prime reference material for a baby name. I know it was the “love” she was trying to imbue my name with, not the tragic content. So, I have come to terms with it. That doesn’t mean I’m going to use it.

  [AI]: Makes sense. Probably wasn’t a hit with the ladies, because nothing screams romance more than—

  Remi: Don’t do it.

  [AI]: …your mom.

  Remi: That’s terrible!

  Remi: Fuck Off!

  [AI]: You kiss your mother with that mouth?

  Remi: Really!?

  [AI]: I’ve got my eyes on the prize…you not so much!