Dearest reader,

As the corridors of Hoover High School buzz with springtime stress and Advanced Placement [AP] exam hysteria, your faithful observer has uncovered a curiosity far more intriguing than any pop quiz. While students shuffle into classrooms like caffeinated cattle, one figure glides through the hallways with a precision that borders on…mechanical. 

 I speak, of course, of the inimitable Lady Susan Schilling — our ever-composed, ever-present French teacher whose clothes are always pressed, whose hair is always perfectly curled and whose lesson plans operate with uncanny consistency. 

Some say she is simply committed. Others, more skeptical and sharp-eyed, suspect something more synthetic. Yes, dear readers, the whispers you’ve heard are true. After months of scrutiny and speculation, it is this author’s duty to report: Lady Schilling is, in fact, a robot. 

One may ask, “Lady Quillbridge, how could such an absurd accusation ever carry weight?” To that, I say: follow the circuits — or in this case, the source code. 

Schilling has not taken a single sick day since her mysterious hiring years ago. 

Not one. 

While her colleagues fall to the common cold or vanish into the abyss of mental health days, she remains chipper, charged and always five minutes early. One of Schilling’s students, Scholar Sofia De’Freitas, caught on to this rather unusual quality. As the year progressed, De’Freitas had more and more questions.

“I had a proper surgery early on in the year, I was out for weeks,” De’Freitas said. “When I came back, Lady Schilling hadn’t even blinked. Same outfit. Same ‘Bonjour.’ Same intense eye contact.” 

Coincidence? Je ne le pense pas [I don’t think so].

But what does the alleged automation herself have to say? When approached for comment, Lady Schilling’s reaction was — unsurprisingly — measured. 

“Robot? Moi? That is…how you say…an imaginative theory,” she said. “I am simply très [very] efficient.”

When asked about the flawless attendance record, she responded with a smile that could be programmed into a customer service chatbot. 

Suspicious? Possibly. 

Glitchy? Definitely. 

“I am passionate about language acquisition,” Lady Schilling said. “Why would I ever need…time off? Rest mode is for weekends.”

Students have long questioned her language accuracy, finding cracks in her translations. Speculations have arisen that Schilling relies on Google Translate, which is coded into her robotic membrane. Hoover alumna who has attained the Global Seal of Biliteracy in French, Scholar Alexandria Heckaman, was one of the first to acknowledge this theory, as they spent a week in France together.

“It did come to my attention that Lady Schilling lacked an understanding of French slang,” she said. “I always took it as miscommunication, rather than a system inside her translating it incorrectly. As time went on, it was hard to ignore the signs of mechanicalism.” 

This theory was brought to Lady Schilling’s attention when a student asked her why she said “I eat blue sadness” instead of “blueberry jam.” Schilling was shocked and came to her own defense with a public statement. 

“Google is a tool many humans — teachers — use to confirm their knowledge,” she said. “I also confirm. Frequently. I am fluent in French, but I occasionally forget some phrases.” 

The oddities extend beyond the classroom. Every day at 11:35 a.m., Schilling consumes the same lunch: one protein bar, one chamomile tea and — curiously — a single AA battery. 

“It is a…quirky snack,” she said. “For…digestion. Yes. Digestion.” 

Even the weather seems to short-circuit her. Yesterday, as a thunderstorm rolled in and Hoover’s lights flickered, De’Freitas claimed she froze mid-sentence, whispered “rebooting,” then resumed lecturing on irregular verbs as though nothing had happened.

“It was such a peculiar moment,” she said. “One moment she’s explaining how to conjugate ‘Avoir,’ and then the room’s lights flicker. I’ve never seen someone so in unison with technology in the way she was.”

Eventually, her classroom began to adapt to her. The French classroom now emits a faint humming noise when empty, a quiet electrical purr that pulses just beneath the overhead lights. Some students have noted the temperature in the room is always set to exactly 72 degrees, never a degree more or less, regardless of the season. The walls, lined with identical laminated posters of French vocabulary, seem frozen in time. Nothing is ever added, removed or slightly asked. 

“When I was aiding in cleaning up after a French Club meeting, the lights and power would switch off at exactly 4:00 p.m.,” Heckaman said. “It’s like the room was telling us to leave.”

Perhaps most unsettling is her emotional range — or rather — the lack of one. Lady Schilling neither raises her voice nor expresses anger. When a student breaks a rule, her response is always calm, neutral and oddly rehearsed. 

“That is not acceptable behavior,” she said, without deviation. 

No sighs, no frustration, just the steady delivery of policy-like lines of code. Even when students earn perfect grades or submit exceptional work, her praise never strays beyond a short “Très bien.” It is appreciation without warmth. Approval without humanity. De’Freitas has witnessed this unusual occurrence. 

“I was awarded the highest mark on our semester exam,” she said. “Lady Schilling did not even bat an eye, as if French was expected to be common knowledge.”

What began as a hallway rumor has now swelled into a school-wide mythos. 

Teachers whisper. 

Students theorize. 

The occasional battery mysteriously goes missing from remotes and clocks. Still, Lady Schilling continues, undisturbed, the ever-efficient anomaly gliding through Hoover High. 

My final question to her was very direct: Are you a robot? Schilling smiled serenely. 

“I am programmed — pardon — raised to inspire young minds,” she said. “My goal is…student success. Anything else is…irrelevant.” 

She then turned and walked away, steps perfectly symmetrical, as if controlled by gears. 

And so I leave you, dear readers, with this: Whether machine or mystery, Lady Schilling is unlike anyone we’ve ever seen before — and perhaps unlike anyone we ever will again.

Yours truly,

Lady Quillbridge