i 0d2125e00f277ca8 (2 page)

learning about some of the great playwrights, practicing acting and

improvisation as well as some writing. It‟s going to be fun. I swear. If

you don‟t have any fun all year, you have full permission to smack me

„round the head.”

Ice sufficiently broken, Louis passes out packets listing important dates

for the term and explaining his marking policy. The rest of the day goes

by in the same vein, and come lunchtime, Louis is feeling rather

pleased with his work indeed.

There‟s more than one teacher‟s lounge in the school, but one in

particular is on the same hallway as Louis‟ classroom, so naturally he

claimed it as his by the end of his first month. It‟s the smallest of all of

them, just a table with four chairs and a small adjoining toilet. Small,

but definitely good enough, and everyone in the faculty knows that

lunches there belong to Louis, Zayn, and Niall.

Louis thinks, as they sit laughing about their plans for the year around

their own personal table, that his gift for expanding into the space

around him is probably his most useful attribute. Starfishing, he calls it.

He is a starfish.

“Obviously I‟m keeping the spring musical,” Louis tells them, “but I‟m

thinking about doing a Shakespeare in the fall. What do you think?”

“I think it sounds like you‟re going to make me help you with two

shows instead of one,” Niall says.

“There‟s a good man,” Louis says, patting Niall on the back. “Thank

you for volunteering.”

8

“You‟re going to consult me on this, right?” Zayn cuts in, giving Louis

a look over his coffee. “You‟re not going to let a bunch of fifteen-year-

olds butcher the poor bard, are you?”

“Believe it or not, Zayn, I know a thing or two about Shakespeare,”

Louis says. “Just because I don‟t spend my life analyzing sonnets

doesn‟t mean I‟m an idiot.”

Zayn laughs and elbows him. “You might be an idiot.”

“What‟s on the reading list this year, Zayn?” Louis says. “Fahrenheit

451? „It was a pleasure to burn...‟”

“Ha ha,” Zayn deadpans while Niall snorts into his lunch. “Fireman

jokes. You‟re hilarious.”

The rest of the first week rolls by smoothly, and Louis starts to settle

back into his work routine. It‟s nice to feel like he has some kind of

purpose again after months of treading water. For the most part, his

students seem genuinely enthusiastic about the more hands-on parts of

the class already, and they only groan a little when he assigns them

reading over the weekend. All in all, it‟s a good start, and when Louis

settles down on Friday evening with Duchess and a takeaway, he‟s not

unhappy with himself.

It‟s his life, and it‟s mostly quiet nights alone and the places where

bitterness made him harder years ago, but it‟s all right, and he does his

best to ignore the stagnant feeling in his stomach.

Louis isn‟t sure why, in a world that contains iPhones, basic sound

equipment still requires enough cords to strangle an average-size ox.

Surely this should have been sorted out by now. Surely there are

9

scientists who could be using their science to fix this. Surely that is

what science is for.

Niall brought the speakers by, wheeling them in on the AV cart, and

then returned with a giant cardboard box. “Anything you need should

be in there somewhere,” he said, probably perfectly aware of the hell he

was casting Louis into. The bastard.

Fifteen minutes later, Louis is still digging through the box, looking for

the cord to connect his laptop to the speakers. He‟d planned to play

some songs from La Boheme and Rent so his students could compare

the two interpretations, and he would be damned if they were going to

listen to opera through his shitty laptop speakers. Some things are

sacred.

Some sacred lesson plans are going to have to be scrapped, though, if

he can‟t find the goddamned cord he needs. The box is half as tall as

Louis himself, and he‟s bent nearly double, hunting through the dozens

of seemingly-identical black wires that remain.

After an eternity, he spots what he thinks is the right cable, all the way

at the bottom. Thank the sweet USB-compatible baby Jesus. Holding

his glasses on with one hand, he reaches, reaches, brushes it with his

fingertips, and……loses his balance, his torso falling into the box, his

legs flailing above him before tipping over and carrying him through

what is almost certainly the least graceful somersault of all time. He

lies there for a moment, sprawled on his back, his upper body and head

still inside the box and covered with speaker cables. The cord he needs

is draped over his face. Mocking him.

“Um, you all right in there?” says a voice, obviously holding back

laughter.

There is a person in his classroom. A witness to his current state. Louis

stares at the roof of his cardboard cube of shame and considers

remaining in this box for the rest of his life.

10

No. This will not do. A Tomlinson never admits defeat.

“Yes, perfectly all right!” he says cheerfully. “That was entirely

intentional.” He begins to shimmy out of the box with what he assumes

can only be the utmost agility. “Gymnastics, you know. Working on

my floor routine.”

Free of his recyclable prison, he looks up to see who has caught him in

this predicament.

Oh. Oh.

Louis is struck with the sudden urge to light himself on fire. His would-

be rescuer is a young man, which Louis had known from the voice, but

he had not been prepared for this. Dark curly hair, green eyes, and a

smile that Louis likes so much that he feels slightly violated. And no

one should look that good in a plain white t-shirt and cargo shorts. He‟s

leaning against the doorway to Louis‟ classroom, staring at him.

Louis blinks. He‟s still there. Self-immolation is looking more and

more appealing. At least Zayn could flirt with that hot fireman he‟s

obsessed with over Louis‟ smoldering remains. Some good could come

of this yet.

Louis has never seen this person before in his life. He is sure of that. He

would remember.

He pulls up his braces, which have fallen on one side, and fumbles for

words that won‟t make him sound like a complete idiot. What comes

out of his mouth is, “Who the fuck are you?”

Smooth, Tomlinson. Very nice.

The newly-discovered bane of his life just laughs—Jesus, he‟s got

dimples—and pushes away from the doorframe. “I‟m Harry,” he says.

11

“Was passing by, heard a crash, figured you might need a hand,” he

continues, holding out said hand to Louis. Louis grabs ahold, and Harry

pulls him up.

Somewhere between the ground and standing upright, Louis realises

that his legs are entirely entangled in cords, and he can do nothing but

look on in horror as his momentum carries him directly into Harry‟s

chest. It‟s a very nice chest. Broad, solid, warm. Oh, God. He should

have stayed in the box. He hadn‟t fully appreciated his time in the box.

He had been so young, so foolish.

Harry just laughs again and holds Louis upright by his waist with one

hand, and fuck, Louis hates him already.

“Hold still, we‟ll get you sorted,” he says. He drops to his knees and

gets to work untangling the cables around Louis‟ legs. Louis stares

stoically at the wall and refuses to contemplate the state of his life.

There is an extremely attractive stranger kneeling at eye level with his

crotch. No. Nope. Not going to process this information.

“There we go, almost free,” Harry says, rising to his feet with the end

of a cord in one hand. “Give us a twirl, then,” he says, tugging slightly

on the cable.

Louis complies, his ears burning, and pirouettes his way to freedom. If

he‟s going to be made to look ridiculous, he‟s not going to do it

halfway.

Harry outright giggles. “You‟ve got the gold medal in the bag, I think.”

Louis gives an exaggerated bow. “You‟re clearly a man of taste.” He

pauses a moment, shifting his weight. “Um, thanks for your help. Do

you think you could be convinced to, er, never tell anyone about this?

Ever.”

12

Harry just smiles his horrible smile. “Not a problem. I won‟t reveal

your routine to the Russians. You need any help with the rest of this?”

he asks, gesturing to the audio equipment. “I‟m handy with a speaker.”

The idea of spending another full minute in his presence makes Louis

want to rip off his own skin. “Oh, no, I think I‟m all right, thanks,” he

says hurriedly. “It was nice to meet you, Harry.”

“Nice to meet you too, Mr…” Harry trails off.

Louis briefly considers giving a fake name before remembering it‟s still

written across the damn board from the first day of school. “Tomlinson.

Louis,” he adds, holding out his hand.

Harry‟s grin widens. “Louis,” he says, grasping his hand. “I‟ll see you

around.” And then he‟s gone.

Louis lets out the breath he‟s apparently been holding the entire time,

and turns toward the box to find—or re-find, he supposes—the cord he

needs. This is all Niall‟s fault.

He nearly trips over himself again when a thought strikes. He asked for

my last name, not my first. Oh God. Oh no.

At lunch, Zayn shrugs off his concerns and continues shoveling chips

into his mouth. “He doesn‟t have to be a student. And anyway, the way

you described him? Sounds way too hot to be a teenager.”

Louis keeps his head buried in his hands. “Maybe he‟s just freakishly

developed.” He peers out between his fingers. “Who knows what the

hormones in our food are doing to the youth, Zayn.” He had been

ogling a student. A child. He had been contemplating the pectoral

firmness of a child.

13

Zayn reaches out and snatches a piece of grilled chicken from Louis‟

salad. Louis makes an outraged noise and bats at his hand, but to no

avail. “Hey, I‟m just protecting you from the hormones, man,” Zayn

says smugly, before popping the chicken into his mouth. “But back to

how you‟re probably going to prison.”

Louis groans and drops face-first into his salad.

He doesn‟t see the possibly hormonally-overdosed teen for two days,

and is beginning to think that he must have imagined the whole thing in

a concussed haze. Head injuries could cause hallucinations, right? Of

course they could. And you probably can‟t go to prison over

hallucinations.

He should have known his luck would run out eventually. He‟s walking

to his car Friday afternoon, contemplating whether it‟s going to be a red

or white wine kind of night, when a football comes careening into his

field of vision and hits his car squarely on the back bumper.

Normally he‟d be angry, but as it is he just slumps slightly in defeat.

He‟d probably be able to summon up more outrage if his car weren‟t

such a piece of shit. Or if he weren‟t so exhausted.

“Sorry! Sorry,” a voice says behind him. He does his best to put some

energy into a withering glare as he turns around, but his face drops into

something closer to “cornered animal” when he sees who‟s

approaching.

“Hey, Louis!” Harry says, all smiles and sweat. “I‟m really sorry about

that, the lads don‟t know what they‟re doing quite yet.” The lads. Louis

takes him in. Trainers. Football shorts. Another thrice-damned white t-

shirt. Christ in heaven, he‟s on the football team.

He starts composing headlines in his head. JOCK SHOCK! Local

teacher huge pervert, shunned forever.

“It‟s… it‟s fine,” he chokes out.

14

“Not really, since it‟s my job to make sure they don‟t embarrass

themselves,” Harry says, picking up the football. It‟s only then that

Louis sees the silver whistle hanging from a cord around his neck,