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Classes have really started to pick up momentum now that everyone‟s

had a couple of weeks to adjust to new people and new schedules. He

can hear Niall putting the brass section through their paces when he

passes the orchestra room, already preparing for their autumn concert,

and Zayn won‟t shut up about the unit he‟s doing on Wordsworth,

which is almost worse than when he won‟t shut up about Liam. Even

Harry is starting to get serious about putting the lads through drills,

although he still takes the time to eat lunch with them every day.

For his part, Louis has chosen Much Ado About Nothing as his

Shakespeare, reasoning that it‟d probably be better to break the students

in on a comedy than one of the heavier plays. He‟s posted flyers

already, and he‟s holding auditions next month. Until then, though, he‟s

got classes to focus on as well. His strategy with teaching is to start the

year off with movement, the fun parts that loosen everybody up and

make the kids actually want to show up for class, and then gradually

segue into scripts and writing assignments. He made the mistake of

trying to open with fundamentals of theater theory in his first year as a

teacher, and he thought he was going to off himself by the time they

were trudging through Othello. Let no man say Louis Tomlinson does

not learn from his mistakes.

Today, he‟s sitting on his desk again, supervising one of his classes as

they try to make it through a group improv exercise. It‟s actually

hilarious, really. The kids are still learning, and there are a lot of

awkward pauses and panicked expressions, but they really are trying.

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Up now is Stuart Standhill, imitating a drunk wildebeest to the best of

his ability. He turns out to be brilliant at this game, which Louis was

expecting. He‟s worked with Stuart in his plays before. The boy has a

natural gift for drama and excellent comedic timing. That‟s not really

what Louis is watching, though.

Louis watches him bound across the floor, hands above his head,

stretching himself up to the laughter of his classmates like a plant in the

sun. He smiles a little to himself, but it‟s almost painful to watch,

because he knows. He knows, and it feels like being an immobile

spectator in his own memories.

He remembers two years ago, when Zayn rang him after school

sounding absolutely wrung out and told him about how he had to break

up a fight in the boys‟ room on the second floor, how poor Stuart

Standhill had had the shit beaten out of him by two of the boys in his

year. He remembers how Zayn told him the kid had begged him not to

report it, and Louis understands that so well. He remembers what it‟s

like to just want so badly to be normal, and he‟d believed too at that

age that turning in the people who hurt you just let everyone else know

that you deserved to be hurt.

He‟s seen Stuart in the halls and on his stage plenty since then, seen the

way he is around his friends and the way he is in his classes. He was

quieter when he was younger, but in recent years he‟s become a new

person, all jokes and funny faces and high energy all the time. Louis

knows that particular song and dance all too intimately, spent most of

his teen years hiding behind that line of defense. He remembers that

constant restless energy, trying so hard to be the loud one or the funny

one so that nobody would notice the other way he was different. You

only get one identity at that age, and you can‟t be “the gay one” if

you‟re already “the class clown.”

Stuart‟s doing his best, really making a go of it. He has a girlfriend

every once in a while, a close friend that he‟ll suddenly be holding

hands with in the halls and kissing by her locker. For the most part,

though, Louis can tell that everyone sort of knows. The girls treat him

like just another one of their friends, the one who knows six ways to

make the uniform jumpers look less tragic and touches up their hair for

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the spring musical before he reports for mic check. The boys seem torn,

half-fascinated by the brilliance of his personality and half-wary of

something they‟d never say out loud, or at least not in front of him.

Louis knows Stuart must just pretend not to think about it and pretend

not to know it himself, keeps hoping that one day he‟ll try hard enough

and it‟ll work and everything will be fine.

Sometimes Louis wonders how long the similarities will last, wonders

if Stuart‟s life is going to end up exactly like his own. He wonders if

Stuart will finally stop lying to himself when he‟s eighteen, if he‟ll cry

into his mum‟s jumper when he tells her and if there‟s anybody at home

who‟ll take care of him. He wonders if he‟s already had that first awful

crush on a straight friend who loves him in every way but the right one.

Louis almost hopes he has, hopes he‟s gotten that rib-cracking

frustration out of the way early enough that it won‟t follow him out of

his teens. He wonders if, when the time comes, the relief of finally

being out will make Stuart a little reckless for the first few years too, if

he‟ll end up with his heart broken enough times that he starts holding

people at a safer distance. If he does, he‟ll be well prepared, ready to

fall back into those old habits of keeping his guard up all the time. He

wonders if Stuart will be just like him by the time he‟s twenty-five, a

jaded cat owner whose last five shags were meaningless one-night

stands that he only halfway enjoyed.

And the thing is, he wants to help him so badly. He wants to sit the lad

down behind closed doors and tell him that this won‟t make him happy,

that the parts of him that are bright and safe aren‟t the only parts of him

worth showing people. But he knows that if somebody had done that to

him at that age—if somebody had reached in and shattered the illusion

that he was fooling anybody—it probably would have destroyed

whatever small sense of security he‟d had. It would have sent him

retreating back into himself or lashing out, horrified that somebody had

seen right through him.

Plus, if he‟s honest, he doesn‟t know how to convince someone of

something that he‟s not quite sure of himself.

So he watches, and he does what he can. His class and his productions

are safe spaces for everyone, Stuart included and especially. Or at least,

they‟re as safe as Louis knows how to make them. He hears a couple of

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lads in the back of the class talking about Stuart once and tells them

they can each do an extra hundred pages of reading for the next day,

since they seem to have so much free time on their hands. He knows

that they‟ll just keep talking outside of his classroom, but he‟ll be

damned if it happens within those walls. He doesn‟t have any delusions

of being able to fix anybody‟s life, but he won‟t let it get worse right in

front of him.

And he waits for Stuart to maybe, one day, come to him. He‟s one of

the youngest teachers at the school, and he‟s got a reputation as being

one of the more open-minded ones. Even if Zayn claims that directing

sometimes turns him into “a prick of volcanic proportions,” he‟s fairly

well-liked, at least by the Island of Misfit Toys that constitute his

drama students. He tries his best to make it clear that he‟s a person his

kids can talk to, and he hopes that‟s enough.

“And, scene!” Louis shouts, hopping down from his desk. Stuart

freezes in the middle of an elaborate drunk wildebeest mating dance.

Louis kind of just wants to pat him on the head. “Good work today, all

of you. Not afraid to push boundaries. I like that. Maybe no more jokes

about the headmaster‟s Y-fronts though, Miss Harrison.” He points to a

freckly girl near the front, who just shrugs in response, and Louis

suppresses a grin. His kind of girl. “That‟s all the time we‟ve got for

today. Give yourselves a hand.”

The class applauds and starts gathering up their things and filing out,

still laughing about the best bits of the game amongst themselves.

Stuart‟s one of the last ones out, arm around Shelley Harrison, and

Louis gives him a small nod as he passes. Stuart blinks at him, unsure

of how to respond, and then he‟s off down the hall and Louis is left

standing in the doorway watching himself from nine years ago head off

to lunch.

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It took Harry about a day to figure out that Louis has a free period after

lunch, and he‟s been coming around every day ever since. Sometimes

he just sits quietly while Louis grades papers or works on lesson plans,

but most of the time they‟re talking, constantly talking, curled up to this

new warmth of each other‟s company.

Louis learns that Harry is originally from Holmes Chapel, but he ended

up alone in Manchester when one of his friends promised to let him

move in but then got a work transfer at the last minute. He dropped out

of uni when he was nineteen and tried his hand at a couple of different

things—baking, law classes, singing in a band—but none of them ever

quite worked out for him. In the end he kept coming back to

photography, so he decided to make a go of it for real. He‟s in his last

year of school now, taking photography classes at a university nearby

in the mornings. He‟s got his eye on a couple of internships, one in

London that he seems particularly interested in, but he talks about it

like he doesn‟t think he really has a chance at it. The friend he was

supposed to move in with in Manchester is friends with the head P.E.

instructor, and he‟d felt so bad about leaving Harry without a place to

stay that he‟d set him up with the coaching job to help him pay the rent.

It's easy to tell that Harry loves photography; he's constantly snapping

pictures of things, either with his phone or on the massive camera he

carries around sometimes. Louis learns quickly to dodge out of the

way, ducking out of frame when Harry lifts his camera to take a picture

of him for no apparent reason. When Harry asks him why he just

shrugs. "Doing you a favor, Harry. I'm so beautiful I'd shatter the lens.

Should be thanking me," he says with a wink, and Harry leaves it at

that, for the most part. Still, Louis stays vigilant, even as he starts

collecting facts about Harry.

He learns that Harry loves mushrooms but hates them on pizza, that

he‟s completely serious about Love Actually being his favorite movie,

that he‟s twenty-three years old and has somehow managed to make it

this far in life without developing a casual distaste for everything and

everyone around him like Louis has. He still likes to bake things when

he‟s happy. He has a sister he loves and a mum he phones every day,

and Louis is the first friend he‟s made since he moved to Manchester.

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He has more than 20,000 songs in his iTunes, half of which are by

bands Louis has never heard of. One afternoon, after Harry plays Louis

five songs in a row that he claims are his “favorites” and Louis doesn‟t

know a single one, he seems to reach the end of his rope.

“That‟s it,” he says, slamming his iPod down with a forcefulness that

has Louis concerned for its well-being. “When the festivals come

around this year, we are going, and you are going to be educated

whether you like it or not.”

“I‟m really not sure that‟s necessary—” Louis starts, but Harry cuts

him off.

“Trust me. It‟s necessary. We are going to Leeds Fest, I am choosing

what acts we watch, and you are going to listen to songs that don‟t have

dubstep remixes or verses from Pitbull in them.”

Louis chews on his pen. “I‟m pretty sure if you look hard enough on