#iycrmml

[dollarbin]

Dollar Bin #15:

Gordon Lightfoot's Summer Side of Life

Forget Dylan going electric; let's talk about when Gordon Lightfoot did it.

I said so early on in our quest through the Dollar Bin, but I'll repeat it here: Gordon Lightfoot is The Lord of the Dollar Bin. He dwells there and holds the title because he recorded a zillion albums in the 60's and 70's that people are too dumb to seize.

Why don't they get seized? Maybe it's his perm; or maybe it's his occasional corpulence or his often regrettable mustache: Gordon always used his album covers to show off his latest look, and I'm not sure that was the best call.

Consider the cover for Dream Street Rose. Gordon presents himself as the stepdad you keep a leery eye on, the mechanic you supervise, the dentist you keep your mouth shut for, the first guy to get bounced out of the bar. He sure doesn't look like someone you should invite onto your turntable. He might knock it over.

His male peers were either handsome and/or goofy enough to grace their covers (Bob Dylan is a handsome dude and a goof; Bruce Springsteen is freaking hot) or they were smart enough, most of the time, to focus their album covers on something other than their gangly looks (here's looking at you Neil Young!).

But don't be fooled by Gord's covers; every Lightfoot album, from the greatest hits collection Gord's Gold (for which he wears the most pleather of jackets) to Back Here On Earth (for which he sniffs a daisy, sensitivey) is a Dollar Bin steal. And Summer Side of Life is a Dollar Bin behemoth.

Summer Side of Life came out on the heels of what most Gordos (that's what you can call the most serious fans of Gordon, like me) consider his masterpiece, 1970's Sit Down Stranger (which was reissued almost immediately as If You Could Read My Mind). That record saw him do more than offer up one of the greatest songs ever written (that would be, of course, If You Could Read My Mind; and if you don't consider that song to be one of the greatest songs ever written, please, reader, read my mind: you are wrong.) 1970 also saw Lightfoot pivot up to Neil's own Reprise Records, and with the move you can hear him beginning to trade his humble Canadian penchant for simple folk-country production for the orchestration and grandeur one associates with "serious" 70's artists.

Take a listen to his expanded palate on Poor Little Allison. The guy who once lived off rice, beans and brewskies has ordered up some guac.

So, let's call Sit Down Stanger/IYCRMML his version of Bringing it All Back Home: new instruments come in, and there is even a whisper of drums in the mix, but he's not ready/allowed to leave his winning folky formula behind for good.

Summer Side of Life, recorded in late 1970, is where Gord puts his foot down and declares full revolution, complete with bayonets, cannons and intrigue; Summer Side of Life is therefore his Highway 61 Revisited. Is it as good as that? No. Nothing is! But Summer Side of Life is awesome enough for the analogy to (mostly) hold up.

Let's go song by song on this edition of the Dollar Bin, and thereby demonstrate that Gord is indeed gold.

Side 1.

The record opens with a reminder that Lightfoot likes to write about the weather. The sleigh bells in his classic Song for a Winter's Night take us out into the glistening snow; and of course he knows all about the Early Morning Rain. And so we are instantly comfortable and hooked by 10 Degrees and Getting Colder.

And the characters! By verse two I'm already anxious about the roving musician who's trying to get home to mother. Listen for the tambourine to come in, especially during the bridge. No one is playing the Moog or a sitar here, but Gord's already on track to redefine his signature sound.

And then we come to the second track, Miguel. Drop the needle immediately on Gord's passionate, stirring and straight-up lovey rewrite of Spanish is the Loving Tongue.

Was Gord reading All the Pretty Horses while he wrote this? Hell no; that book came out 20 years after this song. Rather, Cormac McCarthy must be a big deal Gordo. Feel free to skip the novel, says I. You can just listen to Miguel instead.

The third track, Go My Way, is classic Lightfoot: three minutes of note perfect confectionery. It's like eating cream puffs while drinking beer. They're good together!

And then there's the title track. The omnipresent Kenny Buttrey shows up in a big way on Summer Side of Life, reminding us that this is a Nashville Record. What doesn't good old Kenny play on from this era? Was he the only drummer in Nashville? His Wikipedia page must be as long as Chewbacca's. They're both in everything, and they are always driving the beat/spaceship. They even kinda look alike!

But the real jedi master on Summer Side of Life is Richard Haynes on bass. He sounds like Jaco Pastorius here, and that dude was probably about 6 years old at this point. Listen to Haynes riff above the melody rather than dwell passively below.

I love this track. Everything swells and sways. Gord was always too polite to write anything abrasive and reckless to compete with Like a Rolling Stone. But I'd argue songs like this one show he could write on an epic scale all the same. I'd be good with this song playing, alongside Carefree Highway, on giant speakers while my grandkids spread my ashes about in the backyard while cracking jokes about their crazy grandpa. Check that. I'll be stoked if that's what happens.

I suspect that the next track, Cotton Jenny, is why this record is not considered a masterpeice on par with IYCRMM. There's nothing wrong with the track - the arrangement is dense and complex and, when compared to what Dylan had done early that year to Little Sadie in a studio next door, the song is utterly masterful - but the melody falls into Gord's bubblegum category alongside other Lightfoot lightweights like Rainy Day People and Boss Man.

Perhaps it's because of Cotton Jenny's upbeat, sing-song riff that it was chosen as the only song from this record, other than the title track, to appear on Gord's Gold.

For anyone out there who doesn't own Lightfoot records and yet is, bizarrely, still reading this: Gord's Gold is your best first purchase. The Dollar Bin has plenty of copies, despite the fact that I routinely buy the record for my friends. I just feel like everyone deserves a copy.

I came of age listening to Gord's Gold. My buddy Eric and I would jubilantly declare our own bedtime long after midnight during our middle school sleepovers by blasting his dad's copy of disc 1. Lightfoot's trembling vibrato served our teenager idea of irony well when paired with our favorite song of that era, Dinosaur Jr's The Wagon.

Purberty was dropping our voices in its uniquely erratic fashion at that point so singing along with good old Gordon about the Ribbon of Darkness checked every box of hilarity we needed.

But we'd fall asleep long before Cotton Jenny ever came on, and whenever I did make it that far in Gord's Gold I always found the track skip worthy. It was too happy, too pop-infused, too sweet. So when my wife brought Summer Side of Life home from the thrift store for me 6 to 10 years ago, I was polite but not stoked. I already had the song Summer Side of Life on Gord's Gold, and none of the other titles looked promising. Plus Cotton Jenny was on it.

However, my wife, for reasons best known to her, loathes Gordon Lightfoot. So her gift was a very generous one, even it had cost a grand total 50 cents. So I played it. No one else in the family cared too much, but I was instantly ashamed of having passed Summer Side of Life by in the Dollar Bin for 20+ years.

Let's all pause for a moment and acknowledge my sainted wife. She isn't Dylan girlfriend material: she doesn't cook, sew or make flowers grow for me; rather she is the greatest human in the history of humans. And she bought me Summer Side of Life.

Back to our song by song meander:

Happily, after we make it through Cotton Jenny, Gordon ends Side 1 with one of his greatest and least appreciated songs. You won't find Talking in Your Sleep on Gord's Gold, or even on any of the subsequent and expanded "best of" packages that followed. But it's a better love song than Softly or Beautiful and it's a worthy successor to the best story of strained love this side of Blood on the Tracks, If You Could Read My Mind.

Enjoy the perfect picking, sway along with Buttery's driving murmur, reach out for the pulsing bass, and then, midway through, marvel at The Jordanaires' odd, yet perfect, backing vocals. Slow down, my friends. Slow down and listen to Gordon Lightfoot calling out to us, lending each of us some pure Dollar Bin beauty on this fine Friday.

Side 2!

We open with a bilingual piece of grace, Nous Vivons Ensemble. I love hearing English speaking artists sing in French, a language I cannot count past un du tua in. Think of Leonard Cohen crossing that surreal, trembling border in The Partisan, or Sandy Denny explaining Dylan to French people in Si Tu Dois Partir. Remember Mick Jagger busting out his grammar school knowledge of the language in Brussels in 73 while he struts and sweats and whoops. Best yet, think of James McNew mangling the language and probably the entire culture on A Plea for Tenderness.

Lightfoot, alternatively, clearly speaks French well enough to write a song in the language, then warble it over a hunting piano borrowed from the Bryter Layter sessions. Hey Gord: Je vous aime. Like, totally.

And then there's Same Old Loverman. Yes, Gordon Lightfoot wrote a song with that title and he sings it with a straight face. It's pure and perfect schmaltz, and I love every note. Again, listen to the bass! There are two separate and glorious lines of it side by side in the opening, then again in the bass solo at the 2 minute mark. Yes, this song has a bass solo, and that allows Gordon ample time to drop in on seven separate ladies midsong. All of them swoon.

I find it incomprehensible that Dylan, who is a huge Gordo himself, has never covered this track. My Famous Brother is probably standing up and shouting at this moment that Dylan did indeed cover Same Old Loverman in February, 1996 while touring Sweden on the Neverending Tour. If that's indeed the case, spend me a link Bro! I'll bet Bob sounds like he's singing about a Sane, Bold Lumberjack. I hope he plays Handy Dandy directly afterwards.

Redwood Hill finds us suddenly in Cajun country; Lightfoot sets the stage for much of the rest of Paul Simon's career here by successfully dipping a beautiful big toe in a foreign genre for one single song before abandoning that genre and moving on. If I was a Ragin' Cajun I'd call this cultural appropriation. But I'm not Ragin' or Cajun, so I'm into it.

Love and Maple Syrup should be as awkward as the title, and the transition between verses is a bit clunky, I guess, but otherwise this is classic hometown Lightfoot. People in Gordon's hometown don't just talk about the home team, which is still on fire. They also contemplate the laws of nature and line up to rob the forest of her wine; everyone longs to be understood.

Three different times in the track there's a slightly unhinged guitar piece that Gordon doubles with his voice. Keep in mind that this was recorded pretty much at the same moment as Moondance and Stephen Stills' paean to all things terrible, Love the One your With. In 1970 Stephen Still was just beginning his reign of harmonic terror and Van Morrison was still figuring out what music could be made with his voice. Meanwhile, Gordon was recording his sixth album. Five years later Van the Man would record the greatest jazz/pop live record of all time by any grumpy, anti-vaccing white dude, but in 1971 Gord was his Dad. And Stephen Stills forever trembles before them both, cowering.

Cabaret ends the record and is its oddest song. The track definitely is not Lightfoot's Desolation Row, so my Highway 61 analogy has fallen on hard times at this point. But the song's title is apropos: this is really a collection of unrelated side by side performances rather than a unified song. Belle and Sebastian's future horn section jumps in and out early on; the guitar work initially doodles without any direction. It all sounds odd, especially for someone as finicky about arrangements as Lightfoot.

But then, mid-track, we find ourselves in a totally unrelated road song. We're on our way to Reno from north On-tar-I-0. And that's a long drive! I checked Google Maps and they refuse to even calculate the distance or drive time. But the bass is once again bubbling conversationally and we fade out of this wonderful record wishing we were taking an even longer drive with good old Gord.

Rest in peace, Gordon Lightfoot. Thank you for forever lording over the Dollar Bin; you made timeless beauty for us all to treasure.

[sammichiart]

Whatever we deny or embrace for worse or for better We belong, we belong, we belong together

----

Another colored piece from this, per request from @bcbdrums. 

[rosesforshego]

Hello, everyone! Here’s a little update in honor of my birthday today! Normally, I like to write a little one-shot/post a chapter to celebrate, but with my birthday falling on Easter this year (and a tight work schedule), I couldn’t finish chapter 9 of If You Could Read My Mind, Love in time. So, here’s a little snippet of the second draft instead! 

Happy birthday to me and happy Easter to those who celebrate it. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: the chapter is still being worked on. What you read here may not read the same in the final draft, but the sentiment behind the scene will remain consistent.

The morning sun illuminated the middle of the classroom, but abandoned the corners, leaving them shrouded in darkness—a certain type of darkness that was hard for Sheila to perceive as the shadows shifted along the walls. Quickly, she removed her gloves, allowing pieces of ash to slip from the cloth. Too enthralled by her fear, Sheila did not think twice about who may be watching and ignited her left hand. The fiery, green glow acted like a child’s nightlight; a very powerful and destructive nightlight that revealed the monsters that were potentially lurking around her, but, with one slip-up, could eradicate her classroom altogether.

She stepped forward, the sound of her sole against the tile deafened by her own heartbeat. This little dance that she played with the demons in her classroom, was truly ridiculous. She must have looked absurd—tiptoeing around her own space like a child, petrified of the monsters that lie underneath the bed. Even worse, as she drew closer to the middle of the room, she realized that she could have just turned on the lights instead of participating in this poor excuse for a low-budget, haunted house.

Michael always told her that if she were a character in a horror movie, she would be the first to die. Sheila always protested this accusation, believing that her will and wit were strong enough to push her through the most trying of times, but, as she extinguished the flame from her hand, she started to wonder if Michael was right all along.

God damnit.

Sheila exhaled, releasing the stale air she had been holding in her lungs. Most custodial staff had keys to the classrooms, so one must have forgotten to close and lock the door on their way out. See? Simple explanation.

At least, she thought, until she turned and spotted a brown paper bag on her desk that she certainly did not recognize.

[gothicthundra]

For the amazing @shegogogirl who has an AMAZING AU story I am in love with you should def read!

IYCRMML Link RIGHT HERE

[sammichiart]

I check my look in the mirror

Wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face

----

Another colored piece from this.

[sammichiart]

Remember this? Here are some of my favorite parts, colored.

These images are based on chapters from If You Could Read My Mind, Love: a Kim Possible Normal!Au fanfiction that is heavily inspired by songs from the 60s/70s/80s. In this, Drew Lipsky (Dr. Drakken) and Sheila Goodwin (Shego) are teachers at Middleton High School. If you're interested, you can read the first 8 chapters here, or on FFn/AO3 if you prefer (along with other Drakgo inspired fics).

[sammichiart]

it’s been a while, sheila 

[sammichiart]

red lights, stop signs

I still see your face in the white cars, front yards

can't drive past the places we used to go to

'cause I still fuckin' love you, babe.

[sammichiart]

19 years later. . . 

[rosesforshego]

𝓘𝓯 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓒𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓜𝔂 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓭, 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮  UPDATE:

First, I would like to apologize for the infrequent posts. Life has not been kind over the past few months, so most of my energy has gone into maintaining my grades and GPA. Unfortunately, I am still incredibly sick, but I’m hoping that the steps I am taking now will lead me down the road to recovery. 

Second, I am not giving up on fanfiction--in particular, If You Could Read My Mind, Love and The She-Ghost In My Lair. I want to get back to these soon because, not only do they spark joy in me, but I’ve seen your wonderful comments and I know that quite a few of you want this project to continue. I hear you and, in all honesty, I want to create it for you. There are so many things in store for these two fanfictions and I want you to take a seat next to me on this emotional rollercoaster. Though, my personal issue remains: I am a little hesitant to buckle into the seat solely because of my current condition. However, with the school semester coming to a close, I hope to have more free time to relax and write--to work on these fanfictions that lay near and dear to my heart. Unfortunately, I cannot guarantee anything, but, regardless, I will continue to work on these two fanfictions--little by little if I have to--to ensure that this content (and all of the crazy chapters I’ve conjured) reach you, my beautiful audience and friends. 

Third, thank you everyone for your patience during this time. The amount of love that I’ve received over these works has been astounding and I cannot describe how incredibly lucky I am to have captivated your attention and love for these characters. Truly, all of your kind words mean the world to me. So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. 

With that said, I come to you with a little present: the beginning to Chapter 9. This chapter doesn’t have a name yet, but it has direction, I just have to write it. For those of you who are itching for new Drew/Sheila (primarily Drew, in this case) content, please take this little snippet as my gift to you.

I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: the chapter is still being worked on. What you read here may not read the same in the final draft, but the sentiment behind the scene will remain consistent.

August 30th, 2002 6:15am

A sweet, boisterous hum filled the vacant classroom, bringing with it a sense of life into the dull, diluted atmosphere. He listened to it—the sound of his own voice—as it reverberated off of the walls plastered from floor to ceiling with outdated posters, reminding him of better days gone by. Yet, as the morning sun’s rays cascaded upon his chipper form, the idea that the décor of the classroom will soon be graced by Sheila’s expert touch instilled a sense of hope for a brighter future.

A future with her in his life. Someone to laugh with, to cry with, to support during hardships and to trust in his most vulnerable moments.

A friend.

Drew’s fingers anxiously fiddled with the paper bag that sat between his digits. The material crinkled at his touch, replacing the honey-laced hum with a chaotic clamor that was not enticing to his ears. But he did not flinch. Instead, he carefully placed the bag upon Sheila’s messy desk. As the contents inside it settled onto the surface, a wave of relief flooded him as his home-made meal reached its final destination.

Curiously, as one hand released the bag, the other grazed the slew of ripped paper that littered the desk. From the few conversations they had, Drew knew that Sheila was a little scatter-brained, but, as he started to piece together the strips of notes, he slowly started to piece together the destitute version of his colleague.

1.      Pick up meds for the twins.

2.      Get the carpet cleaned.

3.      Fix the leaking pipe.

4.      Remember vending machine money.

5.      Check up on Dan.

The rusty gears in Drew’s mind turned as he pieced together the foreign messages, similar to the intricate puzzles that he once completed with his mother. Though, instead of beautiful landscapes, the pieces to this puzzle shared with Drew a few aspects of the chaotic hell that held Sheila’s life its prisoner. Little fragments to remind Sheila of her duties and obligations outside of the classroom deepened the forming frown that plagued Drew’s once cheery disposition.

He shouldn’t be snooping—what Sheila did outside of school was none of his concern—but he couldn’t look away, too enthralled by the nature of the notes to leave the torn pieces of paper in good conscious. He was determined to crack the code of this walking enigma. But as he started to piece together item number seven—get the hell out of this place—Drew figured that it would be in his best interest if he didn’t know her secrets.

His palm swatted at the fragments, setting the pieces back into the disarray in which he found them.

[rosesforshego]

𝓘𝓯 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓒𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓜𝔂 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓭, 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 5: ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ɢᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ

August 26th, 2002 2:30 pm

CRACK.

Sheila’s knees crashed onto the steady tile below her; her pants wiped away black marks left by her last class. She winced as a sharp pain shot from her knee to her thigh as her weary eyes remained fixated on a lone gum wrapper, stuck to the dirty floor by a piece of chewed gum.

Oh, you’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me.

With one hand resting upon her sore thigh, the other pinched the wrapper between her gloved fingertips. The wrapper clung onto the gum for dear life as she separated it from the unconventional adhesive. It maintained its attachment as a few strands of the sticky substance offered a bridge between the paper and the gum that remained embedded in the floor. Sheila, unable to contain her disgust, turned her head away from the grotesque scene. How could any human be this gross?

A sharp intake of a long-awaited breath pierced her lungs as she held back a violent gag. Carefully, she folded the wrapper to trap the strands of chewed gum inside of its original tinfoil exterior, praying that the spit-covered substance wouldn’t stain her new gloves. She remembered the contorted features of an annoyed senior who sat at the desk above her—Amelia—a popular socialite with a blatant disregard for others. Sheila’s shoulders hunched as her free hand recoiled from her thigh. She remembered the distinct smack of Amelia’s lips as she chewed on the gum that had made its way to the dusty floor. This senior, a student she barely knew, had gone out of her way to make Sheila’s job difficult out of what? Spite?

What had Sheila ever done to her?

She turned to face a broken pencil—splintered wood and broken led littered the tile. A small rumble, that slipped past her throat in the form of a groan, escaped her. That was her good pencil, given to Michael in good faith. Did he step on it? The dirt that took on the vague shape of a shoe suggested so. She knew this student well, “Big Mike” the others would call him. She’d see him in the halls, lonely, lost even. Sheila felt for him. But, as she cradled the splintered wood within her palm, Sheila forgot about the unrelenting torment he endured within the hallowed halls. Though, with a reputation like Big Mike’s, she could understand his frustration. Her features softened as her innate, empathetic nature regained its control. She shook her head, dumping the contents in her hand onto a ripped syllabus she had used as her dustpan. It was a shame that he had to take it out on the newbie and her property. She was not sure what the other students’ excuses were.

As she gathered the remnants of her syllabus that was strewn across the floor, the corners of her lips settled into a deep frown. Her brothers fought her pessimism by whispering sweet nothings into her ear, filling her with a false sense of optimism—and she believed them. She believed that her transition from substitute to full-timer was going to be a smooth one. She believed that her students, her children, would welcome her to Middleton High with open arms. These ideas, coupled with her endless passion, had conjured a false reality within her mind—a fantasy that disintegrated as the first vulgar swear barreled in her direction. She was a fool to believe them. She was a fool to so much as think that she would have it easy. She should stop pleading for Life to give her a break for, with each passing day, Sheila had slowly realized that Life does not care about her. The next step was to accept it.

Her lips curled into a vile grimace as she placed the gum wrapper on her paper dustpan. She remembered the smiling faces of her students who warmly greeted her that very morning, which instantaneously morphed into devilish looks that she could not decipher at her exciting announcement. Slowly, her beloved children, possibly possessed by demons, turned into beings of chaos. From back-talk, to complete and utter disregard for her authority, these friendly faces were paired with despicable and unwarranted behavior, which perplexed her. If only she had the answers to the questions that nagged her.

Though, what seemed to weigh upon her mind the most was not the trash, or the skipping of her class, or the general bad attitude. It was the snickers that her attuned ears would catch as she turned her back to the class; the whisperings of ill-will upon her; the jokes, the shaming, and the wishes to rid of her presence. She was unwanted—unloved. Her students wanted her gone, or wished that she was merely a low-life, substitute again. As the welcoming atmosphere coldly shifted to one of disdain, disappointment and subtle anger—especially in the students who were forced to take Intro. to Psychology to graduate—jabbed at Sheila’s sense of self-worth. A piece of the syllabus ripped in her hand as her fingers encapsulated the flimsy paper within her fist. She did not deserve that type of treatment. It was unfair for her students to unleash their fury of frustrations upon her. But that was the life of a full-timer, wasn’t it? This is what she signed up for. Maybe she should have read the terms and conditions, first.

A slow creak of an old door gave way to delicate footsteps upon the tile but remained unnoticed by the woman crouched on the floor. Hot tears stung behind her eyes as the viscous liquid emerged from its hiding. Her vision, blurred by her tears, focused on the various knick-knacks of destroyed trash that she carefully lifted from the dirty floor. Caught up in her imaginative world, plagued by the detrimental experiences that she had endured, her heavy sigh masked the sound of shoe-upon-tile, that grew clearer as the figure of a man eerily crept upon the disheveled woman in front of him.

“Hello, Miss Goodwin.”

A sudden heat spread through her chest as her heart pierced her ribs. Startled, she dropped the trash and attempted to wipe away the growing tears with her sleeve before the salty liquid spilled onto her cheeks. Through the water that glistened in the fluorescent lights, she turned to the figure. A man, taller than she, surveyed the disaster that Sheila called her classroom.

“Rough day?”

A deep breath to soothe her beating heart escaped her nose as she turned towards the pile of garbage that she had scattered across the floor.

“Don’t get me started.”

His brows rested within the wrinkles of his forehead as the woman’s voice struggled to break free from the sorrow laced within her tone. A soft voice-crack gave him the information he needed to know—a rough day, indeed.

“Oh,” he interrupted, drawing attention away from her saddened stature. With a soft grunt, he knelt on the floor beside her, “let me help you with that.”

A side smirk, the first form of a smile that she had displayed that day, threatened to break through her sour demeanor. She was pleased by his offer of aid as she remained consumed by her mental distraught. Out of all of the full-time staff she had the pleasure of meeting, this man seemed to be the nicest.

Though, there was no reason for him to clean up after her students’ disgusting littering habits. That was her responsibility.

“No, it’s okay, I got it.”

She extended her hand towards the make-shift dustpan, but it was out of her reach before she could regain her composure.

“I insist.”

Blinking back a few straggling tears, she turned to face the man. His slim shoulder brushed against her own as he moved the syllabus away from her fingertips. A wide smile, plastered within wrinkles, reflected the fluorescents that illuminated their close bodies within the vacant room. And, as he moved away, the shadows that emphasized the strong structure of his cheeks shifted, highlighting the aged skin that sagged around the corners of his mouth, but his eyes remained transfixed on her own. His blue irises, which she found herself swimming in as if she were wading in the waters of the Mediterranean, instructed her to relax. Her shoulders slumped as her rear slowly descended to the back of her heels. Without uttering a word, she felt comforted by his presence—a comfort that she had not felt in a long time. 

He turned to sweep some dirt onto the paper, his slick, black hair shifting along his neck. Her lips tightened as she continued to study his features. He possessed an aura of familiarity about him. Then again, so did all the staff. She must have met him in passing. What was his name, again?

“Here,” he spoke. Sheila slightly shook her head to rid her thoughts. He didn’t notice. “I’ll clean. You pack your stuff.”

Wearily, Sheila raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Maybe he was being too nice.

“No, really, I—”

Before she could finish her protest, he tore a piece of the crumpled syllabus off of her pseudo dustpan and used it to pry the gum off of the floor, “Don’t worry about it, Miss Goodwin.”

“Sheila.”

“What?”

Her heart thumped. Caught off-guard by her abrasive response, she attempted to display a false sense of security to mask the uncertainty that re-established its role, seizing the forefront of her thoughts.

“You can call me Sheila.”

His faltered smile returned and Sheila nearly found herself accompanied by a sigh of relief. As the burn behind her eyes subsided, she returned the gesture—the smirk breaking free from its confines. It was the least she could do.

“Already on a first-name basis, are we?”

The statement elicited a larger grin from the green woman. Class clown, huh? She carefully rose from her position on the floor, leaving circles of displaced dirt from where her knees had rested. Two can play at this game.

She brought her gloved palms to her thighs as she wiped away the accumulated dust that nestled into the fibers of her slacks. She broke her gaze with the cheeky man as she turned to her desk; her legs carried her with long strides as she approached the bag that patiently waited for her on her padded chair.

“Almost,” her bag opened with a smooth zip. She shuffled a few objects to make room for the stack of papers that diligently sat on her desk, ready for her to take back to Lowerton.

“Remind me, what was your name again?”

He placed a calloused palm on his leg to push himself off of the ground as he answered with a cheeky smirk, “Dr. Drew Lipsky.”

Drew Lipsky. Sounded very familiar. Chemistry teacher, if she remembered correctly.

“Oooh~” she chided, eyes downcast as she shoved stapled packets into her bag, “a doctor! Mama must be so proud.”

Drew’s playful smirk faltered as he dumped the remnants of the syllabus into the trash can, “Well, I’m not a medical doctor—”

“Clearly,” she gestured to the classroom around him, her attention back on the man who subtly rolled his eyes at her statement. A soft “tch” escaped her parted lips while she watched his slender body carefully weave between cluttered desks. Under normal circumstances, his eye-roll would have peeved her, but she was the one who joked at his expense. She deserved it.

“She’s still proud though,” he retorted, a little more defensive than he would have liked as he made his way to the next pile of broken pencils, “I, however, am still paying my student loans.”

Sheila’s smirk, that imbued fraudulent confidence, contorted into a slight grimace. College was never a time she liked to look back upon—four years of betrayal, pain, and burnt bridges that she could never repair—but, due to her years of protecting Go City, the mayor offered to pay for her higher education. At least something good came from that job.

She peered at her new college as the slightest hint of remorse ghosted his features. She figured he wasn’t so lucky.

“Regretting that Ph.D., Dr. Lipsky?”

Fuck. No. She inhaled through her teeth; her eyes shut as her shoulders found their way to her neck. What the hell was wrong with her? That was not something she should say to a man who offered her aid in her time of need.

Sheila turned back to her bag, wishing that her superpower was to stop unruly comments from slipping past her lips. Damn it. He was sure to think ill of her naivety.

To her surprise, he remained. As unprompted as her off-handed comment was, Drew refused to abandon her. He remembered his first days at Middleton High and the wave of nerve-wracking uncertainty that came with it. He remembered when he had made his own slew of off-handed comments to faculty members who responded with open disdain for his presence. He remembered how awful he felt—a weight in his chest that kept him grounded, that would slow his movement by day and bring a resurgence of guilt by night. He didn’t want Sheila to feel the same pain.

He thought about her question—after all, it was still a question. Did he regret his Ph.D.? Maybe. While he enjoyed the additional education, Drew often pondered if it was worth plunging into a pool of debt for. Though, if the question was “if you had a chance to go back and change your decisions”, his answer would be “probably not”.

A slight shrug of his shoulders indicated his uncertainty, but it was only for his own amusement as Sheila’s gaze remained transfixed on the bag in front of her. Quietly, her gloved fingers pulled a piece of raven hair behind her ear, then returned to the stack of papers that she had haphazardly shoved together. The light above her shone upon her, rather interesting, skin—radiating a healthy glow, mixed with a tint of green. Drew blinked a few times, certain that his old eyes, that rested behind thick lenses, had played a devilish trick on him.

Following the line outlined by her hair, his gaze rested upon her tense shoulders. She was acutely aware of the way her question had rebounded off of the classroom walls and, while not a peep of an apology was muttered, he could see the remorse settling into her soul. Instead of continuing the painfully awkward topic that the conversation had turned to, he opted for a casual response.

“Please, call me Drew.”

Her head shot up, her gaze locking onto his own as his smile greeted her with a welcoming gesture that she craved. Her meek response was a weak grin, coupled with a half-hearted chuckle, as she zipped her bag shut, her belongings shuffling beneath the cotton prison.

“Okay. . . Drew.”

He approached her once more, dumping shreds of the broken pencil into the trash beside her desk. His shoulder found its place against the chalkboard behind her.

“Now are we on a first-name basis?”

A hint of playful laughter made a resurgence, “Officially? Yes. I’d say so.”

A faint chuckle rumbled within his chest. She was witty. He liked that. Quickly, he found himself enjoying her company.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to welcome the new-hire after all.

“So, Sheila,” he enjoyed the way her name rolled off of his tongue, “What compelled you to take this job?”

A small sigh heaved within the confines of her ribs. She could say that she needed a steady income, which would allude to her impoverished condition. She could say that she wanted to spend more time with the students, but then she’d seem needy. . .

“My love for psychology,” she decided as she tidied the trinkets that were left askew on her desk, “I always found the subject to be fascinating and, I dunno. . . I guess I’d like to pass my knowledge onto the next generation of psychologists.”

She concealed a scowl that threatened to form on her features. That was a stupid answer—a response any teacher would give. She turned to Drew, who leaned closer to her, hanging on to every word that left her.

He took the bait.

“Psychology is rather fascinating, indeed,” he concluded as his gaze shifted from the corners of her lips to the wall past her frame, “complex, yet alluring. Provides answers to some of life’s questions, while opening avenues for further exploration, just like any good discipline.”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. This man was a walking poem.

“I could argue that psychology is just as interesting as chemistry.”

She raised an eyebrow, her voice deepened, “Oh, really?”

Shoulder slumped further into the wall, his body relaxing as the conversation continued, “Of course. Chemistry may be my one true love, but I would deem psychology to be high on my list of subjects that pique my interest.”

Her suspicions were true.

“So, you are the chem teacher I subbed for last year.”

A slight shake of his head was his immediate response. He was taken aback by her sudden shift in tone but quickly regained his composure, “Y-yeah. I believe so.”

“Around December, right?” she copied his stature, her hand forming a limp point in Drew’s direction.

A glower seized his faded grin, “The flu. Don’t remind me.”

She dropped her hand; it rested by her side as her other arm slowly snaked around her waist, cradling herself against the chalkboard. She had heard horror stories as to how the seasonal flu wrecked the poor man.

“Well,” she mustered a cheery disposition to take his mind off of the sickness he struggled to overcome, “in any case, your students were a delight.”

“They tend to be,” he nodded in affirmation.

Sheila may not have known Drew by name, but she was always a witness to the rumors of the immense amount of love he held for his students. As his name, carried by whispers, ghosted the hallways, the students that she had met throughout her year and a half of substitute teaching spoke highly of him—often describing the positive impact he had made on their formative minds. The more information she gathered about Middleton High’s chemistry teacher, the more she admired his dedication.

Now, if only the students could say the same about her.

“Wanna switch?”

“Excuse me?”

Her shoulder dug into the chalkboard—dust brushing onto her blouse, “Wanna switch classes? I take your chem students, you take my psych ones?”

It wasn’t a serious question. . . at least, she didn’t think it was.

“Why?”

“So, you can work your Lipsky magic on them, or whatever it is you do to make them love you,” her fingertips ghosted her thigh as she lifted her hand towards her destroyed classroom, a hint of aggravation released into the air between them.

His gaze followed her gesture to the skewed desks he had neglected to straighten. A faint sigh, followed by a dejected “Oh. . .” quickly replaced the aggravation and hung in the void that laid between him and Sheila.

His worst fears were true—she was another victim of the initiation. How was he going to break this defeat to Steve without the big lug laughing in his puny face?

“Oh?” she questioned, returning his attention, “What do you mean by ‘oh’?”

“Listen,” he crossed his arms upon his chest as he watched her slender eyebrow raise at his vague continuance, “I’m sure you’ve heard, but Middleton has an. . . unconventional way of—quote, unquote—vetting new teachers.”

She squinted her eyes, distracted by his use of air quotes. Though, his rough explanation would explain her day from hell.

“It’s something that administration tried to ban a few years ago,” he continued, solemnly, as he refocused his gaze upon the clusters of desks that left scratches upon the once pristine tile, “I see it remains alive and well within your students.”

“Unfortunately,” she responded, repositioning herself against the green chalkboard. Her back landed upon the slab with a muffled thump; her eyes squinted as a deep groan rumbled in her chest. The metal chalk holder by the bottom of the board jabbed her hips, but she made no effort to move or display her discomfort, as she duly noted the way the desks were laid—strewn across the floor in confusing patterns that did not exist that morning.

Drew’s head pressed firmly against the dusty chalk as his lips formed a tight line that settled into his light wrinkles. He relaxed further into the wall that supported his frame.

“It sucks. I know.”

“You?” she spat, her voice abrasive against the thick, saddened atmosphere that encased her and her colleague, “Dr. Drew Lipsky? You understand?”

“Listen, Miss Lippy--,” he lifted his body from his comforting position as a section of his spine cracked.

She blinked a few times as she processed his words. Miss Lippy? That was new.

“—The students did the same to me back in ’96,” he continued with a blatant disregard for her confused expression.

Different students, but some traditions never changed, no matter how hard he tried.

“Oh, I—” boy, did she feel like a complete ass. Her body eased from the wall beside her as she followed his gaze to the muck on the floor. Her voice trailed away, fading into the stale air trapped within the classroom. If only she had known before opening her big, stupid mouth. 

“So, to answer your question, Miss Sheila Goodwin,” a side smirk parted his lips as his blue eyes searched her green irises.

Had they always been that blue?

“Yes, I understand.”

Sheila’s stature relaxed, her back hunched as she caught herself melting in his presence. Suddenly, she understood why he went out of his way to help her clean her classroom. As a hint of longing flashed within his piercing crystals, Sheila wondered if anyone had lifted him from the barrage of chewed gum and broken pencils left by his students. She bravely peered into the irises that looked upon her with a soft, almost sympathetic, gaze and came to her silent conclusion.

Probably not.

“Don’t let it get you down, though.”

Her brows furrowed. How could he remain so optimistic?

She opened her mouth to protest, but he continued, effectively stealing the worlds right from her.

“I understand that the first days are discouraging. But, from what little conversation we’ve had,” he crossed his arms once more, “you have a youthful spirit—a passion that drives your ambition. Use it to your advantage,” he tightened his grip on his arm, “and don’t let these experiences force you to abandon your dream.”

Just as they had nearly destroyed his.

“Is that a guarantee?” she asked, nearly pleaded.

“You survived your first day, didn’t you?”

He had a point.

She cocked her head to the side, a slight nod of affirmation.

“Then you’re already halfway there,” his pearly whites shone behind his thin lips to offer positive support for the newbie.

“If you can get through this first week, you’ll be golden.”

Sheila groaned, her body slamming into the chalkboard with a force she didn’t anticipate. She winced, slightly, at the impact, but maintained her exasperated attitude.

That was not the news she wanted to hear.

Drew shook his head. Youthful, she was. Youthful and seemingly impatient. Though, he was certain that she’d learn to value her worst experiences. At least, he hoped.

“Not sure if I can do that, Doc.”

Doc? How cute.

“Try,” he instructed. He’d hate to see her talent wasted because of some idiotic vetting program.

She huffed. No one told her what to do.

“I—”

“Sheila,” his voice calmer than she had expected, “the students—they rave about you. It’s obvious to the faculty that you’re the favored substitute, no matter what Steve says.”

A slight shade of pink rose to her flushed cheeks. The only compliment she had ever received happened to be an off-handed comment from Steve Barkin in passing. Though, as Drew had confirmed, she figured it was his jealousy that kept the wall standing between herself and her former, substitute colleague. But she felt a twinge of uncertainty settle as she continued to process his statement.

Sheila Goodwin? A favored substitute? It was hard to picture within the sea of her self-doubt.

“You think?”

“I know.”

Unknowingly, Sheila’s grin had widened, giving way to the teeth that laid behind her lips, as her shoulders lifted—turning her relaxed stature into a sheepish one. Sheila was never one to take compliments well—she’d either reply with a snarky comment or she’d turn into a crumpled version of herself as her internalized shy nature would seize control. And, since the conversation was thickly laced with her, albeit, regrettable sarcastic comments, she opted for the latter.

Drew watched the witty woman shrivel in front of him. How peculiar, she was. An enigma. A puzzle worth solving.

As her grin widened, he couldn’t help but return the gesture. Conversing with Sheila was pleasant—much more pleasant than the others who occupied the teacher’s lounge. Maybe he could find a friend outside of his niche group of science teachers. The proposition looked promising as her gaze returned to his own.

His grin faltered. He shouldn’t get ahead of himself. They had only just officially met; it was too soon to find friendship. Though, as her softened, emerald irises peered into the depths of his soul, he found her charm to be irresistible. For the first time since college, he wanted a friend.

A friend named Sheila Goodwin.

A subtle growl waved his thoughts away, the words within his mind dissipating into the air. Sheila quickly peered at her abdomen as her arms lifted from her frame. She then turned to Drew, hoping that he hadn’t noticed.

“You hungry?”

He had.

“Oh, uh, y-yeah,” she stuttered, peeling her arm from the wall, moving to grab her bag that awaited her return. It was getting late; she should make dinner.

Her stomach growled again, a little louder this time, as the image of sticky, empty shelves in a dimly-lit refrigerator reminded her of her negligence towards her own needs.

Great. Whatever. She’ll order take-out again. No big.

“Here.”

She turned towards a hand that had been thrusted in her direction. Within it sat a sandwich.

“It’s ham and cheese.”

She followed the hand, connected to an arm that brought her back to the smiling face of Drew Lipsky.

“Oh, no, I—”

“I insist,” he nudged her with his knuckles, “I’m not going to eat it, anyway.”

“Oh, well,” she hesitated for a moment, which prompted Drew to pry her free hand open, carefully, gracefully, transitioning ownership of the fresh bread and deli-meat to her gloved fingertips.

Now this? This, he didn’t have to do.

“Thank you, Drew.”

“Anytime,” he retracted his hand to close his lunch box. “Listen, I have to go,” he gestured towards the door with his thumb, “But, before I do, just remember—”

Sheila held the sandwich within her palm, her fingers digging into its flesh as she anticipated his words of wisdom.

“Give the students a chance to prove themselves as good students, and they’ll give you the chance to change them for the better.”

The sandwich brushed against her lips, “You sound like you speak from experience.”

“Don’t get me started. . .”

[rosesforshego]

𝓘𝓯 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓒𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓜𝔂 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓭, 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 1: ᴏɴᴇ-ᴅʀɪɴᴋ-ᴅʀᴇᴡ

“ August 23rd, 2002 8:00 pm

A bead of sweat. A pounding headache. Fingers laced as they caressed smooth glass within the palms of his hands. 

 Drew Lipsky wished that he was anywhere but here.”

He rested his drink on his thigh; the condensation seeped through his jeans, leaving its signature—a perfect ring—on the fabric as the liquid penetrated the woven threads. The angelic touch of the accumulated water soothed the sweltering skin that laid beneath a thick layer of denim. Drew's lips curled into a slight smirk. James often commented on Drew's lack of appropriate summer attire, but the clumsy man could not bear to present the monstrosity beneath his jeans—one that took on the form of burns that littered his calves. He often found himself too afraid that a stranger's perception would mistake him for a self-experimenting, mad scientist. Or a masochist. Either way, it was not an ideal image, so he'd rather his skin suffer the heat before broadcasting his scars to the world. He wouldn't have it any other way.

With a heavy sigh, Drew gently closed his eyes. The putrid smell of sweat and alcohol that had long since dissipated into the air penetrated his tiny corner, contributing to the throbbing pain in his skull. Anyone could tell that Drew was unhappy, but no one cared to notice. Not like they had acknowledged his presence, anyway. And, as he slipped his frame deeper into the shifting shadows of the room, Drew performed a vanishing act that would mystify even the most talented magicians.

A deep frown etched into his rugged features. His fellow science teachers, the ones he had graciously adopted into his heart's family, were the little bastards that convinced him to attend this pitiful excuse for a retirement party. The whiny pleas for his presence struck a chord with Drew, yet, despite the never-ending celebration of successfully yanking Dr. Lipsky away from his dutiful work, he had concluded that his friends had drowned in the sea of faculty that stood before him. Never to be seen again. Or, at least, until Monday.

He knew it was a mistake to attend, but as the glass that he clutched between his calloused fingers emptied its contents into his parched mouth, he realized that he didn't seem to mind. He was an observer and took pleasure in the art of people-watching, especially if the "people" happened to be his inebriated colleagues. How funny they were—spewing bullshit, laughing at their own, crummy jokes as they bumped shoulders in the cramped space that Dr. Everett Birch called "home". A puff of air silently escaped Drew's nose. Quite a cute home it was, decorated from floor to ceiling with the ugliest wallpaper that Drew had ever laid his eyes upon. But, hey, it added character. And, as Drew gently grazed his fingers against the bumps of the structure that supported his frame, it became increasingly obvious that this house had a history. A beautiful history. One that Drew was curious to know. If only the walls could talk. Maybe they could keep him company.

His trailing fingers retracted from the cool slab, a piece of the wallpaper departing with them. What a silly thought, "if walls could talk". How sad—a man of his standing wished to socialize with a wall. A wall could not discuss intricate theories. A wall could not understand the complexity of his deepest regrets. A wall could not speak, for crying out loud. Yet, it listened. Or, at least that's what Drew liked to believe.

When did he become so lonely? So pathetic? So—

"Did you hear 'bout the new meat starting on Monday?"

His eyes shot open—irises locked in a piercing gaze towards the small group of people who remained huddled within earshot.

The English department. Always gossiping.

Middleton High often prided itself on its prestigious establishment—at least, as prestigious as a public high school could be—but, sometimes, the faculty didn't reflect the school's supposed morals. Phrases, like new meat, that were often derived from the students' grueling "initiation process", were spewed haphazardly between educators as if it meant nothing. Empty words that held no purpose. But Drew understood the damage that this form of belittlement could cause to the victim of the slander. In this case, a new-hire.

Drew pressed his aching body further into the crevices of the wall behind him, hoping to slip away from the conversation that he had accidentally overheard. Each syllable that had escaped his acquaintances' throats drove a dull knife further into the core of Drew's very being. His chest heaved as a slight pang of sorrow seeped into the caverns of his heart, anchoring its roots with every irregular beat. A few fingers found their way to his sternum and gently pressed upon the flesh beneath his wrinkled shirt. It was incredible how a fickle feeling possessed a strong-hold over his organic body.

The fingers fell, carelessly landing upon his water-stained lap. The moisture that rose from the rings infiltrated the pores laced within the back of his hand, but he didn't seem to mind. Or pay much attention. Instead, his hand was left abandoned by his preoccupied mind while the other placed his beverage on the grimy windowsill. As the coolness of the drink left his touch, his mind begged to return to its brisk embrace, but Drew found himself simply tired of holding it. Though, as he watched the droplets of condensation race each other to the filthy surface, he wondered if leaving the drink to bore perfect circles into the hardwood was acceptable guest behavior. Drew flinched as the image of his mother's look of disgust vividly appeared. The dos and don'ts of proper guest etiquette were drilled into him at a young age: take your shoes off when entering the house, always say please and thank you, never place your drink on a surface without a coaster. As Drew's toes wiggled under the pleather confines of his loafers, he could only imagine the intense beratement that he would receive from his mother. If he were to leave that drink on the sill, he would have disrespected her teachings. No one disrespects Mama Lipsky and lives to tell the tale. But, as he surveyed the room, no one seemed to put much thought into the moral dilemma. So, why should he, right?

Wrong. He should care. Or, at least have the decency to. It wasn't his furniture to stain. It wasn't his house to destroy. Before the racing droplets reached their final destination, Drew's hand swooped in and abducted the beverage from its comfortable spot. He sighed, delighted. As another bead of sweat lazily grazed the side of his temple, the numbing liquid sent shockwaves of sweet relief. Drew was never a man who believed in God, but he thanked Him anyway.

"Drew, you're too good for your own good."

Drew flinched. The voice, deep and strong, shoved its way past his never-ending trail of incoherent thoughts. A voice that could only belong to one man. And, as a broad shadow crept upon Drew's diminutive self, he knew exactly who he would have the pleasure of entertaining this evening.

How Steve Barkin, of all people, could slip his line-backer shoulders through the crowd with such ease confused the much older, much meeker man, yet fascinated the scientist all the same.

Drew watched Steve slowly descend upon the spot where his drink has once rested. With a loud grunt and a flashy grin, Steve, a little reluctant to make eye contact with his superior, exchanged a half-hearted, silent greeting. Drew responded with an equal amount of enthusiasm; a hint of skepticism etched into the permanent frown lines between his eyebrows. Steve looked. . . unstable. . . as if the next gust of hot air could knock his muscular body to the floor. Surely, that would make a nice dent in Birch's hardwood, he mused. Yet, something about an inebriated Steve Barkin did not sit well with Drew. At least his colleague looked happy and, at first glance, Drew couldn't tell if it was because Steve was relishing in the opportunity to mingle with his fellow socialites, or because of the contents within his cup. Upon further inspection, he guessed the latter. Two-Drink-Barkin was a happy Barkin, so as long as the big guy could slow his alcohol consumption, then Drew could probably split the scene before he turned into Three-Drink-Barkin—an incoherent mess with an edge of violence.

Drew slowly shifted his position on the floor, slinking away from Steve as his beer-laced breath came too close for comfort.

"What are you talking about?"

Steve bellowed his signature laugh. Classic Two-Drink-Barkin.

"Don't think I didn't see you. You were worried 'bout your drink there," he pointed to the liquid in Drew's lap, which warranted a partly perplexed look from the chemist.

Steve sighed. Even in his sober state, he had difficulty deciphering the ancient language written within Drew's furrowed brows. This man was a mystery. It was rather frustrating and Steve found it nearly impossible to talk to his coworker—he was too intelligent. But Steve was already two drinks into the long night ahead; it wouldn't hurt to start a conversation with Drew Lipsky, he thought. Though, now he is starting to regret his decision.

Drew refused to say a word about the matter, so Steve continued with an accusation that he knew would guarantee a response, "You're worried about staining the sill."

Drew, surprised at Steve's observation, raised an eyebrow. How could he have known?

"Lipsky," Drew lowered his eyebrow, unamused, "you were lookin' at that thing like it was some. . . oh, I don't know, like a quantum physics theory or something—"

"Quantum physics theory?" He was a biochemist.

"Or something. I don't know, you're the scientist."

Damn straight he was. So, Steve should probably leave the use of such large words to the man who had his doctorate in the field.

"And you get that. . . look," Steve moved his finger in a circular motion, gesturing to whatever incomprehensible look Drew had given him, "when you're either observing an experiment or contemplating your morals, so, unless you're waiting for some sort of chemical reaction. . ."

"Well, how do you know it isn't?" Why did he feel the need to be so defensive?

"'Cause I saw you drink it earlier. If that's a chemical, I wouldn't want to drink it if I were you."

He had a point, "Touché."

Steve's grin widened, deepening his dimples. Sometimes, he had to celebrate small victories.

"Don't get cheeky."

Steve's smile quickly faded as he let a small scoff slip past his lips. The warmth of his breath mingled with the stale, suffocating air that surrounded the two men. The party was not pleasant, but they had suffered for this long for a reason. For Steve, it was the promise of free beer. For Drew? Steve was unsure.

Drew let his legs slip further away from the wall as his body slowly started its descent to the floor. His gaze remained fixated on the faculty who stood before him—their chatter an incoherent mess of white noise. As the corners of his mouth slowly rested in a frown, Steve's slightly inebriated mind focused on the intense wrinkles that rested around Drew's sunken eyes—the eyes that were once so inquisitive and vivid, now clouded by confusion and sorrow.

"Hey."

Steve's voice was barely audible against the thunderous clamor that filled the room, but it quickly seized Drew's attention. He slowly rolled the crown of his head against the wall, turning his attention away from the guests, but his eyes remained out of focus. Steve, unsure of what to make of the situation, felt Drew's gaze pass through him, but he wasn't about to let Drew's dejected spirit ruin the night.

"What's wrong?"

A lot. Stress, loneliness, the inability for walls to talk. Drew always had a lot on his mind, but, as the new school year was right around the corner, he found himself more distressed than he's ever been and the only outlet he had to pour his frustrations onto was his living room couch. That was his fault. When someone, like Steve Barkin, lent a helping hand, Drew never accepted. He didn't know how. He had prided himself on the ability to face his problems, so, in moments of quiet sobriety—where his mind often tore itself apart—he would remain adamant on his refusal to accept others' pity. He didn't need it. He was a big boy. He could survive hardships on his own.

He wasn't about to let Steve into his life. Not now, not ever.

So, he lied.

"Nothing. Just thinking about this party," Drew gritted his teeth, his jaw sore from clenching it throughout the night. He wasn't lying, just. . . bending the truth, a little. The party was despicable, even Steve could agree with that, but, while James may have been able to see past the wall that Drew had erected between him and those who lived outside of himself, Steve was none the wiser.

"Though," Drew turned his attention back to the scene that transpired before him, "I'm astonished at the turnout."

Steve's lip curved into a smirk as he fiddled with the cup between his palms, "All Birch had to do was make an offer we couldn't refuse."

"The alcoh—"

"The alcohol."

A faint huff left Drew's chest; the alcohol was the party's one saving grace. It's what kept the majority of the guests confined in this poor excuse for a house, owned by a colleague that no one particularly liked.

"Still," Drew leaned further into the wall, as if he were trying to hide from Steve within the obnoxious print, "One minibar and the entirety of Middleton High suddenly decides that it's worth it? We've never shown this man an ounce of humility throughout his twenty years. Why start now?"

"It's a powerful drug, and Lord knows we need it."

Drew merely nodded in agreement. While he may not partake himself, he understood the dependence. If red wine could take the edge off of the headache, he wasn't going to judge.

"Like this beer here," Steve raised his solo cup to accentuate his point, "Helps unwind after a long day of dealing with the kids."

Dealing with the kids? Drew could sympathize, to an extent. The students, specifically the freshmen, could be a little rambunctious at times, but if the educators at Middleton High could examine the true nature of the student body, they would see them as brilliant, young individuals who held promising futures within the palms of their hands. All they need is a little guidance. Drew brushed his head against the flaky décor behind him; this was one of Steve's fatal flaws as an educator. The way he had regarded his students was borderline despicable—always identifying their faults, letting disenfranchised students fall through the cracks in the system without batting an eye. Without offering a much-needed hand to help these students out of the hole that was much too deep to emerge from on their own. His lack of attention and negative attitude towards the student body was often the piece of Steve Barkin that peeved Drew the most. But, hey, at least Negative Nancy decided to strike a conversation with the lonesome scientist. He cared. . . somewhat. That had to count for something.

"What're you drinkin'?"

The dreaded question. As Steve's curious face approached the side of Drew's, a foul odor escaped the man. His breath, still laced with alcohol, grew putrid as the night progressed, and Drew found it difficult to hide his disgust. This man needed a breath mint, but Drew simply turned to the glass that rested on his lap. Just endure. Don't make Steve mad. 'Cause one swift kick from Three-Drink-Barkin could send Drew through the wall that he adored so dearly. Instead, Drew clutched the beverage closer to his unkempt shirt, but this didn't stop Steve from finding a way to scrutinize Drew's drinking habits.

"Vodka?"

"Water."

Of course, it was water—why would he have expected anything different? As he had stated before: Drew was too good for his own good.

"But I thought you Russians loved vodka."

"I'm German, not Russian."

Steve scoffed, "Same difference."

Drew's raven hair mingled with the peeling wallpaper as he forced his head back with a thud—a sound that quickly mingled with the commotion that occupied the room. There was no way that Steve was this ignorant. Drew may not have understood the complexities of human history—that was a social studies department thing, anyway—but he was smart enough to understand that Germany and Russia had always been enemies. To imply that the two groups shared the same culture disrespected his ancestors. Besides, anyone with a brain and an ounce of knowledge could see that the statement was entirely incorrect.

"No—"

"Just a joke, Drew," Steve grinned as he quickly stole a sip from his lukewarm beer, "But maybe you should drink some vodka. It would take the edge off your sour mood."

Drew shrugged as he examined his glass. The liquid within it had gone warm. The one form of relief that the tart well-water had provided succumbed to the fever of the night. Maybe Steve was right. Though, Birch's retirement party was not the place where Drew wanted to discover how much alcohol he could handle. That was a recipe for disaster.

"Another time."

That's what he said at Mrs. Miller's retirement party. And at the teachers' brunch. And on the teachers' night out. Steve was starting to believe that "another time" was never going to come around. Exasperated, he leaned against the window, grateful that the glass was thick enough to support his broad shoulders. He had to come to terms with reality; he was never going to pull Drew away from his comfort zone. The man had bought into the false sense of security that his neat little box provided, which worried Steve. While his colleague continued to be one of the most intelligent individuals that he had ever known, it was painfully obvious that Drew lacked experience. The man was straight—not a lick of criminal history, not a bad bone in his body. Drew refused to take risks, to put himself in compromising positions, to live like the free man he is. Nonetheless, it wasn't Steve's job to change Drew. The two men were merely two employees who happened to work for the same school district. Nothing more. Given their opposing personalities, it's not like they could maintain a friendship, anyway. That would be ridiculous. Though, sometimes, Steve felt for the lonely man. What kind of life did Drew live if he never took a risk? Steve exhaled, long and slow, his back pressing further into the glass behind him. Not a life he'd like to live. But that was the fundamental difference between Drew Lipsky and Steve Barkin—Steve wanted to take those risks while Drew enjoyed the company of familiarity and if that meant that Drew had to sulk in the corner of this boring retirement party—a party that even Steve couldn't stand—then so be it.

Instead of answering, Steve nodded, which disoriented him. Finally, the beer was kicking in. About time.

"So, uh," maintaining a conversation with Drew Lipsky was absolute torture, "did you hear about the new teacher coming in on Monday?"

Drew cringed, "Briefly."

"Likewise," Steve placed his cup on what little of the windowsill was left, "I didn't catch her name, but I've heard that she's been 'round the block before."

Without shifting his gaze, Drew lifted an eyebrow, intrigued, "One of the substitutes?"

"Yeah. Don't know which one though."

"Not you, I assume."

In Steve's struggle to surprise a laugh, a small snort escaped his nose, prompting a smile from Drew in response, "Obviously not."

"Well, at least the students will see a familiar face."

Steve huffed, "They'll still treat her like garbage."

Drew's smile fell. Right. The "initiation process". The grueling vetting program that new teachers suffer through at the hands of the student body. Drew loved the students, any of his coworkers could see that, but the way they treated the newest additions to the Middleton High family was despicable—something that the administration had tried to outlaw years ago. Never worked. Instead, the seniors would pass their traditions onto the freshmen, continuing the vicious and disgusting conduct for years to come. Drew knew what Middleton had in store for her, whoever she may be, and he already felt sorry.

"I hope not."

Steve directed his attention to Drew who sat beneath him, "Why do you care?"

It was an honest question. After all, every teacher currently employed at Middleton High had agonized over the same excruciating examination of the students. What made this particular substitute-turned-full-timer any different?

"Excuse me?"

"Why do you care so much?" Steve reiterated, "You're one of the few who worry 'bout the new meats 'round here. I just want to know why."

Drew's back stiffened as his head reluctantly turned towards the sound of his colleague's abrasive voice. Steve Barkin was one of them? He should've known.

"Because, unlike some people," he vaguely gestured to the cohorts who continued to ignore his presence, "I see new teachers for the human beings that they are."

"Woah, okay, Drew, calm down," Steve had not expected for Drew to take on a sudden, defensive stance. After all, the man had been passive the entire night. Who knew that one question would ignite the fire that Drew was attempting to keep extinguished?

"It's just a phrase."

"Just a—" Drew couldn't finish his thought. There was a lot to unpack in Steve's simple statement—a lot that Drew did not have the time or energy for. Unknowingly, Steve had caused a new kind of hurt—a sharp one. It was as if the two words attacked Drew's character, not his future colleague's. But Drew was far from being new meat. Why did he take it so personally?

As the warmth of the fire continued to grow within his chest, Drew placed his glass on the slick, wooden floor. Leaving a half-drank, dirty glass of well-water in a house that wasn't his to own would be rude of him, but his diligence on being a courteous guest went right out the window that Steve had used for support. He knew it was a mistake to skip Karaoke Night for this pathetic excuse for a "party".

As he lifted his aching body from the hard floor, Drew announced his departure, "I have to go."

"Seriously, Lipsky?" Drew winced, his body slightly curling into himself at the sound of his last name. Steve only used it out of endearment or if he was upset. As the edge in Steve's voice rang in Drew's ears, he understood that Steve was a little past upset. Regardless, the use of his name in such a manner only fueled his enraged fire.

"What, Barkin?"

Barkin? Did Drew Lipsky just call the man Barkin? Steve furrowed his thick brows—his Three-Drink-Self dangerously teetering on Four as a sort of rage sparked from within him, "You're going to leave because of a stupid conversation? Please, tell me you're not that petty."

"I wanted to leave anyway," Drew spat. It was the truth. He'd been looking for a way out all night, "You just gave me a reason to."

Utterly appalled, Steve attempted to stand, but his body immediately fell back upon the sill that worked tirelessly to hold his weight. As fun as inebriation was, there were a few drawbacks. This happened to be one of them. Steve wished that he stuck to water instead.

"Drew, come on. . ."

"Good night, Steve."

Drew sharply turned on his heel and left Steve to make out with his red solo cup. Fuck him. Fuck this party. There was no reason for him to celebrate such a demeaning man with his despicable coworkers who only grew unruly as they consumed the old man's alcohol. Drew placed an exceeding amount of effort into inconspicuously slipping past his colleges, but it was inevitable for his frame to collide with a few faculty members as they continued to discuss the future of the new meat. Of her. What kind of pranks will the kids pull? What should we do to add to the torment?

How long will she last?

Drew muttered a few 'Scuse me's as his shoulders struck a few of his colleagues, but they only grunted in response, completely unaware of his presence. Must have been the norm for the night. And, as Drew silently slipped out the front door, it was as if he never was there, save for the glass on the floor and the look of anger, laced with confusion, that settled into Steve's features.

As he pushed himself through the muggy air that came with the dog days of summer, Drew quickly walked to his car, hoping that he would remain unseen in the shadows of the night. The crickets, who also occupied the depths of the dark, encouraged Drew's departure. He'd like to think that they were cheering him on, proud of him for taking a stance on the matter at hand—sticking up for the little guy. But, as Drew fumbled for his car keys, he knew that they were just screaming at each other; whether he was there or not, they would still chirp away. He didn't matter to them. Such is life.

A small grunt opposed the piercing chirps as Drew continuously stabbed at the car lock in the dark, which grew louder each time he accidentally hit the handle instead. For once in his life, he was in a rush to get home, but he was so un-coordinated that his clumsiness and inability to see in the dark delayed his departure. Just his luck. In times of urgency, he acted like an incompetent fool.

Click. Drew silently enjoyed his sweet victory as he turned the key and hastily opened the door. As his rear settled into the crevices of his seat, Drew absentmindedly slammed the door beside him. He winced—the sound had briefly silenced the crickets. Surely, someone inside must have heard the metal-upon-metal, but as he longingly looked at the house, not a single soul had acknowledged the sound of the slamming car door or the lack of Drew Lipsky.

The party was a total bust, but it still seemed as though the faculty were having a good time. The faculty, excluding himself. But it wasn't the cramped atmosphere, or the alcohol, or the fact that they were celebrating a man that they all despised that made the night nearly insufferable. It was that one conversation that jumped from group to group like a contagious disease that put Drew in such a sour mood.

The New Meat.

Lips pressed together; Drew shook his head to rid of the thought, but it was no use. The phrase remained ingrained in his mind.

A name, one that often lacked a negative connotation to the seasoned faculty of Middleton High, was a form of belittlement that often attacked the very core of any self-respecting individual. It would feed on passion and love, often leaving the victim with a fraying string of hope in the dark calamity that came with the job. A string that would break as soon as it was touched.

New Meat. He wore that nickname like a boy-scout badge on his sleeve for nearly a year before the faculty finally understood his worth—before they regarded him as a person; a deep, complex human who had persevered through hardships, who had loved and lost just like any other, and who had a passion for teaching and a love for his students that continued to motivate him every day. Not just as some breathing Google that specialized in biochemistry; a machine with the inability to understand the hurt that came with the relentless teasing and half-assed support.

The day his colleagues treated him as Drew Lipsky, the intelligent man with a passion for teaching, was the day he finally felt as if he could survive the profession.

Drew had hoped throughout the six years of his employment that the others would finally realize that demeaning phrases truly attacked the character of their prey—a kind of hurt that makes itself at home within the heart of its victim. The kind of hurt that fundamentally changed the perception of oneself. But Dr. Birch's party had only proved to Drew that he had expected too much from his "friends". It was obvious that they didn't care. Instead of acknowledging the hardships that came with the job—the disrespect, the sleepless nights, and the general, everlasting headache—the departments acted as if they were social cliques; quick to turn on each other, but will join forces at the promising thought that they could, theoretically, put new meat in her rightful place. To be frank, the majority of his colleagues' attitudes reflected that of the students, which led Drew to wonder if they had actually graduated high school.

As the car roared to life, a tiny sliver of Drew's cynic soul hoped that whoever was unlucky enough to inherit Dr. Birch's position would be spared by the cruel hell that was Middleton High.

[rosesforshego]

𝓘𝓯 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓒𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓜𝔂 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓭, 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 6: ɴᴏᴛᴇ-ᴀʙʟᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ

August 27th, 6:30 am.

She gripped the course strap of her shoulder bag as it slipped further down her arm, dragging with it the hand that held a steaming cup of fresh, hot coffee. She tugged on the fabric, slowly sliding it across the wrinkled sleeve of her blouse, back to the nook of her neck to be cradled by her shoulder. Her muscles ached under its weight, so she carefully repositioned herself, grabbing the second cup of coffee from her armpit, where it was lodged for safe-keeping, bringing it back to the comfort of her hand.

Eyes coated in morning gunk, Sheila rushed past a confused Dan with her coffees, warmed by the plasma in her hands, as she high-tailed it to Middleton for a distinct reason. That reason: Drew Lipsky.

She leaned her protruding elbow on a metal handle and braced her aching shoulder against the wooden door. It groaned, rumbling vibrations beneath her frame as her foot slid into the darkened classroom.

Click.

Blinded by the fluorescents, Sheila recoiled, nearly releasing her hold on one cup while the other’s scalding liquid seared her singed hand. She quickly regained her composure, unaware of the liquid coating the dead nerves of her fingertips, as she rolled her eyes at herself. Spooked by automatic lights? How pathetic.

Slipping further into the vacant classroom, Sheila placed one cup—the undisturbed one—next to Dr. Lipsky’s desk planner. She noticed the brown liquid slide from the derma of her skin, leaving little droplets on the pristine surface of his desk as she pulled away from the cup. Bringing her fingertips to her lips, she removed the bitter liquid, enjoying its taste, and quickly glanced around the room—one that was different than her own. Beakers, hot plates, Bunsen burners, and a storage closet full of potentially toxic chemicals, it was a wonder how the man could not only keep his room in order but the kids, too. Though, if her psychology students could trash her normal classroom, Sheila wondered how many of Drew Lipsky’s science experiments had gone horribly wrong at the hands of the ruthless kids. The stain on the ceiling seemed to suggest at least one.

She turned back to the steaming cup of warm liquid that rested upon Drew’s desk and smiled. This man could encounter the worst of demons and face them with a sense of hopeful optimism that put Sheila’s mind at ease. If only she could do more to say her thanks.

 Sheila placed her disheveled coffee cup next to Drew’s and scurried around to his plush seat. Fading into the black of the chalkboard, her frame disappeared behind the desk as she abrasively yanked open the one drawer Drew neglected to lock before he left the night before. She rifled through his knick-knacks and carefully displaced some unkempt sheets of paper, her eyes scanning the junk drawer for a pad of sticky notes that she could borrow for the time being. Would this count as an invasion of privacy? Probably, but it was not like she was trying to get dirty information on the one teacher who had offered her friendship. Her heart could not take the betrayal. She convinced herself that she was innocently rummaging through his belongings to find a simple pen and pad of paper—nothing more—as she inhaled a long and deep breath to silence the little voice that told her she was committing a crime—a crime against a fellow teacher, as far as she was concerned. Crimes were not what heroes committed. Heroes, like—

An orange spot appeared before her—its intensity dimmed by the translucent papers that laid on top of it. Curious, Sheila pried away the loose-leaf folios to reveal the bright, beaming face of a young, teen hero Kim Possible. Absentmindedly, Sheila wrapped her blackened fingers around the photo, buried beneath the clutter, and studied the image. How youthful she was; the picture must have been taken a few years ago, if Sheila had to guess. Even in her younger years, the redhead looked beautiful. Though, as Sheila gazed upon Kim’s auburn locks, the color reminded her of a familiar appearance that used to stare back at her in her vanity mirror, killed by the impact of a rainbow comet in her youth. She sighed, long and slow, as her charred fingertips grazed the inked face of Kim Possible—a girl she was proud of. A girl she had envied.

Her gaze trailed to the second figure in the photo, his aura a familiar one as well. His arm, wrapped around Kim’s shoulder, bringing the teen closer to his chest as a sweet smile parted his lips. A comforting smile. Drew’s smile.

Drew Lipsky knew Kim Possible? The Kim Possible? How. . . interesting.

She placed the photo back into its resting place within the drawer, her fingertips lingering on Drew’s smile as she reluctantly pulled away. Unbeknownst to her, an innocent grin to rival Drew’s brandished her lips, fading as she placed the thin pieces of paper over the faces of the two embracing figures. Tearing her gaze away from the perplexing image, Sheila stumbled upon what she had been searching for—a pad of neon-colored sticky notes. She tore a piece off of the pile and slammed the drawer shut, wincing as the abrasive clamor of metal-on-metal echoed throughout the room.

Slowly, she rose from behind Drew’s desk and scanned her surroundings. Still vacant. Thank God.

Pressing her knees further into the dusty, tiled floor, Sheila placed the sticky paper on the surface of the desk and brought the blue, ballpoint pen to the course material. Meticulously, she wrote two words:

Thank you.

Her hand glided along the paper as the ink gave way to her perfect penmanship—or, at least as perfect as she could make it, given the lack of feeling in her fingertips. Sheila leaned away, placed the end of the pen between her teeth, and gazed at her masterful work of art. Tracing the pen strokes with her eyes, she felt satisfied at the clarity of her statement and the aesthetically pleasing loops contained within each letter that blended in the cursive she was forced to learn in third grade.

Losing her focus, Sheila’s gaze trailed to the steaming coffee that awaited Drew’s arrival and smiled. She didn’t plan to stick around and watch his reaction to her gift—convincing herself that she would leave the coffee and the note for him to be humble, though a piece of her pessimism believed that he would reject her offering. What if he didn’t even like coffee? She should have asked before wasting her energy to throw herself off of her hardened bed to make a fresh brew for a man she had just met. Whatever. It was the thought that counted, right?

Sheila lunged at the desk, crashing the pen back onto the paper in a fury as she haphazardly wrote a small note beneath her “Thank you”:

I’m sorry, I don’t know how you like your coffee.

Her hand snaked its way to her forearm and grasped the strap to her shoulder bag. Clinging onto the strip of cloth to alleviate the weight it brought upon her arm, she gabbed her stained coffee cup and hastily hurried out of the classroom—closing the door behind her, hoping that the automatic lights would shut off before Drew’s arrival.

♥♡♥

12:30 pm.

The click of her heels upon the tile faded into the clamor of the cramped hallway. She dodged and weaved her way through the crowd of rambunctious teenagers, backpacks strewn across the floor, paper planes in the air, cliques formed in front of lockers that protruded into the halls. She carefully pushed her way through the ignorant groupings of students, only recognizing a small percentage of hangry faces as lunch lazily strolled around the corner, the kids too eager to wait.

Sheila clutched her belongings close to her chest, making herself as small as possible within the drowning sea, as she slipped through gaps within the crowd. Careful to not bump anyone’s shoulders, she continued her odyssey from the teachers’ lounge to her classroom, which should have taken her, at most, five minutes. The journey seemed significantly longer as her path was blocked by an incoming group of juniors. She stopped as if she were at a traffic light, letting them through the one-way lane, though, they were heading in the opposite direction. If this is how they drove their cars, then Sheila was scared to get herself back on the road.

As she slipped around the corner, the familiar brown wood of Classroom 121 waved to her, grabbing her attention. With a new determination, Sheila quickened her pace, hoping, praying, to reach her classroom before the lunch bell’s shrill call turned the chaotic hallway into an utter disaster. As if it wasn’t a disaster already.

She was lucky to be gifted with Classroom 121. While it may have been considered average—plain, even, decorated with the outdated musings of an old Psychologist—Sheila relished in the fact that she could call that classroom hers. Not to mention, it was right down the hall from—

Drew Lipsky approached her. His form, barreling down the hall, slowed at his recognition. Eyes, once darting like a madman, found a sweet solace at her appearance. At a glance, he seemed frazzled, but his worry lines smoothed at the sight of Sheila.

His smile wide, a piece of crumpled paper within his fingers, slowly he approached her, brushing his shoulder against hers in the cramped hall as he tried, and failed, to move past her with a swift gusto. His hand, next to her own, pressed firmly against her gloved fingertips, passing the paper into her palm. She felt a vague pressure against her glove, the contact between her singed fingers and his rugged hand. The moment was all too brief as he pulled away, leaving the paper with her.

The sensation was soon replaced with the pressure of his other hand on her shoulder, near the dent from where the strap of her bag dug into her skin. She tore her gaze away from the transfer of paper and to his crystal eyes—soft as they attentively searched her own. Confused by his sudden presence and close proximity, Sheila opened her mouth to speak, but, just as quickly as he arrived, he left. His lanky frame disappeared within the sea of students—gone with the faint draft that glided down the hallway.

Sheila shook her head. She remembered laying her head upon the cool surface of a table during her short break, but she was nearly certain she hadn’t fallen asleep. Yet, the interaction felt like a dream.

She tightened her grip on the crumpled paper as her other guided her into her classroom. Sheila hastily dropped her bag on her desk and pulled out her chair, sitting on the cushion that displaced the air within it as she sank further into the plush. Slamming the disheveled note on the table, she carefully pulled at its corners, straightening out the fine paper as a few, hair-line tears grew in size, distorting the already illegible letters.

She struggled to piece together Drew’s cryptic message:

Thank you for the coffee! Loved it!

Simple. Sweet. She smiled. While she would have liked for Drew to include a letter decoder, she appreciated the effort to show his thanks.

At the bottom of the note sat an arrow, begging for Sheila’s attention. Curious, she obliged and flipped the note, surprised by the continued, abrasive strokes of ink that hid behind the deep wrinkles of the material:

A little heavy on the cream and sugar, though.

A smile brandished her lips, stifling a laugh that emerged from her throat as a strangled snort.

Good to know.

Rifling through her bag, Sheila grabbed her closest notebook, tore a page of lined paper from its binding, and carefully crafted her reply.

♥♡♥

2:45 pm.

The slight hum of shifting walls rumbled beneath her ears. A buzz, calming as she pressed her palms against the door, was interrupted by a deep groan, followed by the shuffle of a few footsteps. As the tap of leather-sole against the hardened floor of Middleton High grew in intensity, Sheila hastily pried herself away from the door and swung the slab towards her. She swiftly slipped out of her classroom, shoulder bag in place, ripped piece of notebook paper in hand.

With a cocky grin, she turned to face the source of the footsteps she would learn to recognize as Drew Lipsky’s. Upon seeing his newest friend—if that’s what he’d call this encounter—his smile reappeared, washing away the sour expression he had left the science laboratory with. He waved; she closed the gap between them as a devilish spirit flashed between her bright, emerald irises.

Drew stopped. Confused, he opened his mouth to speak, but all that escaped was a puff of air, a wind that came from his compressed lungs as Sheila slapped her hand on his protruding chest. He looked at her, his eyes conveying a sort of betrayal that he had felt at her sudden assault. Expecting to peer into the gaze of a bully, he was met with a softened, gleeful expression that put his fearful mind at ease. Melting into her gentle touch, Drew nearly dropped the heavy books he held in his arms. His mind remained within this unexpected tender moment, refusing to let it slip away.

Slowly, her fingers trailed away, lightly brushing against his arm at her departure.

The piece of paper dislodged from the warmth of his chest and glided along the subtle draft that passed him. Quickly, he caught the note between his fingers, confusion regaining control of his perplexed thoughts at the sight of the torn material. He peered at the delicate paper—his eyes glossing over the perfect penmanship:

I’ll remember that next time.

He turned to her, to ask about her vague promise, to catch one last glimpse of her before returning to his vacant apartment, but she had already disappeared—her perfume fading into the empty hallway that surrounded him.

[rosesforshego]

𝓘𝓯 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓒𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓜𝔂 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓭, 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 8: ᴍɪᴅᴅᴀʏ ꜱɴᴀᴄᴋ

August 29th, 6:30 am.

Drew paced through the vacant halls of Middleton High with a thin piece of stick paper between his fingertips. Awaiting his coworker’s arrival, he occupied his mind with what he had planned for the day ahead—experiments, meetings, and slowly working his way through the lab reports stacked upon his desk at home. But what he anticipated the most was not for the surface of his desk to bask in the light of day once more, it was for his lunch period.

Lunch was the time of day where Drew felt the tension in his shoulders melt into the air of his classroom. Savoring each bite of the sandwich he made the night prior, he could indulge in the wonders of his life that often kept the gears within his mind turning. This was the time in the school day where he truly felt peace and, though his bundle of nerves ate away at him, he felt it was time to share that peace with another.

When Drew learned that Sheila shared the same lunch period as him, he was ecstatic. Finally, a colleague that he enjoyed conversing with had the same time off as him. It was a blessing for the lonesome Drew Lipsky. All he had to do was ask her to join him and he’d be golden.

But, therein lies the problem: Drew, himself, was too chicken to ask. Instead, he fell back upon what was familiar—passing notes. . . like school children. The note between his fingers slipped further into the crevices, descending to his palm. There was the off chance that she’d reject his offer, but it was less painful for her to simply not appear than to say no straight to his pleading eyes.

He continued his journey through the windy corridors of the school, noting the excellent work he and his colleagues had done to liven up the blank walls. Colorful posters hung with pride as the teachers wished a good school year upon the students who passed the signs. It was the least they could do to comfort the in-coming freshmen.

The cluster of posters dwindled as the wall quickly approached a large set of lockers. He drew closer to the metal that would horribly clank as each door slammed shut for the day. Oh, how he despised that sound—it would ring in his ears for minutes after the clamor subsided. He never liked to be out in the halls with the students for that reason, and that reason alone. Otherwise, he didn’t mind the crowd. He easily slipped past groups of students—some of which stopped to engage in a friendly conversation with their chemistry teacher—as he made his way to his distant destination. He enjoyed the aura of familiarity the chaotic hall brought. Maybe it was the years of experience with Middleton High that made the sea of students bring a smile to his face.

He gazed at the lockers, each bleeding into the last as they sat with conformity—the only aspect about them changing was the number displayed by each lock. Quietly, his eyes trailed to locker 134. He smiled.

This locker, in particular, belonged to his niece, who he loved dearly.

Only a few days into the school year and Kim Possible had adjusted to the life of a high schooler with ease. She effortlessly was asked to join the cheer squad, she had already started to indulge in other extra-curricular activities, and she was on a one-way track to academic stardom—all while saving the world from ravenous villains who, in Drew’s opinion, should have no reason to be so involved in his niece’s life.

As sad as it was for Drew to see the light of his life mature with such intensity, he was proud of her—of the woman she was becoming.

A few lockers down the hall stood Ron’s. As Drew approached it, his elated smile settled into a faint frown. Ron, too, attempted to make the adjustment to the new lifestyle, but it seemed as if the world was out to get him. Picked on, teased, pushed through the crowd, Ron was thrown around the halls of Middleton High like a ragdoll. He was even banned from entering D Hall by a group of delinquent students who have been hunting him since preschool.

Drew shook his head at the thought. When will the pettiness end?

The burdens Ron brought with him were hard to shake from his shoulders, no matter how hard he tried.

Drew quietly brushed his fingertips against the cool metal. Within the half-hour, this particular locker would signify its life with a piercing squeak that Drew could audibly hear within his mind. Ron would haphazardly stuff his unnecessary belongings into the metal walls, along with Rufus, who loved to use Ron’s locker as his personal home, then go about his business as if he didn’t have a care in the world—ignorant to the atrocities that plagued his social life at the hands of students who thought of him as lesser.

But Drew knew.

Drew knew the deep hardships Ron faced and he understood why Ron decided to place his best-foot-forward. It stopped him from indulging in the pain.

Drew wished he was like Ron Stoppable.

A short, faint sigh escaped his parted lips as he reluctantly removed his fingers from Ron’s locker. Drew, despite himself, hoped that this day would be different—less demeaning—for both of them. But Drew knew that he could scream his soul’s most urgent wishes and the world would respond by spitting in his face.

He shook his head to rid the thought. No. He must battle his pessimistic, cynical mind—swallow the horrid thoughts before they consumed the little seedlings of hope he had left. It was all he had, and he was not going to let the world strip him, or Ron, of that luxury.

Drew continued his journey through the corridors, collecting crumpled papers and gum wrappers, filling empty garbage bins with discarded litter—the reports that should have been brought home to mothers and fathers. Along his route, he closed a few lockers that were left neglected after the shrill bell sounded off at two-thirty the day prior.

“How could they be so careless?” he muttered through gritted teeth.

The belongings, that were nearly left out in the open, begged to be stolen. But, really, what of the few contents that were left within the confines of the four walls held value? Drew knew how much those damn chemistry textbooks cost, but the students didn’t care.

He let an incoherent grumble rumble in his throat, slipping past his neutral demeanor.

All he held was a simple wish: for the week to be over.

“Two more days, Drew,” he whispered, hoping that the sound of his voice would give him the support he craved, “just two more days.”

His fingers fidgeted, sliding the note between them as he conducted his second lap through the halls. As his watch ticked dangerously close to six forty-five, Drew hovered by the grand entrance to the school in anticipation for the arrival of the woman he sought after. All he wanted was to pass the short message to her; a little meet me in my room for lunch, nothing more. He figured that their shared lunch period would be ample time to discover more about each other over some delectable, homemade sandwiches, stuffed with deli-meats—if that’s what she liked to eat.

A faint hum rumbled within his chest. Sure, she accepted his peace offering of half a ham and cheese sandwich a few days prior, but he couldn’t help but let his mind wander, conjuring the many possibilities as to what made her taste buds sing. Peanut butter and jelly? Nah, too bland. Sheila seemed to be the adventurous type—peanut butter and jelly must bore her.

Frozen dinner? Soup? Leftovers? The options that Drew naturally found himself drawn to were too ordinary for such an extraordinary woman. Though, as his mind spun with various unimportant answers to his silent question, Drew understood next-to-nothing about her personal life—a life full of rich experiences that were encased in a thick, mysterious aura that remained impenetrable by Drew’s defenses.

He pondered for a moment. Maybe he could take advantage of her vulnerability while she ate. . . whatever it was she ate for lunch. With her guard down, there would be the opportunity for his pervasive questions to slip past that aura—

“Drew?”

His head snapped in the direction of his name, carried through the silence by a sweet, supple voice.

“Sheila?”

She chuckled, her mahogany glove covered her lips to muffle its intensity, “You look lost.”

“Oh, erm—” what the hell was he supposed to say? Sorry, just speculating about your eating habits? He bit his lip. He had to lie. He could not tell her the truth. That would be embarrassing.

“I arrived early for a meeting—”

Bullshit. He nearly winced at the booming voice within his head.

“—and had some time to spare. So, I decided to take a little stroll.”

“Mmmm,” Sheila hummed, crossing his field of vision to rest upon the wall beside him, “enjoying the scenery?”

“Not particularly,” he admitted, “you would not believe the amount of garbage I’ve collected today.”

Sheila raised an eyebrow, her teeth chewing on the corners of her uncovered bottom lip, scraping dead skin, “Since when did you join the janitorial staff?”

“Give them a break,” he responded, a little quicker than Sheila had expected, “they’re overworked.”

“Aren’t we all?”

Drew’s first reaction was to verbally agree with her statement—maybe dive into a long conversation about how exhausted this week from Hell had made him, but, before he could open his mouth, his attention quietly fixated on the shimmering green of Sheila’s eyes. Once full of a youthful spark, her irises faded into a dull and diluted emerald, shadowed by the semi-dark circles that appeared under her eyelids. Upon closer inspection, Drew’s gaze followed her protruding, strong cheekbones that led to folds that rested beside the corners of her frowning mouth.

Concerned, Drew felt his thoughts resurge in a chaotic tizzy. Was she sleeping? Eating? Stressed? Day four into her new job and she started to look a little worse for wear.

His worry seized control of his heart, causing each beat to strike a nasty, piercing pain into his ribs.

Drew opened his mouth. He desperately wanted to ask if there was anything he could do to ease the distraught nerves that consumed her, but he quickly closed it before the words managed to emerge from his throat. As fascinated, nearly infatuated, as he was with the woman who stood before him, he knew next-to-nothing about her. The last thing he wanted to do was to scare her away with his obsessive compassion.

Instead, he brought the note in his hand into the shared space between them.

“Speaking of, I have to get ready for class,” he said, reluctantly—his eyes downcast onto the yellow paper in his hand, “But I wanted to pass this along.”

He gently placed the note, covered in crude penmanship, on top of the books she held within her arms.

“A note—?”

“See you later.”

Without uttering another word, Drew Lipsky’s slender legs quickly carried him through the hall. He turned the corner and vanished before a dumbstruck Sheila could respond—a pleasantly unexpected note within her possession.

♥♡♥

12:20 pm.

Sheila found herself in quite the compromising position. One hand braced against the vending machine, the other forcefully inside the metal retrieval box, she looked like a crook that she had thwarted ten years prior. Though looking back on the situation, the man just needed a bite to eat—it was rather unfair for her and her brothers to throw that poor man in prison. She snickered under her breath as her arm snaked its way towards the goods that laid beneath the glass, desperately clawing at foiled bags to reach the Doritos, that she paid for. They were stuck on the top shelf.

A bite to eat. She remembered the sickly feeling in the pit of her stomach as she watched the man behind bars. Henry told her it was for the good of the city—men like him commit one, simple crime, then become addicted to the life of a criminal. She believed him.

If only he could see her now.

Her starved mind (and stomach), as idiotic as it was, truly believed for a brief moment that she could reach the top shelf from the depths of the machine. She peered up at the goods displayed before her as she stretched her arm to uncomfortable lengths, not even coming close to the Doritos that clung to its metal coil for dear life.

Sheila started to believe that her brilliant plan was never going to work.

Regardless, she continued to rake her hand through whatever snacks she could grasp to bring herself closer to the prize that was rudely taken from her. She was a good citizen—refused to steal food that she didn’t pay for—so she neglected the package of fruit snacks that tauntingly brushed against her exposed arm.

A good citizen with her hand stuck in a vending machine.

A good citizen, my ass.

If she wasn’t in the Middleton High teachers’ lounge, with the possibility to be surrounded by her coworkers within mere seconds, she would’ve let the few tears of frustration slip from the pools in her eyes.

“Sheila?”

She winced.

Great. He always had to barge in when she was most vulnerable, didn’t he?

“Uhh,” Drew stuttered, forcibly grabbing whatever words swam in his mind as fast as he could to stop the silence from growing between them, “bad timing?”

She reluctantly turned to face him, her hand still deep within the machine, “Y’think?”

The crack in her voice alerted him, but he didn’t mention it out of respect for her dignity. Instead, he moved closer, closing the large gap between them as Sheila’s eyes grew wide with terror.

She tried to open her mouth, but her jaw refused to relinquish its control. So, she screamed within her mind—her perceived voice sending shockwaves of pain as it pierced her thoughts, ordering Drew to stay away, to turn around, to leave her so she could wallow in her defeat. Unfortunately, Drew, as intelligent as he was, could not read minds. He could barely pick up on obvious social cues. Sheila’s pleas were left unheard as he descended to her eye-level—her gaze caught within the deadly web of his piercing, wandering eyes, laced with confusion towards her criminal-like position. She dared not utter a word and turned back to the sight of her gloved fingers grasping at the coils of the machine, climbing the rungs until she ran out of arm.

She had escaped him. . .  but not for long.

“What are you doing?”

Elbow deep in her new lover, Sheila pointed her free hand towards the bag that clung onto its tight, metal coil, “Trying to reach those chips.”

A brief chuckle escaped his lips and hovered in the still air between them. It would be rude of him to say he found amusement in the awfully compromising scene before him, so he didn’t, but that damned chuckle only deepened Sheila’s frown. How dare he make a mockery of her predicament.

“And your genius plan was to grab them from all the way down here?”

The lids of his eyes laid heavily across his irises as he looked down at her form. He held his position steady over her—a sense of authority as if he had the high ground in a situation that he should not be a part of in the first place. Sheila squirmed, uncomfortable under his gaze—one that displayed a hint of playful jest that, somehow, brought ease to Sheila’s mind, despite her seemingly criminal actions.

A smile broke through his thin lips and Sheila couldn’t help but reciprocate. She shook her head, the curls of her hair brushed against her shoulders as her eyes rolled away from his and to her elbow that was jammed in the metal. Drew’s trailing eyes followed her lips as she turned away. There was something charming about her. A charm that kept him awake at night—his thoughts plagued with her smile.

“Shaking it didn’t work,” she admitted, hoping that Drew would understand her justification for this particular predicament.

“Clearly.”

She huffed. In her sporadic attempt to continue her moronic plan, she was left ill-prepared for his comeback.

 Drew receded from Sheila’s personal space and lifted his frame off the floor. With a grunt, he stretched, cracking his spine to alleviate the tension built between his bones. Sheila eyed him, curiously, as she watched his face morph from its euphoric twists into a clam, calculated state. He stepped around her, careful to leave her untouched, and placed himself beside the machine. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, quick to retrieve a few bucks before Sheila could protest.

To his dismay, she caught onto his plan, “Oh, no, you don’t have to—”

“Why do you want these, anyway?” he asked, disallowing her protest to continue. His greatest weapon against her was to fill the conversation with his curiosity.

He slipped a few dollars into the machine, “You know how bad these are for you, right?”

“I’m hungry.”

The coil turned, dropping the chips onto Sheila’s arm. She winced as the sharp edge of the bag collided with her skin. It stung but made no mark with its departure. She carefully dislodged her throbbing arm from its position and grabbed the bag that rested within the retrieval.

Horrified, Drew’s mind spun with the possible outlook on her impoverished life that she, unknowingly, admitted to.

Was this all she had?

“Please don’t tell me that this is your lunch.”

“No,” she stated as she pulled herself off of the floor.

Drew nearly sighed in relief. Sometimes, he didn’t mind when his mind was wrong if it meant that Sheila was nourished.

After all, maybe she just needed an extra something to go with her—

“It’s my midday snack.”

Drew furrowed his brows. His mind is never wrong. He should’ve known.

“So, lunch.”

“No, lunch is a meal.”

Drew would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so concerned for her well-being. He shook his head, maintaining a small smile to ease Sheila’s nerves, which did nothing to settle his own.

Sheila left the vicinity of the vending machine to grab her bag that perched on a nearby chair. Carefully, the strap wrapped around her shoulder, ready to depart from the teachers’ lounge and embark on the short journey to Drew’s classroom. She wasn’t going to ignore his pleasant invitation.

With a silent understanding, Drew dropped the subject and opened the door, motioning for Sheila to follow. She did, obediently—ready to leave the machine and its wicked ways behind, never wanting to be seen with her arm inside of it again.

Drew was the first to break the still silence that fell upon them.

“Do you think the school’s going to reimburse me for the two dollars I spend on those chips?”

Sheila rolled her eyes. Her hand collided with the side of his arm in a playful slap that caused Drew to recoil beneath her touch. His smile widened; a faint laugh encouraged her playful nature as she settled into the comfort of his aura—the tip of her shoulder brushing against his arm.

“No, but they better reimburse me! I need those two bucks back.”

[rosesforshego]

𝓘𝓯 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓒𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓜𝔂 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓭, 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 4: ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ'ꜱ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇᴅ

“August 25th, 2002 8:00 pm.

A metallic telephone, encased in cracked plastic, pressed firmly against the fragile cartilage of an attuned ear, yet she could not decipher the incomprehensible gargle of nonsense, despite its form of familiarity.

A faint groan rumbled within her chest as she attempted to follow the chaotic conversation perpetuated by her twin brothers. On a normal day, she would have followed every word, every major switch in topic, every jump to an irrational conclusion, but no day was ever a normal day in the slums of Lowerton. Her years of raising the twins, or, what her brother would call, training, did not account for this.

Sheila Goodwin slid her manicured finger further into the plastic coils attached to the telephone. Tight-lipped, she clutched the device with white knuckles, struggling to discern her brother's mangled voices as her opposing ear was assaulted with loud, and rather suggestive, sounds that penetrated the thin wall beside her.

She brought the cheap plastic to her lips; her voice, saccharine and sweet, briefly interrupted the boys, just as the second twin tagged-out the first, "Hold that thought."

She detangled her finger from the coils; the phone fumbled within her grasp as her fist collided with the poor excuse for a hideous wall. Why bother building the dividers, anyway? They were much too thin for her liking. But, alas, one swift punch did not challenge the structural integrity of the wall—though, a few shavings of. . . asbestos?. . . coated the raven mane that she liked to call hair. She grimaced, waving her hand in the stale air, her knuckles throbbing beneath the auburn flakes of twenty-year-old paint that clung to her clammy skin. Another moan, another thump, another pound on the wall—this time with the side of her fist. While she may have found the panel that laid between her and her obnoxious neighbor to be useless, she seemed content at its audacity to continue its standing. She did not want to bear witness to the scene that transpired on the other side.

"Will you two cut it out?"

The distant, muffled gargle of an incoherent, enraged scream was the only form of intelligent conversation to greet her.

Her neighbors. They never stopped. Screams of pleasure, screams of agitation for she had ruined their moment of sweet intimacy—didn't matter. Not like she particularly cared about how they perceived her, anyway. And, as the displeasure subsided, she brushed her knuckles against the thread of her jeans, wiping away the carnage from the dents she had made in the plaster. It's not like they had the decency to give her any form of common courtesy, either.

She brushed her nails against the side of her neck; her hair, glued to her skin by a layer of sweat, gracefully slid to her shoulders as she brought the receiver back to her lips, "Sorry, what were you saying?"

A snort. She smiled. "I was just about to ask how your neighbors were holdin' up."

A second voice, only marginally deeper than the first, contributed with a hint of playful laughter, "Looks like you got your answer, Ed."

Fingers comfortably intertwined within the plastic coils once more, she turned a back upon her destruction and sauntered over to her cramped kitchen. The chord stretched, an uncomfortable distance from the device's base, but Sheila paid no attention.

"Yeah, same as always. Why'd you ask?"

"I dunno," Eddie admitted. Truthfully, he hadn't expected a different answer—he just wanted to talk to his sister, "just wanna know how you're settling in."

"Fine," a beat. Her lips tightened, before parting once more in a feeble attempt to convey her displeasure with as little words as possible, "Well—you know. . ."

"Nothing's changed?"

"Nothing."

Silence. She pressed her back into the counter behind her as a faint creak rang in her ear. Her grip tightened, shifting the cracked plastic, while her mouth opened to speak, only for her warm breath to escape without the words that desperately desired to leap from her throat.

Nothing's changed. Years of unrelenting torment have amounted to nothing. Her lips pressed into a frown, deepening the crevices at its corners. A teenage Sheila would be appalled to know that all of her wildest dreams for a fulfilling future led to a run-down apartment in the drug-dealer's den of Lowerton, Colorado. Oh, how the disgusting look of disappointment would seize her ignorant optimism if she were told that, after enduring all of the hardships that nearly annihilated her, life did not loosen the vice grip it held on her sanity. Behind the façade of a promising future stood disillusionment—the painful reality of her crushed fantasies. An unsolicited roommate that had evicted the natural buoyancy of her positive attitude, to then replace the vacancy with its deplorable presence. A roommate she could not evict, herself, no matter how hard she tried.

She was a fool to believe that higher education would give her an edge over life's ruthless battle of wits. She was stupid to think that living in this dilapidated apartment was better than the trashed motel room. She was a complete, utter moron to hope that she could repair the mutilated bonds that she severed between her and Team Go.

Sheila clenched her jaw, suppressing the wail that built within the caverns of her chest. Her brothers didn't need to hear her lamentations. They shouldn't have to carry her burdens.

"So," Eddie's voice, slower and deeper than normal, brought Sheila's disordered thoughts to a halt, "how's that guy doing?"

A sharp intake of a long-awaited breath caught in her throat.

"Wh-which one?"

"Oh—um," Sheila released the breath that she had held within her as a distant Will, what's his name? struggled to break free from the cracked phone.

A distant voice replied with a simple, "Dan".

"Yeah, Dan," the sound of Eddie's comforting voice returned to her grateful ears, "How's Dan doing?"

Her lips pressed together for a moment as she peered at her dirt-filled fingernails, then parted—reluctant to answer, "Dunno. Haven't seen him in a few days."

"Really?"

"Mmhmm."

She pried her skin off of the counter's cool edge, wincing a little as it struggled to part with its apparent lover. A soft gargle made way in her stomach, berating her for withholding the nutrients that it desperately craved. With one hand maintaining phone-to-ear contact, the other carefully wrapped around the enticing handle to the fridge in front of her. Cautiously, she pulled, dutifully reminding herself to cease movement before the door collided with the counter again. One more dent and she could say goodbye to her security deposit—cheap bastards.

A silent, relaxed huff melted away her discontent as chilling air, concocted by the appliance before her, mingled with the humidity that encased her apartment. Sweet relief. But, as she peeked behind the filthy door, the grin that had crept upon her lips faded to a frown.

There was nothing to eat.

"What do you mean?"

She cringed—the coarse edge to William's tone only deepened the intense displeasure that had corrupted her once beautiful smile. She shut the door.

"Haven't seen him lately. Why? Is that a bad thing?"

"I know you don't like him, Sis—"

Her thumbnail dug into her ring finger, flicking accumulated dirt to the floor.

Since when did William Goodwin lecture her on how to be a good person?

"—but he's your neighbor. You should check up on him."

A scoff slipped past her self-control, "Remember the last time I did that?"

". . . right."

A cheery disposition attempted to alleviate the thick tension that manipulated the conversation, "I'm surprised you didn't take the door down with you."

A faint smile tugged at her lips, yearning to be liberated from her scowl, "Yeah, I'm surprised, too."

Eddie was known as the compassionate baby of the Goodwin siblings—with an uncanny ability to read a room, he often possessed a sense of impenetrable, youthful optimism that often saved the broken family from despair. But, while he was the sibling that Go City looked towards for words of comfort, Sheila, in her youth, displayed the same sense of compassion for others. As a superhero, compassion was one of her strengths. As a civilian, it's what sent her lean body through Dan's door.

A crash followed by a deep thump snatched the twin's undivided attention as their sister's contorted body laid upon the shaggy carpet. Dazed, Sheila firmly dug her elbow into the floor as her peripherals were swarmed by the red-headed twins, followed by their clones. She had assured them that she was okay, pulling her weight off of the ground that beckoned her name, but her brothers were not convinced. Reducing their numbers from twenty to two, William and Edward decided amongst themselves that it was their duty to protect their elder sister, no matter the cost, but before they could unleash the hurricane of their chaos onto the unsuspecting neighbor, Sheila grabbed their hands and pulled them beside her.

Dan had swallowed pills, likely laced with a potent drug that Sheila could not pronounce. It would be stupid for them to confront a man who was out of his mind, and she told them as such, forbidding the twins from stepping foot into Dan's apartment. They reluctantly obeyed and combined their strength to help their sister off of the cigarette burns that littered the floor. Sheila, pained from the ordeal, returned to her apartment, but the boys remained immobile as they watched Dan slam his apartment door in their faces. It troubled them to know that a simple, friendly gesture of a hi, how are you? could entice a visceral reaction within the residents of their sister's new complex.

She rotated her shoulders, wincing as the brownish pools that laid beneath her skin shifted along her lean muscles. All her youth, she had been slammed into car doors, thrown against thick walls, and crushed by decaying debris, yet one push against a rickety door sent her searching for her ibuprofen. How strange.

She cradled the phone between her ear and her shoulder as her charred fingertips messaged circles into her tough skin. May not have been the work of a massage therapist, but it would have to do.

"But, seriously," Will's voice grew in clarity as he, presumably, stole the phone from his brother, "you might want to check up on him. Make sure he's. . . alive."

Air slowly exited the passages of her nose, "I think he's fine—"

"He nearly OD'd on crack like, what? Three days ago?"

She shouldn't have told him that.

"Fine," another wince knitted her brows into a tight furrow, "I'll check up on him tomorrow after I get home from work."

"Keep us posted."

There seemed to be a hint of urgency in William's voice. Whether it be from his concern for Dan's well-being or his rational fear of his sister sustaining injuries from his explosive temperament, Sheila was unsure.

Regardless, she made a promise, "I will."

"Oh!" an abrasive voice resounded in her ears. She drew the phone away as her nose scrunched with displeasure, mixed with pain as the sound of Eddie's apparent excitement rang in her eardrum. She loved her brother, but he had to learn how to control his enthusiasm, "Speaking of, are you excited?"

Her features neutralized as she pondered the meaning of his question, "For. . .?"

"Your job?"

"Oh, that," a sheepish smirk crept upon her lips as her gaze remained downcast onto the grimy, tiled floor, "Of course!"

"Do you know what you're doing?"

"Did you meet any of the other teachers?"

"What subject are you teaching?"

"Are you—"

"Whoa, boys," she interrupted, her pounding head swirling with confusion as the twins played a vicious round of 20 Questions, "one at a time."

"Well, okay. Start from the beginning. Tell us everything," Will commanded.

Sheila could only imagine the cheeky grin he'd flash towards Eddie as a faint hint of laughter pushed through the receiver.

"Middleton High offered me a full-time gig," she stated, her hand resting on the counter's smooth edge, "I'll be replacing the psych teacher that just retired. Oh, what was his name?" she squinted as her gaze moved towards the ceiling as if the water stains would give her the answer she sought, "Birch, I think?"

A small giggle gave way to the big question: "Are you excited?"

This was the question she had been anticipating, yet did not know the answer to.

Her first instinct would be to respond with an enthusiastic of course. Middleton High was like her home. During a period of her life, where misery and misfortune robbed her of great opportunities, the Middleton School District threw caution into the wind and took her under their wing. While her substitute position may not have fulfilled her desire to become seasoned faculty, the job was what freed her from her life of living out of motel rooms and, while the apartment may not be any better, at least it was a place that she could call hers, for the time being. But, truthfully, moving from one dank room to the next was not what she loved about her job—it was the kids; the bright, brilliant students that she had grown to love, and who had grown to love her.

Sheila knew the Middleton High halls like the back of her hand; she had developed meaningful relationships with the students; she nearly made herself at home within the dusty classrooms, but she longed for something more. After each shift, as she stepped into her car, she felt her heart beat with a softened pang as she tore herself away from the school and the students, unsure of when she would see them next. In the night, this feeling of uncertainty often ate away at her sanity; kept her by her phone, anticipating the call that would ultimately bring her back to work. Whether it be for the U.S. history course, or English 101, or Intro to Chemistry, Sheila didn't care. All she longed for was to be reunited with the young individuals that she shared a mutual respect with; who she loved with all her heart.

Yet, there was a piece of her pessimistic mind that nagged her. Behind the successes of the student body that Middleton High often loved to showcase stood failures. As a substitute, she was graced with the opportunity to be a fly-on-the-wall—a spy, incognito, who learned of the horrors that had transpired within the halls of the high school. Teenagers can be ruthless and, as Sheila continued to press her ear against the imaginary wall that stood between herself and the full-time faculty, uncertainty seeped into her optimistic attitude. She wasn't sure if she had the strength within her to place another emotional burden onto her aching shoulders.

This job, as she had learned, could effectively make or break her. She hoped for the first but feared the latter.

A deep breath. Inhale, exhale, answer the damn question, "Yeah!"

"Selene, that didn't sound convincing," Will noted.

Fuck.

"Sheila, why are you hesitating?"

She threw her head back in exasperation, her neck cracking at its base.

She had always hated how perceptive the twins were.

"I've just heard about. . . things."

Her fingers found the soothing familiarity of the plastic coil, intertwining themselves in a frenzy to distract her from the anxiety that rose within her chest.

"What things?"

"I dunno. . ." escaped her favored answer for the night. The uncomfortable silence that followed told Sheila that her half-assed response did not satisfy the curiosity of her brothers.

"Look, the other subs talk about how the students treat full-timers. I only caught wind of, like, a piece of the conversation about it, but. . ."

Her voice trailed off into nothing. What else was she supposed to say?

"The students like you, don't they?" Eddie asked.

"Well, yeah, I mean—"

"Then you should be fine," Will reassured her, "What's there to be nervous about?"

The tension that she held within her back released the stronghold it had on her aching muscles as her legs gave out from underneath her. Her descent was a graceful one as her shoulders slid down the length of the cabinet door behind her. She placed her free hand on the ground but retracted the moment her fingers laid upon the tile encased in a layer of disgusting muck.

"Listen, this is my big break and I don't wanna fuck it up."

A slight rustle filled the void of the conversation as Will handed the phone to Eddie. A somber, tight-lipped smile rested upon her lips as she awaited her brother's response.

Though it was not their job to take care of their elder sister, the twins continuously found themselves acting as a supportive comfort in her life, which, as she started to relinquish the idea that she had to be a mother to them, Sheila found their encouragement to be one of the few motivations that made life worth living.

"Mama Sheila," she cringed, her back pressing further into the cabinet. She hated that name, but made no effort to correct Eddie, "you'll do fine! They know you; they love you! Don't doubt yourself."

Sheila was certain that Edward's first words were "love you"—maybe not to her in particular, but his first words, nonetheless. From the moment he had uttered them, she knew he was going to be the compassionate twin—always assuring Team Go that, while they endured tragedies that nearly tore their family to shreds, there was a light at the end of the blackened tunnel; that they—as a family—could emerge victorious from whatever atrocities had befallen them.

If only he was right, then maybe she wouldn't be trapped in the deep hole she had dug for herself.

"Thanks, Evan."

She closed her eyes and imagined his signature, toothy grin.

Oh, how she missed that smile.

"So, Sis," Will interrupted with his curiosities, bringing the conversation back to an earlier topic that was swept under the rug, "what classes are you teaching this semester?"

"Intro to psych and abnormal psychology," a soft smile pierced her somber demeanor. A faint sense of pride started its work on refilling the holes that her perceived inadequacy bore into her sense of self-worth, "Maybe I'll inherit the AP psych course, too. . . eventually."

"Oooh, psychology~," a distant voice struggled to make its way passed the twins, "she remembers all that from college?"

"Is that Michael?"

A pause, followed by a small, synched sigh, "Yes."

"Mel, college wasn't that long ago; I'm not that old."

She grimaced. College was six years ago. She was getting old.

"Whatever you say, Sis."

She pursed her lips; his nonchalant attitude vexed her to the core. And his jokes, often made at her expense, brought back a wave of seething anger that she had spent years meticulously suppressing. The phone cracked again as her grip tightened.

Michael Melancton Goodwin—once a young, innocent child turned into the embodiment of Narcissus, himself. Something had gone wrong—very wrong—somewhere in his development, but, as she released the tightened grip on the phone, she reminded herself that she was the only one to blame for his misfortune.

Michael had often looked to Sheila for a sense of solace and comfort in the whirlwind of chaos that consumed their family, yet, she left him in the hands of neglect as she cared for the twins. In her quest to ensure that she didn't fuck up her baby brothers, Michael was left to be raised by the shadows—a vulnerable and scared nine-year-old who was tucked under the wing of mayhem to be reared by his own, selfish human nature. His egotistical attitude was her own doing and, inadvertently, she fucked him up, instead. This situation had introduced her to a new friend—guilt—who has been by her side ever since.

Allowing for Michael to fall through the cracks was the wake-up call Sheila needed to reach her conclusion—she was never meant to be a mother. So, her future students as her pseudo children would have to fill the vacant hole in her heart where her passion for motherhood should be.

"Don't worry 'bout him," Eddie interjected as the faint, grumbling sounds of Michael faded, "You've always had a knack for psychology. You're gonna do great!"

At least the twins turned out okay.

"You know," Will continued—he sounded like he had his cheek pressed against something. Sheila guessed it was Eddie's face, "Go High could use your expertise."

She chuckled at his absurd assumption, "Well, I'd hardly say that—"

"Yeah!" Eddie agreed, his voice a tad muffled as well, "We need passionate teachers like you! Especially in the psych department. . ."

"Yeah," Will scoffed, a hint of apprehension leaked into his unamused confession, "Mr. Henry is such a bore."

"Snoozefest, really."

A silent, content sigh escaped her, releasing the tension that she held within her chest as if dissipated into the air, "If only I could remedy that for you, boys."

"Imagine you, at Go High," Eddie's thought trailed away as his mind spun with all of the possibilities for great memories if his sister reestablished her active role in his life, "that would be so cool!"

"Until she has to be our teacher," Will remarked, a hint of playfulness broke the serious tone he tried to convey.

Sheila's back straightened. "Oh, you wish I was your teacher," she remarked.

"Would you give us less homework?"

"Well, no. That would be unethical—"

"Then how does this benefit us?" Will asked, a smile threatening his lips.

William, unlike his brother, must have inherited the natural Goodwin impudence.

Sheila thought for a moment. There were many benefits—just existing within the same social sphere would be one perk, extra help being another. Though, she decided to go the conceded route, just to mess with him.

"You would be graced with the opportunity to bask in my presence."

A snort. A chuckle. Sheila wasn't sure which reaction came from which twin, but, nevertheless, it pleased her.

"I think you just stole a line directly out of Michael's book," Will stated as a secondary fit of laughter was quickly silenced by Michael's piercing scowl of disapproval—or, that's what Sheila guessed had happened.

"I think Mikey may have rubbed off on you, Sis," Eddie returned, his boisterous smile breaking through is words.

"Yeah, well," Sheila found herself grinning as if the twins were there to see it, "did he rub off on me, or did I rub off on him?"

That was a question she often asked herself.

"Hold on, lemme check—"

"No, wait—!"

Just like that, Sheila was abandoned. She shook her head. Those boys—oh, how she missed them.

She pressed the crown of her head against the splintering cabinet door and closed her eyes. Faint murmurs remained indecipherable as she pressed the plastic further against her ear, desperate to catch a snippet of the conversation that she desired to be a part of. Struggling to maintain her position in reality, images of her brothers slowly formed beneath her blackened eyelids as her mind wandered—imagining how the conversation between the twins and Michael would play out.

Eddie, in all of his eagerness, would carelessly let the phone slip from his fingertips while Will would rush past his twin and towards their older brother, who would have made himself at home in the cloth couch that remained unmoved in the Go Tower living quarters. They'd ask him the same question, their eyes wide and glistening with a youthful spirit that Sheila had long since forgotten. Michael would scoff, and state that it was obvious that he rubbed off on her. A smirk would give way to his pearly whites, a gleam in his eye—to rival the twins. They'd laugh as, unknowingly, this little conversation would strengthen the bond that fortified the inseparable chains that they had linked after Sheila's departure.

Chains that had been torn from her.

Her opposing hand lifted from the filthy floor and clutched onto the cracked plastic, holding onto the device as if her life depended on it. It was the one link that tied herself to her family.

The family that she raised. The family that she betrayed.

"He says he rubbed off on you."

"I raised him," barely, "so, I'd say otherwise."

"I see we're at a standstill," Eddie concluded as another stifled laugh left the older twin, along with a choked "This town ain't big enough for the two of them."

"Ha, ha, very funny, you two," Sheila shook her head. William would jump at any given opportunity to make that reference.

If she had a bottle of booze in her hand, she would've considered chugging it.

Instead, Sheila rolled her head against the cabinet, her gaze centered on anything that could distract her from the tears that stung behind her eyes. Quickly, she found herself fixated on the rustic chronometer that sat atop her stove, and vaguely recognized the disfigured number nine, followed by the time stamp "p.m.".

"Alright, well, you two should go to bed," she stated, rather reluctantly. She didn't want the conversation to end. "You have school in the morning."

"So do you, Miss Goodwin."

A slight eye-roll disoriented her as she clumsily removed herself from the floor. She placed a firm hand on the counter to steady herself, "And I thought Mama Sheila was bad enough."

The last chuckle for the night. A parting gift for their sister. "Good night, Mama Sheila. Love you!"

"Love you, too."

Click.

She pulled the phone away from her ear as she slowly trekked back into the living room, dragging her toes against the floor with each painful step. If she could remain huddled on the kitchen floor for the rest of her life, she would have in a heartbeat. She closed her eyes as she carelessly slammed the phone onto the base—she couldn't do that. She was an adult. It was time to act like one.

Exhausted, and with reckless abandon, Sheila launched herself onto the brown couch. Kicking her feet up over the edge, she let her body fall into the crevices of the cushions as her beloved furniture welcomed her in its embrace. The couch consumed her body as her weight shifted into the dents that had been forged from years of use.

The moon offered a piece of angelic tranquility—its soft light caressed her pallid cheeks—but she callously rejected the offer as she placed her arm over the bridge of her nose, blocking the light from peering into her distraught eyes. The moon, a friend of hers in nights of solitude, could not repair the cracks within her broken heart that had continued to grow as she vividly imagined the rich relationships maintained by her brothers—relationships that she once held within her feeble hands, but let slip as her own selfishness tore her away from those she loved the most.

A single tear paved a thin path along her skin, breaking through barriers of thick sweat to find rest from its long journey on the cloth cushion.

If only she wasn't so stupid.

The muffled argument of a domestic dispute seeped through the window while sirens wailed in the distance. Another dispute. Another overdose. Another round of gang violence.

Another night in Lowertown, where nothing's changed.

[rosesforshego]

𝓘𝓯 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓒𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓜𝔂 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓭, 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 7: ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ ᴍᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢꜱ

August 28th, 2002 6:30 am.

The fabric of his cotton button-up folded around the curvature of his elbow that rested upon his desk. Pen in hand, he rearranged his day planner to accommodate a pop-up meeting that sprang upon him only five minutes prior. His frown deepened, increasing the intensity of the wrinkles that hung around the corners of his mouth, as the permanent ink scratched out the preparation of his dinner that he was going to start as soon as the shrill bell rang at 2:30 pm. His sigh, long and slow, audibly left his nose as his cheek sunk further into the palm of his hand. Looked like he would have to settle for something small, and easy to make, for his lonesome meal.

It’s for the best, he thought. After all, he had lesson plans to catch up on, and a report to write for his superiors, so he shouldn’t spend time preparing a formal dinner for the one person who sat at his kitchen table—himself.

Drew pushed the frame of his glasses until it settled between his eyes, straightening his vision before the lenses fell from his nose entirely. He was not particularly happy when he received the news of this “emergency” meeting yesterday afternoon, and he was nearly furious when he was instructed to conduct a “team-bonding” exercise for the science department ASAP. He would have to admit, it was a rocky start to the school year—the clique culture that controlled the faculty was as present as ever, despite administration’s attempts to stop its formation over the summer—but, was it his responsibility to wrangle these adults and lecture them on how to be adults? Treating others with respect and kindness was a lesson that was taught in Kindergarten. He thought by the time his colleagues were old enough to return the favor, they’d at least remember this important lesson. Alas, he had put too much of his faith in the faculty, yet again, and it was his job to clean up their mess.

Sometimes he wondered why he accepted this “department head” position. It seemed to be more trouble than it was worth.

Besides this babysitting gig, he was tasked with orchestrating this afternoon’s gathering like a poorly-trained conductor in front of a group of ill-prepared musicians—but that seemed to be the theme of every department meeting for Dr. Lipsky. He and his colleagues knew that little direction equated to little progress, but no matter how many times the science department had voiced their concerns over faculty and students, their meek solutions were lost in the ether, never to be discussed by their boss—the Principal—ever again.

His gaze remained transfixed upon the daily planner in front of him as the vague image of his colleague’s solemn faces flashed before him. After years of poor treatment, he wondered why they still worked at Middleton High.

They deserved better.

The door to the lab shuffled against the floor, displacing a thick layer of dust that accumulated upon the tile. Behind the frame stood the slender stature of Miss Goodwin, carrying two freshly-brewed cups of coffee. Startled by his unsuspecting presence, she nearly receded into the hallway, but instead of giving in to her insecurities and subsequent embarrassment, she confidently stepped into the dimly-lit room, illuminated by the dawn’s rays.

“G’ mornin’, Drew.”

“Good morning, Sheila.”

She closed the door behind her, pressing her sole against the slab, maintaining her balance as she slowly moved closer to him. Drew watched her, in awe, confused and intrigued by the way she carried herself on top of the thin heels of her shoes. He always found fascination in the ability to remain balanced upon such thin plastic and, while Sheila crossed the room with a bit of elegance in each step, he found himself with a lack of understanding for such a feat, yet maintained his sense of child-like wonder.

Sheila placed the coffee in front of him, dissuading his roaming eyes from staring at her grace. Not like she particularly minded, nor noticed. The cup rested within the perfect ring that was created by the coffee that sat on his desk the day before. She cocked her head at the sight, a little perplexed and amused that Drew didn’t wipe away the ring. She thought that such a small marking would have driven him insane.

Maybe she assumed wrong.

She smiled, her teeth peeking out from being her blackened lips in an endearing way that Drew could get used to. However, her sly ploy to distract him was not successful as his eyes landed upon the gloved hand that subtly retreated from the cup, carrying within her palm a crumpled, yellow piece of paper.

“What’s that?”

Her sweet smile faltered.

“What’s what?”

His brows lowered, along with the melody in his voice, “The paper in your hand.”

She grew anxious at the twang of accusation within his tone as her hand deposited the paper within the pocket of her blazer.

She lied through her grinning teeth, “Receipt.”

His gaze bore holes into her fake demeanor, which nearly made her forehead glisten with sweat. Bull, he thought. What kind of receipt was printed on yellow paper?

“Well,” his legs swayed, turning his chair from side-to-side, bringing his idle body with it as he chewed on his words. Curiosity may have killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back and that was the principle he lived by.

“Feel free to throw it away in my trash.”

He gestured to the bin beside his desk.

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” she deflected, nearly immediately, at his intriguing proposition. Drew sat up, his back pressed into the chair as he watched her free hand wave his words away. She had something to hid, he was sure of it. Just, what? He needed to know.

Quickly, without weighing the consequences, she continued to spin her web of lies as she attempted to add a sort of justification to her statement, “I need it for reimbursement purposes.”

Reimbursement? For what?

Enough beating around the bush; it was time for the direct approach, “What do you mean—"

“So, Doc,” she slid her leg onto his desk, closing the artificial gap between them with such abrupt energy that she nearly split her coffee onto her gloves.

Strange, he mused, eyeing the deep, burgundy that encased her hands. The morning was not chilly. Why did she choose to wear gloves?

The desk creaked beneath her frame, accommodating her weight as she shifted into a more comfortable position. Her words, abrasive against the calm that encapsulated the room, pulled him away from his curiosity, “How’s your morning?”

Truthfully, he was rather appalled that she had decided to make his desk her new seat, but he did nothing to stop her.

A sliver of raven hair fell from behind her ear and Drew resisted the urge to brush it back into place—not like the kind gesture would have eased her frazzled mind. After her successful break-in the previous morning, Sheila had not expected to find Drew slouched behind his desk. She hoped that her sly caper would be just as successful—if not more since she took his coffee suggestions to heart—but, as she felt the heat of her embarrassment rise to her flushed cheeks, there was nothing she could do. Though, she was a little upset that she would have to trash the note she wanted to leave for him. Not in his trash, though.

Maybe it was for the best.

Drew’s raging mind remained fixated on her hunched stature. The confidence that she had entered the room with dissipated behind the worry in her eyes. He may not have known her for long, but if he knew a thing or two about human behavior, he would have to guess that she was stressed—possibly due to whatever secrets she hung over his head. He hoped that Sheila, of all colleagues, could confide in him, but it was only Day 3 of their budding friendship. Maybe he was asking for too much too soon.

The corner of her mouth quivered nervously as her eyes searched his, waiting for his absent reply. Her words pierced the conversation in a way that was rather odd for the two of them, then hung in the space between them as Drew remained silent on the matter. She smiled, meekly, attempting to quell the quiver, but to no avail, as she hoped that he’d drop the subject and free her from her entanglement within the web she spun that would make even the most dignified of spiders proud.

So, drop it he did.

He leaned further into his chair—opening his crossed arms in a comfortable, calming gesture to ease her tension, but he maintained his watchful eye, unsure of where the conversation would lead, nor how his colleague would react.

Miss Sheila Goodwin was a book he’d have to pry open with his bare hands if he wanted to know her secrets. She wasn’t going to simply give them to him, despite his charms.

“Fine,” he replied. His chair squeaked under his weight.

“Just fine?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at his response. The quiver in her lip subsided.

“Drew, I’m surprised. You’re usually more elaborate than that.”

Usually? She’d only known the man for three days. Yet, she possessed the uncanny ability to analyze his behavioral patterns—his strange, wacky, slightly familiar with an aura of comfort patterns. It was something she’d like to explore.

“Well, I had a meeting with the department heads this morning,” he continued, obliging to her subtle request, “and I—”

“Wait,” she interrupted, her curiosity clutching her rational mind, “The department heads? Why did you need to meet with them?”

A short snort escaped Drew’s nose as he crossed his arms, closing the invite he had extended towards her, “I’m the head of the science department.”

Oh.

A pale pink broke through the green tint of her skin. Monday may have been her first day as a full-timer, but she had her substitute experience to fall back upon, and she was rather appalled at herself for not knowing this important bit of information. She knew who held the reins over the other departments, but not for science.

It was just her dumb luck that Drew Lipsky had to be the head of the science department—and she just had to showcase her ignorance in front of him.

How embarrassing.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t worry,” Drew waved his hand, dismissing her apology, “You’re new. I’ll give you a pass on this one.”

Truthfully, he would’ve given her a pass anyway—on anything. She was nice to him, treated him with kindness and respect that he had craved for years. Why be pressed over a silly matter?

She subtly rolled her eyes, which prompted a cheeky smirk from her colleague.

“Thanks.”

With a gentle push, she gracefully leaped from the desk. Her heels pressed upon the hard floor with a satisfying clack that rang within Drew’s ears. He watched her brush the accumulated wrinkles from the cloth of her slacks and, without saying a word, departed from his workspace.

Drew lurched forward, stretching his hand towards her receding frame, but stopped his movement before he could grasp her arm.

Damnit. Leave it to Drew to screw up practically every good thing that graced his miserable, lonely life.

He retracted his hand and leaned back into his chair, watching her stiff stature fade into the greying light. James had always warned him that his sarcastic personality was a niche sense of humor. His mother had always told him that he shouldn’t utilize commentary in the form of jest. He always knew that his awkward, geeky, socially inept personality would drive others away, but he had hoped that this time things would be different. That they’d click. That she’d understand his sarcastic wit and appreciate the sense of humor that had tormented him throughout his formative years. It was never his intention to offend her and, if he did, he was deeply apologetic about it, but for Sheila to simply state her thanks, then saunter away without a word pierced his beating heart.

When he first found her, sprawled upon the mucky floor, prying gum away from its hold on the tile, a warmth grew within his chest. She and her infectious personality was a gateway to a plethora of opportunities to find friendship within another—someone outside of his little group of scientists who understood the hardships of teaching; someone who’d laugh with him, talk with him, support him through his successes and his failures. He desired for someone different, who could release him from the strong confines of his mundane routine. A colleague who could provide a sense of fulfillment in his dull life.

Was that too much to ask?

She zeroed in on the port that led to the vacant hall outside of his classroom, but she didn’t pass through it. Instead, she turned to the long lab table that sat beside the door and snatched a chair from underneath it.

Sheila dragged the padded, metal legs across the tile towards Drew’s desk, then haphazardly spun the chair and straddled the plastic seat. The back of the chair faced the scientist in an informal, comfortable manner as she rested her elbow on the metal—her balled fist held her chin while the other lazily draped over the chair. A slight grin crept upon her features as her stature invited Drew into the easy-going, laid-back atmosphere her informal stature created.

“So, what happened?” she asked, “Tell me more.”

Drew blinked away the uncertainty that pooled within his eyes. For a brief moment, Sheila recognized a subtle perplexed look etched into the crease between his eyebrows, but it quickly faded once he found the courage to compose himself.

“Well,” he brought a finger to his thin lips, tapping them as his eyes trailed to the brown stain on the white ceiling, “this year has been off to an. . . interesting start.”

She shifted in her seat—the uneven legs rattling against the tile, “You’re tellin’ me.”

His gaze met hers for a brief moment of understanding. Her smile softened the corners of her eyes, but her emerald irises displayed a similar sort of uncertainty, laced with sadness and frustration, that reflected within Drew’s.

The job never got easier and he didn’t have the heart to tell her.

“Yeah,” a small chuckle escaped with his response and faded into the thick atmosphere, “you’re not the only one who had a rough first day if that’s any consolation.”

“Somewhat,” she admitted. It was nice to know that she wasn’t the only person left to suffer in the harsh elements that came with the high school, but the curve of Drew’s frowning lips indicated that there was an issue that ran deeper than new teacher initiation day.

Drew broke eye contract with Sheila, his gaze wandering to the posters the clung to his classroom walls. His lips formed a thin line to counteract the growing frown from settling into the creases that formed deep folds around his face. He was positive that she’d hear about the events that were recounted in the early morning meeting, but, after the horrifying experience she called her first day, he fought against the urge to gossip, despite the intense curiosity that laid within her, begging for him to keep her in the loop that she was shoved out of.

Sheila placed a gentle hand on his outstretched forearm. The simple gesture immediately forced his eyes to find hers, but they still held a vacant expression as his mind remained lost within his thoughts. Bothered by his distant stature, and his stand-offish gaze that passed through her, she leaned closer to his stiff body that swayed, slightly, in the chair.

“Everything alright?”

“Huh?” he shook his head, her voice yanked him from the confines of his head.

The look of concern that lined her clenched jaw startled him, yet sent shockwaves of a calming sensation that eased his mind. It was an open invitation for him to confide in her.

It was everything he could’ve wanted.

“Oh, yeah,” he regained his composure, removing his arm from Sheila’s touch, “the meeting went well. I’m just not looking forward to hosting one later this afternoon.”

“With the science department?”

“Yeah,” he eyed her as a soft gleam reflected in the beautiful blue that captured Sheila’s attention, “I was hoping to go home early. Maybe take a nap. . .”

“You’re already that tired?” she asked, raising an eyebrow as a hint of a mischievous, playful spirit rose within her banter.

“I only wake up this early if I have to,” he retorted.

Lately, it seemed as if he could never get enough rest. Waking up before the sun didn’t help.

“Not an early riser, I see,” she remarked, crossing her arms upon the back of her chair.

“I thought you knew,” he said, gesturing to the coffee that sat, untouched, on his desk. Its warm steam continued to seep through the cover, dissipating into the morning air. It invited Drew to take a sip—to wake his drowsy, clouded mind—but he remained immobile, too attentive to the conversation, and Sheila’s cheeky responses, to move.

“I made a guess,” she admitted, “It was nearly a fifty-fifty shot since I knew next-to-nothing about you.”

“You knew I liked coffee, didn’t you?”

She laughed—its melody allowed the light from the new, morning sun to enter his welcoming gaze, “No.”

“Lucky guess?”

“You could say that,” Sheila remarked as she stood from her chair, snatching her coffee that sat beside Drew’s upon her departure, “Hopefully I made it right this time.”

“Not like you made it wrong last time,” Drew mumbled, leaning forward to grab his cup.

The liquid behind the Styrofoam warmed his cold hand. He hadn’t meant for Sheila to hear, but in close quarters, it was difficult to mumble anything without her sensitive ears grasping onto every word. She was quick and keen—blessed with a youthful spirit; a witty personality that he’d have to learn how to keep up with if he wanted to maintain the friendship that bloomed between them.

“Yeah, well,” she pushed the chair back towards the lab table, its legs scraping against the floor as it nestled into the nook beneath the chemically-stained surface, “I tried to follow your instructions, but you didn’t give me any.”

Drew brought the coffee to his lips. The bitterness that coated his tongue the day before was replaced with a rich, creamy taste that brought chills to his ample skin. He hummed into his cup, delighted by the taste, indulging for a moment in the delicious caffeine that would, without a doubt, aid him through the long day ahead.

“It’s perfect,” he remarked, reluctantly pulling the cup away as his gaze trailed towards his colleague who was making her way out the door.

“Hey,” he sat up in his chair as she turned her head in his direction, “where’d you get this?”

She smiled, her irises beaming in the sunlight, “I made it just for you.”

With that, she left—the click of her heels echoing in the empty hallway.

The corner of his lip curved into a smile but immediately faltered as he set down his coffee.

If she made it, then what was the paper for?

Alarmed, he abruptly rose from his seat and followed the draft that flowed out the door in her wake, all the way calling her name, asking questions that demanded answers, as child-like laughter beckoned Drew to Classroom 121.