Chapter Text
then
It started with a drink, as these things usually do.
He was twenty-two, freshly graduated from college with his undergraduate degree in education. The promise of the world at his feet, the opportunities boundless. Had he been paying attention while he enjoyed the last few parties of his college life, the economic crisis may not have caught him so unprepared. He hoped it wouldn’t impact him; children always needed teachers, right? Nerves, however, got the best of older, entrenched staff, and the usual turnover that would provide new jobs did not occur.
As it transpired, though, economic crises created an increased demand for alcohol. And thus, highly educated and brilliantly promising he may have been, he settled into the daily routine of serving drinks to a disillusioned crowd. Jobs lost, relationships ruined, opportunities never even tried; they all came together under the cloak of night, the piano playing over the doom of the news on the television above the bar.
She appeared three weeks into his stint at the ramshackle bar, her blonde hair swept into a high ponytail as she settled herself on the far side of the counter. She thew her purse on the counter, seemingly unconcerned with the stickiness there, leftover from the patron who had vacated the seat before her arrival.
The bartender wandered to her side, his hand working a rag into a clean glass, his eyebrows raised in question. She ordered a shot of whiskey, handing him wadded cash for the purchase, a single note as a tip. He poured her full shot, filling a half one for himself, sliding it across the counter. She scooped it easily, threw it back, the tinkle of the glass punctuating the dull conversation within the small bar.
He raised a brow again and she nodded, accepting a second shot. She threw it back again without comment, her eyes trailing to the television screen above her, the news of another corporation, another chain going out of business. Another thousand people without jobs. She reached into her bag, digging for more cash, her face white and apologetic as she realized she was short.
He waved a hand, glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention. His boss, just the day before, had reprimanded him for his bleeding heart. Yes, people were certainly struggling, but the bar needed to stay afloat. He couldn’t help it, though. He knew the despair in the eyes of the patrons was reflected in his own. They all needed a break.
The blonde mystery thanked him, gathered her things, and made a hasty exit.
He figured he’d never see her again.
*
now
Rowan smiled as he hung the last poster on the wall of his classroom, stepping back to ensure it was level. He rolled his neck, his eyes drifting around the small room, the rows of desks clean and gleaming, the blackboard fresh, the maps neatly rolled. Though each new year had its own set of challenges, his excitement greatly outweighed his nerves.
“Everything all set?” Rowan glanced up to see Fenrys Moonbeam, his science counterpart, leaning against his classroom door. He nodded, giving the room another once over.
“Just waiting for the students.” He confirmed, his hand resting on the stack of papers on his desk. He had a homeroom block first thing, followed by three sections of middle school history before lunch. The afternoon consisted of a study hall, along with one more section of class, followed by dismissal.
“How about yourself?”
“Had a bit of a run-in with a Bunsen Burner this morning, but all in and all, everything is looking good.”
Rowan laughed, leaning against his desk and crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I’m so glad I picked something that doesn’t involve fire.”
“Keeps it interesting,” Fenrys shrugged, his eyes falling on one of the posters in the classroom. “History is boring.”
“Not allowed in my classroom.” Rowan deadpanned, pointing toward the door. Fenrys laughed, holding up both hands in mock surrender.
“Which days are you monitoring lunch?”
Rowan glanced at his schedule. “Only tomorrow.”
Fenrys nodded. “I have Wednesday. Lunch today in the staff room?”
Rowan nodded his confirmation, glad to have a set companion for the first day. Fenrys gave him a thumbs up, turning toward the door and shouting his well-wishes for the first morning. Rowan returned the sentiment, pushing himself off the front of his desk and taking a seat behind it.
He didn’t have long to wait; the rumble of students echoed down the hallway within moments, their excited chatter wafting into Rowan’s classroom. He could hear snippets of conversation as students passed his room; words of vacations, summer shenanigans, and the latest version of a popular video game making him smile. He had always though he’d teach high school, assuming that the more detailed curriculums would speak to him when he did rotations several years back. He was surprised, though, to find that the sixth grade was his true calling; though the students were just hitting puberty, saying inappropriate things most of the time, and trying to navigate the bridge between childhood and adolescence, he loved the age range. The beginning of middle school offered students the opportunity to start to be selective about what they wanted to learn, with less focus on a strict curriculum. It made them curious. Inquisitive. And Rowan loved nothing more than to be the teacher that made them realize history could be fun.
He raised a hand in welcome as a few students appeared in the doorway, their eyes flickering between the papers they held and the number on the door.
“Two zero four?” Rowan asked, to which the students nodded. Rowan waved them into the room, recognizing their first-day nerves. “Come on in,” he said kindly, nodding toward the lockers on the right side of the room. “They all have names on them. When your things are put away, take a seat anywhere.”
Before long, the room was full, the students buzzing as they selected seats. Rowan laughed privately at the first-day drama of the sixth grade; a group of eleven and twelve-year-olds, some still resolutely in their childhood phase, some testing the waters of being a pre-teen, some trying - and failing - to behave like high-schoolers, their motions no doubt copied from their older siblings.
He took stock of the room, assessing the groups. At the end of the first week, the teachers always compared notes on who the problem students might be, who might need more help, and who might lead others into trouble. So far, Rowan could identify a few small groups of students who were definitely close friends: there was a gaggle of four young girls in the front, each wearing a small dusting of makeup (all their mothers allowed, Rowan was sure), three boys talking animatedly about sports in the center, and a boy and a girl in the back corner, flipping through the pages of a book.
He cleared his throat, bringing the attention of the homeroom class to the front. They all turned toward him, the boys in the middle of the room still laughing. A pointed glance from Rowan quieted them, and he took a deep breath, fixing a smile on his face.
“Welcome, everyone. I hope you all had a great summer.”
A general sound of agreement echoed through the room. Rowan continued. “I’m Mister Whitethorn, I’ll be your homeroom and history teacher.” He pulled the list of students toward him, his eyes glancing town the dozen or so names listed there. “When I call your name, please raise your hand. We won’t have to do this every day, once I learn your names.”
The list didn’t take long, and soon he was marking off the last name, Westfall. She raised her hand from the back, her eyes still focusing on the book she had been discussing with the boy next to her. Rowan smiled privately to himself. The students that spent their early hours reading for enjoyment were among his favorites. They were always quiet, academic, and caused no trouble.
“Does anyone have any questions on anything before I run through the ground rules for the school?” Rowan had a new list of things to discuss with the students, provided to him the previous week during a staff workshop by the principal.
The boy in the back raised his hand. Rowan glanced at his paper, before pointing to him. “Yes, Mister Havilliard?”
“Do you teach all of the history classes for the sixth grade?”
“And the rest of the middle school.” Rowan confirmed, laughing gently as the boy’s mouth dropped open.
“Wow.” He said in awe. One of the girls in the front rolled her eyes. Rowan ignored her, glancing around the classroom for any more raised hands. He’d learned early on in teaching middle school that twelve-year-olds could be capable of being mean. It was best to ignore them.
“Right, well, if that’s it, just a few new rules. The dress code from last year still stands, but they’ve added a rule against hats in the classroom.” Rowan paused as one of the boys in the center of the room groaned, pulling his baseball hat from his head. “There’s also a new list of extracurricular activities available on your portals. Make sure you go on and look with your parents or guardians and sign up for whatever you want to do.”
Rowan looked up at the clock, noting they only had a few moments left. “Bell will ring at eight,” he said, nodding toward the clock. “Make sure you have everything you need for the first two classes before the break. Then you can come back here and retrieve whatever you need from your lockers.”
Without further ado, the students all turned back to each other, continuing their conversations. Rowan pulled the paper for his first history class to the front of his stack, his eyes scanning the list. It was an eighth grade class, and therefore none of his homeroom students would stay for it.
Snippets of conversation drifted toward him, and Rowan looked up to see that one of the girls that had been sitting in the front was standing in front of the boy and girl in the back. Rowan looked at the sheet he’d cast to the side, trying to remember names. The girl in the back, her last name was Westfall, he remembered, and the girl who’d gotten up from the front was Sierra Rompier.
“…well my mom said that your parents got divorced because your daddy had an affair.” As Sierra’s words made their way to the front, Rowan stood, sighing to himself. There were plenty of things that kids should work out themselves, but that might not be one of them.
“Miss Rompier - “ He started. His words were cut off by the bell ringing, and Sierra glanced at him, before turning to walk toward the door. Before she could get too far, however, the other girl - something Westfall, Rowan didn’t have his sheet with him - had launched herself at her, knocking her soundly to the ground.
Rowan stood dumbstruck for a single moment, before hurrying forward to pull the two girls away from each other. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen a fight before, but certainly not so early in the school year. It was the first day!
“Miss Westfall,” he said sharply. She stiffened, pulling her fingers from where they were tangled in Sierra’s hair. She stood, brushing off the front of her shirt nonchalantly. Sierra was still on the ground, her mouth open in shock, one hand on her hair, where the other girl had pulled out a sizable chunk.
“Mister Havilliard, will you please escort Miss Rompier to the nurse?” The small boy nodded, shouldering his bag. He held a hand out to Sierra, which she ignored, pushing herself to her feet with as much grace as she could muster.
“You’re going to regret that, you bitch.” She spat, before turning on her heel toward the door, the young boy following her. Rowan pinched the bridge of his nose. Why did he like teaching middle schoolers again?
“Wait a minute, Miss Westfall.” He said, noting the girl trying to sneak toward the door in his periphery. He was surprised by her attitude; she had seemed so quiet and studious only moments before. She hung her head, her eyes trained on the ground.
“I’m sorry,” she said dully, her voice so quiet Rowan had to strain to hear. “I…she…”
“I heard what she said.” Rowan confirmed. He was no proponent of physical fighting, but Sierra’s words had certainly been hurtful, especially to a young girl.
“Are you going to call my mom?”
Rowan sighed, considering. He knew he should, but it was the first day, and he’d heard the comment Sierra had made. Rowan walked back toward his desk, glancing at the list in front of him to get her first name.
“No, Eva, I’m not. But please try to think about this before you react next time. Use your words.”
The girl nodded, still looking at the floor, her feet inching toward the door of the classroom. Rowan rolled his eyes good-naturedly at her attempt to leave. He knew, in the back of his mind that he should send her to the principal’s office and let him deal with it.
“Thanks, Mister Whitethorn.” She said quietly, finally looking up at him. Her blonde braid had come undone during the brief altercation, and regret shone in her blue eyes. “Can I go?”
He nodded, dismissing her. “You may.”
“Thanks!” She said brightly, and Rowan fought to hide his laugh as she bounced from the room. Her quiet demeanor was likely meant to sound apologetic, but she clearly did not regret her actions at all.
Rowan looked again at his homeroom class list, making a mental note to tell his colleagues to keep an eye on Eva Westfall.