#dmbm

Moving from Seattle to San Francisco felt like trading your two-bedroom in for a studio. 

Whereas you had room to breathe in Washington, your new apartment complex in San Francisco felt like a stack of broom closets one windstorm away from tumbling down.

You weren’t trying to be a debby downer, really - but the reason you’d moved so far in the first place wasn’t exactly a good one.

            You had gotten the call one evening on the bus home from your last lecture of the day: BIO A 376 Hominin Crania in the Fossil Record. You loved your job, and you worked hard for it. Countless hours, days, months even - all throughout college and grad school memorizing type specimens and primate fossil records, taking the occasional odd general anthropology class, fighting tooth and nail for your spot in a museum internship. 

Part of your degree requirement as an Anthropologist was at least one year of another language and finding it the most useful and prevalent in the United States, you chose Spanish.

It turns out that was the right choice, because your minor in Spanish and Portuguese studies had scored you the new job in San Francisco.

Working yourself to the bone paid off, and after countless field studies and papers released you had gained not only your doctorates in Anthropology (Human Evolutionary Biology specialization mind you), but you’d also smuggled your way into being a professor. Your lectures were fun, your fossil casts were expensive, and your… phone was ringing?

That’s right, you were on the bus when your phone rang. Usually you ignore any call and choose to answer it in the safety of your home, weary of eavesdroppers on public transit or God forbid the judgmental ogle of a fellow Seattleite. However, the caller ID read “Nana” and you feared not answering would lead to a lightning bolt come next rainstorm smiting you down.

“Is this ______ _______?” 

Ok so totally not the warm and comforting voice of your Nana. 

“Erh,” your eyes dart around the bus to see if anyone is staring at you. It was kind of rude to answer the phone on the bus next to all these people who were also probably tired after a long day’s work… 

Ok cool, no one was staring at you yet. Your hand cups the phone speaker and hides your face as you confirm the caller's query. “Yeah, that’s me. Can I ask who you are and what you’re doing with my grandmother’s home phone?”

“I’m her caretaker, do you have a minute? It’s not... Detrimental or anything, but still quite serious.”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Nana sits comfortably on a wicker chair settled on the deck of your new apartment. The morning fog has come and gone, and the sun takes its place illuminating every wrinkle and freckle on her aged skin. A thin shawl is wrapped around her shoulders, and she seems to be enjoying the early September breeze.

“What a lovely view you have,” she remarks. You’re glad to see she’s in an exceedingly good mood. Her caretaker had spoken to you after dropping her off when you’d first arrived. 

‘When it comes to dementia, we usually see our loved ones become obliviously delightful or confused and cranky’ the older woman had explained. You knew it wasn’t as cut and dry as that, and Nana’s memory wasn’t going to decline linearly - but the worries still crept in. Forgetting her short term memories was likely already distressing enough, you’d hate for your grandmother to become angry too, as selfish as that was.

You’ve just finished hauling the last of your boxes up the narrow stairs and into your living room/dining room. You did have a nice view, having scored a small yet expensive apartment near your Nana’s condo in the interest of being as close as possible without moving in with her. It only has one bedroom, and the dining room is the same room as the kitchen and the living room, but there’s only one you. 

 The majority of the boxes you spent the last hour towing are dedicated to your ever-growing wardrobe and eclectic house decorations, and there’s an entire storage bin labeled “CRAFTING!” that’s bulging the lid like it wants to jump out at you. 

“Thanks to you,” you push a box out of your way with the sweep of your foot and approach the balcony to join her.

 When your Nana’s husband passed the year before, he left quite the hefty sum of money to her in his will. Your parents were astonished that they didn’t get a single cent, but they should’ve known that Nana was his entire world. So much so, that he continued to support her (and you now) from beyond the grave. 

“My salary as a professor spoiled me,” you hum, brushing a curly silver strand of hair behind her ear. “I have a feeling I’m going to have to adjust to this new one.” 

Struggling for money wasn’t a new experience unfortunately. Financial aid had covered your bachelor's degree entirely, but graduate school and subsequent rent in Seattle was completely in your hands. You’d flipped and flopped between jobs and multiple roommates during that era of your life and certainly can’t say you miss it. 

“Thanks for spotting me Nana, I don’t know how I could ever repay you.” While true, saying that was mostly a formality. You know she’s going to immediately deny any and all repayment.

Nana reaches to you and clasps your palm between her two hands; you can feel the rings on her hands warmed by the sun. Her hum is like music to your ears. “Just moving out here to be with little old me is payment enough!” She tuts. 

“You can always start by selling that ludicrous wardrobe of yours if you’re so adamant on being independent,” she continues as her sandaled foot wiggles in the general direction of the boxes inside. 

You groan and let go of her hand. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been curating my style? I’ve been to thrift stores no man would dare set foot in.” You’d seen horrors beyond belief at the Goodwill bins of downtown Seattle. 

Deciding to busy yourself with unpacking the larger things first, you leave Nana to her sunbathing and focus your attention on ripping apart cardboard boxes with the vigor of someone who has about one and a half days to set up a classroom before the school year starts. 

You have almost no experience teaching kids. Well, preteens.

College kids? Easy as pie. Just be a little funny, understanding (you were a college student too once after all), and lenient to an extent. Relationships with your students weren’t personal in the slightest, besides the occasional career counseling and letter of recommendation.

But middle schoolers? Like 11 to 14 year olds? You can only imagine…. Well, you can’t only imagine it. You’re going to experience it in approximately one and half days. Right.

You shake your head and get to work putting your living space together. 

“What a lovely view...” Nana repeats to herself, folding her hands in her lap.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Grover Cleveland Middle School is significantly smaller than the college campus you previously worked on, as to be expected. It’s nice, but a little underwhelming if you’re being honest with yourself. Learning to navigate around an actual classroom and not just a lecture hall is going to need some getting used to.

On the bright side, you get to decorate!

 Usually you’d try and dress “fun” (or quirky like Nana claims), but today was an arts and crafts set-up-the-class-last-minute kind of day and you were more worried about practicality. Still, bits of your usual bubbly attire crept in. Denim shorts of a sensible length, a very thin sweater in a funky pattern of varying colors, and huge sunglasses on top of your head.

Your sunglasses aren’t much use to you inside, so they push your hair away from your face instead. The hallways inside of the school are bright, with squeaky clean freshly waxed floors and vibrant walls. Your classroom is at the end of the hallway right next to a door that leads outside, where there’s a covered outdoor walkway to the auditorium and cafeteria building. 

There seems to be somewhat of a rhyme and reason to the organization of the school, with 8th grade classes as well as electives like art and band in one building, 6th and 7th grade classes in another, and finally the physical education building out near a decently sized grass field that you’re sure the school pays extra money to keep watered year-round.

You surmise that language is certainly considered an elective, as the classroom you’ve been given is within that 8th grade slash electives building. The room you step into is more spacious than anticipated, delighted to see tall windows that let the sunlight in.

Colorful carpets are unrolled, paper garlands are strewn, desks are reorganized to form a huge circle (where you’ll stand in the center to call on random students - oh the horror!), and your classroom is starting to look like somewhere you wouldn’t mind spending 5 days a week in.

You’re balanced precariously on a ladder and trying to pin some fake plants up near the ceiling above a map of the world when someone knocks on your open doorway. 

You shriek and drop the stapling gun, gripping on to your ladder for dear life. “Jesus Christ!” The exclamation escapes as you whip your head around to face the intruders. You had assumed other teachers would be here before school crept up tomorrow, but you weren’t expecting to be ambushed so soon. 

Two women are standing just outside of your door, one of them grinning ear to ear while the second one looks horrified to have almost killed you. (The fall wasn’t far at all, you would have been perfectly fine.) The more smiley of the two makes the first move and marches over.

“You!” She points a finger in your direction. Oh no, what did you do wrong?

“Me?” Your eyebrows shoot up, throwing your hands up in defense once you’ve made it safely to the ground. 

“You must be Alma’s replacement,” the accusing finger turns into an outreached hand that you gladly shake. Wow, her grip is really strong. “My name is Avery,” she continues with that bright smile. 

Avery is a very small woman with a very big personality. Her curly brown hair is pulled up in the back with a clip and her eyes are dark, yet warm. She shakes your hand enthusiastically and motions for her shadow to enter the room behind her.

“I teach 8th grade social studies,” Avery drops your hand. “Are you excited? You’re so lucky you get to start at the beginning of the school year.” She rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet eagerly. 

Her presence immediately lights up the room you notice. You can’t help but think that she must be a fantastic teacher. 

“I’m a little nervous,” you admit. “I don’t know what you guys have heard but I’ve never actually taught this age before. Or this subject… God I sound unprepared.” A self-deprecating chuckle escapes your lips.

You weren’t inexperienced in teaching, but it would certainly be a change in material, and your audience would be much more demanding. No redirecting students to TA’s and answering emails. No, you’d be hands on from here on out.

Indiana is the woman behind Avery who steps towards you and immediately pulls you into a short hug rather than a handshake after introducing herself. She’s soft spoken, but not shy as she looks you directly in the eyes. Wow, her brown eyes are intense. 

“You’ll do great.” She smiles. She’s taller than Avery, though you don’t think that’s hard to accomplish, and sports a messy ginger shag cut.  

“Guess what she teaches?” Avery interrupts. From the way Indiana ignores the interruption, you have a feeling this behavior is normal for her.

“Er… Art?” You throw out a guess, just based on Indiana’s appearance. Her brown eyes are hidden behind a pair of thin wired glasses, and she’s wearing a black t-shirt with a colorful laurel birch cat on it.

“Wrong!” Avery hops up to sit on your desk and make herself at home. Luckily you haven’t put anything on it yet. That box is still sitting on the windowsill waiting to be opened. You were thinking of stopping by the thrift store this weekend to find some gaudy decorations for your desk. Are you allowed to have candles in school?

“I don’t know why she always does this,” Indiana rolls her eyes fondly. Apparently this wasn’t the first time Avery had pulled someone into a guessing game. You wondered how many new teachers this school went through if this had already happened multiple times.  

“I teach Algebra 1 by the way. Pretty exhilarating stuff.”

            “Awesomeness.” You weren’t great at math, so you respected that. Like, really respected that. One man’s trash was another man’s treasure. Or rather one teacher’s nightmare was another one’s dream. If anyone dreamed of being a middle school teacher at all. 

            You really had to stop the negative nancy behavior. All teachers were worthy of respect (this was obvious enough), and just because you didn’t dream of being in this situation didn’t mean it wasn’t someone else’s pride and joy. 

You aren’t sure what to make of these two yet, but they seem friendly enough to introduce themselves to an unfamiliar face almost immediately. And you take a little bit of pride in the way they poke around your room, oohing and ahhing at your decorations. 

The air is amiable but awkward while Indiana tinkers around a bookshelf that’s looking particularly sparse without the notebooks you intend to have your students store there.

“What did you teach before?” The ginger inquires once she’s done investigating your choice in interior design. She doesn’t have any complaints apparently.

“Anthropology,” you say proudly. “Biological anthropology, actually.” God you’re going to miss teaching people who were old enough to vote and drive. No more fossil casts and 2-hour long powerpoints. Now your life would revolve around teaching people how to introduce themselves in Spanish.

Indiana whistles. “Quite the change then, huh?”

“Eugh, don’t remind me,” you groan. “I moved here for personal reasons and believe it or not, it was easier getting a job here than at SFSU.” Guess they already had enough Anth professors.

            “No offense, but what does that have to do with Spanish?” Avery swings her feet back and forth and leans further back on your desk. Any further and she’d fall backwards. You think back to elementary school when your teachers would scare you with tales of kids leaning too far back in their chairs and cracking their heads open. 

            “I minored in Spanish and Portuguese studies when I was still at uni,” you laugh. “I suppose I’m sufficiently fluent enough to teach junior high.” The teaching experience in general probably helped too. 

The two women look at each other and then at you, before shrugging in perfect unison. It draws a laugh from you and the three of you leave the building and make way to the school’s joint cafeteria-auditorium. As they corral you in the right direction, it's explained to you that the teachers usually meet for lunch before the first day of school to catch up. That’s really cute actually.

The building you enter is essentially one huge room with a stage (the heavy blue curtains are open), a ton of tables with connected stools, and a small section cornered off where empty bins and counters are located. You assume that’s where the kids who get their food here will line up. 

There’s a serving counter that leads to a separate room that has to be the kitchen. People are skittering back and forth in there, stacking bulk cans and organizing trays. A symphony of pots and pans can be heard, as well as laughter and the sound of a radio faintly playing from somewhere inside. 

“Soooo, this is where the feasting happens,” Avery motions towards the middle of the room with jazz hands. She points to the large expanse of windows that show that there’s more seating outside. “The kids have lunch kinda early all things considered, but if it’s not too foggy they get to eat outside.” 

You’re led to a table right in front of the stage where a few people are sitting down already. You can’t help the giggle that escapes you at the sight of grown men sitting in such small seats. They turn to look at the source of the laughter, and your eyes are immediately drawn to one of them. 

He’s really fucking cute, you blink. 

“Hi Grace, Hi Patil!” Avery waves and shoves herself into one of the seats. You notice she makes herself comfortable no matter where she goes. There’s something endearing about that. 

Your eyes just brush over the lanyard worn by the taller of the two men. ‘Grace, Ryland’ it reads. You notice none of the other teachers are wearing theirs, presumably tucked into their bags or left in their classrooms today. 

That’s kind of dorky of him. Not in a mean way. In a hot dorky way. 

You need to get a hold of yourself instantly. 

You shake your head and then remember that everyone can actually see you shaking it. Thank God they can’t hear your thoughts.

“Sorry, I had a hair on my face.” You lie, making a point to brush your hair behind your ears, almost knocking the sunglasses off your head. You forgot those were still there. This is going very well for you.

Indiana hides a laugh behind a cough into her hand before ushering you to one of the seats. You notice there isn’t any food on the table, but there are two thermoses. One of them has a sick octopus design on it, the other one is bare and whispering steam. 

If the blonde guy is Grace (as Avery had referred to him), then you assume the man next to him is Patil. He’s a lanky fellow with thick, dark hair and golden skin. 

You’re kind of confused now if you should be referring to people by their first or last names. 

Grace is what you’d imagine if someone told you to envision a nerd from California. Sandy blonde hair, glasses, jewel-toned blue eyes - you could go on. He’s wearing a t-shirt that fits him nicely, and if you weren’t worried about someone secretly hearing your thoughts you’d even admit to yourself that his arms look quite biteable. 

You seriously need to be put down. Appreciating someone’s appearance is fine. Avery and Indiana are gorgeous. Patil is kind of handsome too in his own way. You just need to keep all of your thoughts to yourself and focus on the important part here: being professional and making a good first impression. 

Besides, you’re sure you won’t have any time for hallway crushes and tomfoolery with all the homework you’ll be grading. 

“Hi, I’m Dr. _____” you blurt out before you realize your mistake. 

Ok so referring to yourself as Dr. isn’t necessarily a mistake, it’s a true statement - but it doesn’t feel quite right in this setting considering your doctorate is in Anthropology and you’re teaching middle school Spanish. 

You really don’t want these people to think you’re some sort of snob from Seattle, and you don’t need people here referring to you as Dr. You’d rather the kids and your coworkers just call you by your first name. 

Grace’s eyebrows raise and he peers at you from behind his glasses. “I didn’t think I’d meet another Dr. working here,” he smiles. “Slim pickings, huh?”

Ok so literally no one cared that you called yourself that. You really need to stop worrying about every little thing. 

“Uh, yeah,” you lean against the side of the table rather than sit down just yet. Testing the waters. “You too?”

He huffs to himself and offers you a grin. “Molecular biology.” Oh, so he was like, super freaking smart. That’s cool. Cool cool cool. 

“Can’t say Grover Cleveland is where I thought I’d end up, but I love it here,” he keeps speaking and your eyes flit over his face. “I’m way happier now teaching here than I was having to prove myself to academics.” The way he trails off makes you think there’s a bitter story there, but it’s not your business.

“You’re only saying that because you’re one of the ‘cool teachers’” Patil pipes up. Every school had the cool teachers and the meh teachers. You had a feeling you were sitting with the ‘cool’ ones already. 

“You all seem pretty cool to me,” you muse from your spot looking over them. 

“Yeah, you’ll think that until you see Indiana in action,” Avery teases the ginger. “I know algebra isn’t exactly riveting stuff, but I could sleep like a baby listening to her talk about quadratic functions to her kids.”  

A small ruckus from the kitchen draws your attention and before you know it, a handful of people emerge from inside with something that smells mouthwatering. You had no idea these kids were eating so good. Definitely some of the nicer food you’ve been exposed to in a school cafeteria. 

Turns out the annual day-before-school feast involves not only the teachers that bother to show, but the office faculty and the hard-working chefs and lunch ladies too. The cafeteria fills up the smallest bit, but still nothing like how busy you imagine it being tomorrow with all of the children here. 

The food is a mixed bag of cute triangle-cut sandwiches, roasted meat and waldorf salad, even some delicious tacos with handmade tortillas, and an array of work pot-luck type food that you make sure to try a bite of. None of it really matches at all, but it’s all very delicious. 

This probably isn’t how the kids eat, having portions and food pyramids to follow or whatever. Does elementary school still stress the food pyramid? You guess you’ll find out. 

You finally sit down at the ‘cool’ table after conversing with some faculty, reintroducing yourself to Principal Garcia, and thanking the kitchen profusely for making food. Avery and Patil are talking animatedly about something - dungeons and dragons you think? 

Grace catches your attention as you’re bringing a bite of salad and apple to your mouth, leading to you making awkward eye contact while you chew. “Sorry, we got distracted before you could properly introduce yourself.” He apologizes, as if it’s his fault the entire group got carried away talking to each other.

You nod enthusiastically and put your fork down. “No worries, I totally forgot we were talking about that!” You exclaim, eager to talk about your work prior to this job. 

“Anthropology,” you explain, assuming he’s referring to your doctorate. “Human evolutionary biology. Like primatology and stuff. Human fossils.” You wave your hand around. Most people got the gist of it, and you’d hate to be stuck gushing about Australopithecus afarensis to someone who wasn’t interested.

Grace perks up at the mention of biology. Molecular biology and evolutionary biology were…not the same. Sure, they went hand in hand. In order to understand evolution, you had to understand DNA in general. Mutation and heredity were huge factors in evolution - and you’d taken enough biology labs in college to cement that. 

“Small world,” he hums. Before he can keep speaking, you two are interrupted once again. You hope that doesn’t become a recurring theme. Patil is turning to face you with an expectant look, and you realize he’s asked you a question. 

“Can you say that again?” You ask earnestly. 

            He grins and repeats his question. “Feel free to say no,” (Avery really looks like she doesn’t want you to say no), “-but Indiana and I have been talking about starting a new D&D campaign once this year kicks into gear.”

            You think he expects you to know anything about that. Sure, you’ve heard of it - but you’d never taken part in it. Not enough time during college, and by the time you were a professor yourself, you didn’t really have enough friends to even consider it. 

            “I’m going to be honest here and say that I have no idea what that entails,” you admit truthfully. “But I could probably do with making some friends.”

            Avery cheers and pumps her fist in the air. The rest of the table just smiles, and Grace puffs out a laugh, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

Does he join them?  You’ll ask more about it later. 

You make a promise to yourself that you’re going to invest in purely platonic, wholesome, normal relationships with these people. No funny business allowed. Though you do hope you get a chance to corner Dr. Ryland Grace and ask him about his work. Maybe you’ll stop by his classroom after school ends this week. 

You look over the table and find yourself grinning. Ok, maybe even if the students give you trouble you’ll still have something to look forward to every day. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Later that night, Nana has been tucked into her bed back in the comfort of her house. You’d had dinner over at her house, gossiping about your new coworkers (all good things) over a meal that your grandmother insisted on cooking herself and a glass of white wine. 

Nana’s house is only about a block away from your neighborhood, easily within walking distance. It’s nice to stretch your legs on the walk home and take in the sights of San Francisco at night. A part of you is already homesick for Seattle, but there’s no use ruminating on it when you’re already here.

Up on a hill you can barely see the golden gate bridge in the distance - your house has a nice view but not that nice. You didn’t have that kind of money and definitely wouldn’t be making it any time soon. 

A cold breeze drifts across your skin and you stop in front of your apartment complex, leaning against the fence that leads to your staircase. Your phone buzzes excitedly in your pocket. 

‘Avery, Work’ the contact says. 

You had been convinced (you didn’t need much convincing to be honest) to give the two women your phone number after lunch today. A group chat had been made about two seconds later with the name “Real Housewives of GCMS” to your amusement. 

‘Good luck tomorrow!!!!!!’ reads the message from Avery, followed by a barrage of enthusiastic emojis and a gif of a cat wearing glasses. You snort and tuck your phone back into your pocket before heading upstairs to your apartment where your bed awaits. 

You’re tucked cozy in bed following a hot shower, but your new place has yet to feel like home. You snuggle deeper into your pillow and stare out the window where your blinds are cracked, letting silver slips of moonlight slip over the sheets. Your mind starts drifting towards all the people you’d met today. Exhaustion was imminent.

You really need to get your beauty sleep tonight before wrangling a bunch of middle schoolers into only speaking Spanish tomorrow morning.

You are exceptionally early for school. 

Like, earlier than even the earliest of teachers. Earlier than the bird that gets the worm.

The only person you’d seen in the hallway on the walk up to your classroom was the Janitor (who’s name you’ve learned is Pat) and he looked like he’d seen a ghost. Maybe he had? Has anyone told him there was a new teacher? Did he think you were a ghost? Does Pat even keep track of the teachers here?

You shake your head and unlock the door to your classroom, flicking the lightswitch with your elbow as you juggle a cup of coffee in one hand and your stack of lessons in the other. 

A stop hasn't been made to the teacher's lounge yet, but you’re banking on them having a coffee machine because there’s not a chance this cup is going to last you all morning.

“Doubt I’m going to be doing much teaching on day one,” you speak out loud to no one in particular. Maybe speaking it out loud will manifest it.

Your classroom is clean and incredibly empty of all students (duh, it had been locked), and you come to realize that you have no idea why you came so early. There is quite literally nothing to do on the very first day.

You spend a few minutes organizing some papers for no particular reason, just shuffling and stacking papers and poking at empty files. You’ve basically made glorified coloring sheets that you’re going to have the students fill out so you can get to know them - busy work as some might call it.

…

Ok, this is boring. 

You have about an hour until school starts, and according to a ‘warning’ sent to you by Avery, kids would show up as soon as 40 minutes early. That gave you 20 minutes to fuck around. Maybe you should make an introductory kahoot? Do kids like kahoots? Your prior students in college did.

This was admittedly nothing like being a professor. If you were back at the university, you usually would’ve sat back in your office and graded homework, or stared longingly at the outside world, or even played shitty mobile games on your phone until there was class - and even then, you’d show up five minutes before starting time. 

What to do, what to do…

You end up settling for some revisions of your planner, though there isn’t much to change. You mostly just highlight things unnecessarily and appreciate the cute stickers on the front of it. It was from a bargain store and just the perfect amount of gaudy and bright for you not to lose it as you tend to do.

A rapping at your door makes you jump practically out of your skin. You can’t even see who it is because you forgot to open the tiny blinds on the window. Would it be weird to replace those with a cute tiny curtain?

You close your planner and shuffle to the door, opening it just a crack to see who made your soul leave your body. It’s Grace.

Wait what?

It’s Grace?

It takes everything in you not to make a face at him out of pure confusion. He’s kind of not what you were expecting to see this early. Maybe a student who’d gotten dropped off early, or Pat the janitor coming to investigate you, sure - but not the 8th grade science teacher.

You open the door all the way and hold it open with your foot. The man in front of you is wearing a yellow rain jacket that still has drops of precipitation on it. Under it is a cozy looking beige sweater. He has one arm raised up on the doorframe and the other cradling a bike helmet that’s equally as wet.

“Hi?” You offer.

He blinks like he forgot what he’d been planning to say in the first place. “Oh - good morning!”  His blue gaze shifts from your face to the classroom behind you, trying to peek at the interior. You move to the side and motion for him to come in.

“Wipe your feet on the way in?” You suggest.

He glances down and sure enough, there’s a tiny doormat inside of the classroom that reads ‘mi casa es su casa’ (it had been funny when you bought it, but now it just seems kind of corny). 

“You have a doormat.” Grace states, raising his eyebrows.

“Very astute of you Dr. Grace. Anything else you’d like to point out about my classroom while you’re visiting?” 

He doesn’t put his helmet down, rather he stands near your desk and looks around the classroom. “Sorry, I wasn’t planning on intruding, it's just - your classroom is very colorful.” He sounds mildly astonished. 

It is colorful, thanks to your inclination for kitschy decor and thrifting. 

Between what embellishments you had packed (originally meant for your home), and what you could find last minute at the thrift yesterday - you had scrounged together multicolored  tapestries and scarves for the ceiling, overlapping rugs to hide the tile ground, some string lights for above the windows and white-board, and finally a framed photo on your desk. 

You give him a smile and follow over to your desk where he’s investigating your decorations, poking at the framed picture of Australopithecus afarensis. The most famous Aus. afarensis specimen is arguably Lucy, and you’re sure anyone that’s ever had to take a life history class would recognize her. 

“That’s Lucy,” you offer. 

“I’m familiar,” Ryland muses, looking at you curiously. “What’s she doing in here?”

You sigh. “I’m hoping she’ll scare the kids into listening to me,” you admit, rubbing sheepishly at the back of your head. It’s kind of a joke. Not really. You’re really praying that your pupils will listen to you.

He barks out a laugh and the sound of it makes a tingling feeling of fuzzy warmth run over your skin. “Ruling with fear? How totalitarian of you.” He turns to face you and you have trouble trying to maintain eye contact for more than two seconds. 

“I’ve been told I rule with an iron fist.” (No one has ever said that to you in your entire life).

He raises his one free hand in a “woah!” motion and you giggle. “Remind me not to get on your bad side then.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You start to corral him out of your room and towards the hallway. 

You can hear the squeaking of shoes, the early students are starting to come down the halls.  “Thanks for visiting. You’ll have to teach me how to be hip with the kids some time - Patil says you’re a ‘cool teacher’, whatever that means.”

He doesn’t go to his class just yet, lingering in the hallway in front of you before finally speaking up. 

“I just stopped by to say good luck on your first day,” and there’s the explanation you were looking for. You appreciate it, even if he’s kind of awkward. That’s okay, you’re awkward too.

“I appreciate that,” you smile up at him. “Now shoo! I need to find some music to play before class!” 

In the many anthropology classes you’d taken throughout your life, the concept of “culture shock” has been an important topic.

 Any good ethnographer is familiar with the feeling. Anxiety, confusion, distress; all normal reactions to immersing yourself into a new culture and losing all familiar social signs and symbols. 

You felt as if you were experiencing this phenomenon during your first day as a middle school teacher. 

It’s third period now, the first two having gone by incredibly fast. Your first two classes are beginning Spanish, then third, fifth, and sixth period are intermediate Spanish. You’re a lucky duck that has planning during 4th period, meaning your lunch break lines up perfectly in the middle of the day. 

You are a confident teacher, a damn good one too, but you weren’t prepared for how one-on-one this experience was going to be. This wasn’t anything like lecturing in a hall where you could just imagine all of the students in the rafters as scene extras. 

No, these kids wanted to get to know you and wanted to share everything about themselves. You’ve been exposed to so many new memes you’ve never heard of before in your life. During the time that they’re supposed to be coloring and filling out their sheets, multiple of them have come up to your desk to ask personal questions.

In a way it was incredibly endearing. During such a pivotal time of their lives (puberty eugh), all they want is to be listened to and understood. Your only comparison was your experience with college students, mostly adults in the 300-400 levels trying to make connections and network within your field - these kids just genuinely want to talk.

Now, you aren’t exactly on the same brain wavelength as a 12 year old, but you are a good listener - which is how you get dragged into listening to a girl group’s summer drama. 

You’re leaning on a counter behind one of the tables that houses a handful of young girls, all gossiping and occasionally turning to you for your input.

“Chicas, I’m not allowed to talk about your personal life,” you shake your head fondly. “But, I will say that no real friend would do that to you.” You answer their queries vaguely. 

The council of girls nod their heads, piping up with a few “On god!”s and “For real”s. 

Your stomach growls and you hold back an embarrassed noise. Luckily no one seems to have noticed with the music you have playing through the smartboard speakers. Eyes drift to the clock above the door and you note that third period will be over in ten minutes. 

Yay, almost lunch time! Almost a break!

You wander over to your desk and plop down in your chair, clicking your laptop away from it’s screensaver to pull up your powerpoint slides. Nothing serious, just a reminder for tomorrow’s class. 

A new problem you’ve discovered is that you have no way to grab the students' attention when they’re all talking. You should be able to just raise your voice and they’ll listen, but it feels….awkward. Maybe you need a xylophone or a kazoo or something. 

You cough awkwardly and shuffle over to the smart board, deciding to just turn the music down for now. Sure enough, the kids turn to look at you and settle down. 

“Ok class, please take a look at the board! Tomorrow we’re going to actually start working in our textbooks. Tonight you need to finish your introduction sheet if you haven’t already, and put it in the 3rd period bin tomorrow morning before class starts.”

A kid, Braden you think, blurts something out without raising his hand. 

“Are you going to speak Spanish?”

Wow, he could definitely work on his delivery. 

“Next time raise your hand, Braden. And yes, starting tomorrow I am speaking Español only. The exceptions are emergencies and clarification, capiche?”

A few kids grimace, but majority of them nod and just go back to chatting. You definitely remember sitting in Spanish class in college without an inkling of understanding when it came to what the professor was saying. But they say the best way to learn is to immerse yourself, and you were determined to teach these kids.

It’s about two minutes before the bell is supposed to ring and kids start packing their backpacks up. A few of them swarm around you by the smartboard and start questioning you on any and everything. 

“Are you new here?”

“Are you married?”

“What’s that creepy picture on your desk?”

“Why are there so many carpets in here?”

All very good questions! A few of them are really not their business at all. You pointedly ignore any personal-life questions and spend the last two minutes of class doing an impromptu Q and A for the students who are eager to socialize. 

When the bell finally rings and your students file out of the room, they leave behind an empty, quiet room. One that’s a little messy.

By the time your fourth period planning/lunch/relaxation time has come around, all you want to do is snack on the yummy sandwich you packed and relax. You figure that while you’re in the teacher’s lounge grabbing your lunch, you can also make yourself a new cup of coffee.

You’re not sure if it's just because it’s the first day of school or what, but the teacher’s lounge is crawling with people when you get there. Front office faculty and school nurses eager to catch up, a couple teachers that you don’t recognize, the list goes on. You don’t recognize any of your new teacher acquaintances. 

You stand in the open doorway, hyping yourself up to brave the crowd and grab your lunch. Maybe you can just take it back to your classroom and sit in silence. That sounds nice. No students, no adults, just you and your sandwich. 

“Hi _____!” A woman pipes up. 

You shuffle out of the doorway and meet the eyes of the woman speaking. You recognize her as one of the front office ladies, Misty. The kind blonde woman had been the first to greet you when you picked up your badge for the first time and got a tour of the school. 

You sigh in relief and wave at her. “It’s so nice to see a familiar face.”

The 50 year old giggles and pops the gum in her mouth. “Oh, I bet! How’s the first day treating you, hun?”

You shrug. “Not all that bad.” You must look tired because she gives you a pout - a look of sympathy, and waves you over to where she’s standing at a sliver of counter by the fridge. 

There’s a plate in front of her with those soft, chewy sugar cookies on it. Your mouth waters. 

“It’ll get easier as the week continues,” she smiles at you and slides the plate towards you in offering. 

“Did you make these?” You question, sheepishly taking two of them and putting them on top of a paper towel.

“Oh yeah! I figured you lot would need a first day pick-me-up, a little Misty special.” 

The two of you make some more teacher’s lounge small talk before she gets pulled away by one of the school nurses. You take this break to sneak past a few teachers and grab your lunchbox from the fridge.

With your sandwich and two cookies in tow, you scramble on back to the 8th grade hallway to escape to the confines of your classroom. Home sweet home. You’re looking forward to propping your feet up and biting into the comforting taste of soft white bread cut into triangles. 

As you’re approaching your classroom door, you notice that one of the classroom doors is open and empty. Curiously, you tiptoe over and glance at the door. 

Oh, it’s Grace’s. 

There’s decorative paper over the door that reads “Mr. G’s Domain” in green construction paper lettering. Cute.

 Under it reads “think like a proton - stay positive!” and you can’t help the snort that escapes you. The thought of Grace taking time out of his day to cut out each individual letter and tape this up on his door is a little endearing. 

“I really need to up my door game.” You mumble to yourself. You’d decorated the inside of your class, but hadn’t even considered sprucing up the door.

Peering around the half open door, you see that there’s not a single soul inside. Not even the teacher himself. It feels wrong to snoop around, but you’re immediately intrigued by all of his science-y decorations and posters. Plus, he got to peek around your classroom earlier.

The room is almost reminiscent of a science classroom you would’ve seen in the 90s. Black and dark aqua construction paper on the walls, big windows, various solar system models on the walls and ceiling. There was even a giant rainbow newton’s cradle on the front desk by the whiteboard. All it was missing was some funky arcade carpet and an old school projector. 

You place your lunchbox (and wrapped cookies) down on an empty desk and approach the window where there’s a small shelf housing jars of wet specimens. 

“Oh wow,” your fingers trace the edge of one of the jars. Your prior specialty was in bones, no wet stuff included , eugh. You had handled hundreds of fossil casts, even a real skeletal remain very rarely, but never anything perfectly preserved in formaldehyde. 

A particular jar catches your attention. Rather than any sort of animal, it resembles spaghetti. You gingerly pick up the jar and turn it in your hands. It’s kind of gross. 

You’re about to return the jar to its rightful place when a quiet noise - a cough - makes you practically jump out of your skin. You shriek and stumble to catch the jar, pulling it safely to your chest. 

Ryland Grace is standing behind you with a slightly concerned smile on his face, with his arms crossed and a little bag of takeout hanging from one of his hands. 

Your eyes drift to his arms, unintentionally ogling them - he has the sleeves of his sweater rolled up and his jacket from before is nowhere to be seen. 

“You are so lucky I didn’t just spill this all over your classroom!” 

Your heart is pounding against your chest and rapidly slowing down back to normal once you realize you didn’t in fact break the “specimen” and the other person in the room with you is Grace himself and not some murderer trying to sneak up on you mid school day.

“What are you doing in here anyway?” He questions you, circling around his desk to put the takeout bag down. You peek into the bag and the smell is heavenly. Mmmm, Vietnamese food. 

When you look back up, his hand is outreached expectantly and you realize he wants his decoration back. 

You ignore him obviously asking for the jar back. “Did you get Vietnamese food? I’d recognize that smell anywhere!” You interrogate. Suddenly your white bread sandwich doesn’t seem nearly as appetizing. 

He barks out a laugh and makes a move to grab the jar from where it’s still cradled to your chest. You let him, and his fingers just barely brush your own. He’s warm and his hands are significantly bigger than yours. 

“Well first of all, you didn’t answer my question,” he points at you accusingly and returns the jar to its place on the shelf.

 “And second of all, yes. Enough for one person because I wasn’t aware I’d have company.” Grace plops down in his chair. 

Stepping away from the desk to give him space, you return to where your lunchbox is waiting on a random desk. “Sorry, I came in because I wanted to get a look at your classroom after you so graciously inspected mine.”

He’s opening a tupperware full of broth, and you realize he bought pho. Curse him!

“Well, is it up to par? I don’t have any nice rugs and curtains like you, but I think that would be a hazard in a science classroom.” He’s scooping noodles into the broth now, and you watch very intently as he handles the chopsticks. 

Stop looking at his hands you weirdo!

“It’s pretty impressive, actually. I can see why you’re considered a cool teacher.” 

The tips of his ears turn red and he shakes his head bashfully. “Nah, it has nothing to do with the decor and all to do with the kids.”

If his demeanor towards you is anything to go by, you see how he could have charmed the rowdy demographic of middle schoolers into liking him as a teacher. A little awkward in an endearing way, clearly passionate about what he teaches - it doesn’t help that he’s attractive. 

“I envy your wet specimens,” you admit. “I used to have a ton of skeletons and stone tool casts and just everything bio-archaeology in my office and lecture hall.” A sigh escapes you. 

“You just left them all there?” Grace asks through a mouthful of noodles and bean sprouts, gingerly covering his mouth from view with a hand. 

“Almost all of them, though I have a few still in a box in my apartment.” It’s true. You left the nicer ones to the rest of the department, but the ones that you’d purchased yourself at conferences and meetings were tucked away in a box labeled “fragile!” under some clothes in your closet. 

“I haven’t put any of them up in my house because I don’t want it to look like a museum in there, and I’m afraid my Nana will mess with them.” You admit. 

He perks up at the word museum and finishes slurping down a noodle, slapping one hand on his desk excitedly. “That reminds me! The 8th graders get to go on a museum field trip at the end of the first semester and we’re looking for chaperones.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “That’s awesome.”

Grace points a chopstick at you. “You should see if you can find a sub and chaperone that day. I’m sure the kids would love to have a fossil aficionado with them.”

You’re leaning back against the desk that houses your lunchbox now, looking at him with both of your brows raised. “Are you serious? I’d love to.”

After that, the air is kind of awkward and silent. Grace is chowing down on his lunch and you realize that you haven’t even touched yours yet - too busy chatting away. 

“Ehr, I should probably go eat lunch now.” You reach for your lunchbox. 

“You’re welcome to sit in here with me,” he suddenly offers. 

You blink. 

“Are you serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I…don’t know.” With a hop, you shimmy yourself to sit on the desk your lunch has been sitting on, rather than sit in the tiny chair. You suppose you can eat in here with him. Why not! Why not. Just don’t look at him or his rolled up sleeves or his hands. 

The two of you quickly realize that the silence paired with the chewing sounds is incredibly unbearable and you start to wonder if you should’ve eaten in your classroom alone. 

“Do you care if I turn on the projector?” Grace asks. 

Before you can respond, he’s booting it up and the youtube homepage is being displayed on the whiteboard across from you. 

You two end up spending the rest of 4th period watching a David Attenborough documentary about African savannah wildlife, chiming in every now and then through bites of food. When you finish your sandwich, you remember the two cookies you have wrapped in a little napkin. 

There are two cookies…and two of you…

“Hey,” you speak up over the sound of the old man narrating cheetah cubs on screen. “Did you get any of Misty’s ‘first day’ cookies?” 

Grace shakes his head no and without thinking you hop down from the desk and bring him one, tearing the napkin in half. 

“Don’t tell me that you’re one of those weirdos who hates lofthouse sugar cookies.” You beg, looking him in the eyes. 

“What do you take me for, a heathen?” He accepts the sweet treat with a smile. 

You’re not sure how much time has passed, but apparently the 4th period is over because the bell is ringing annoyingly throughout the building. You swallow and spin on your heel to turn back to your lunchbox, needing to pack it up. 

“Oh shit! I need to get back to my class!” You yelp. 

“Language,” The blonde chastises. You snap your head around to send him a glare and then realize that he’s right, you need to work on your language if you’re going to be working with middle schoolers.

“Sorry, I meant shoot. Aw shucks! Oh geez! I need to get back to my class.” 

You rush out of his classroom with your lunchbox before he can say anything else, leaving him sitting at his desk with a pink sugar cookie in his hand.

When you get back to your classroom, there’s already a student there. She’s eagerly swinging her feet back and forth and sitting right at the front of the classroom closest to your desk. 

The girl raises an eyebrow at you. 

“Where were you?”

You scoff and put your empty lunchbox in the cabinet next to your desk. “How about, hello I’m so excited to be in your class. Here’s my name because we’ve never met before!”

She folds her hands on her desk. “My name is Abby, and I’m excited to further my Spanish education with intermediate level Spanish. Now what were you doing in Mr. Grace’s classroom?”

You turn your head slowly, and notice more kids are finally starting to come in. 

“It’s nice to meet you Abby. Mr. Grace and I were just sharing our riveting first day experiences here at Grover Cleveland Middle School.”

Apparently that’s enough for this nosey nelly because she shrugs and accepts your answer. 

The rest of the kids fill in the room and you move to stand in the center of the desks, introducing yourself. There’s a little less students than in your previous classes, but hopefully that means it’ll be easier to get them to listen. 

You learn that Abby is very proficient at Spanish - and apparently all subjects (except for physical education which seems to be a sore spot for her).

You also meet a few other kids that stand out to you: Derrick, a ginger boy with a gaggle of jocks hyping up his every move, and Paige, a very quiet and sweet girl who practically drowns in her grey hoodie. 

Despite your insistence that the first day of class is just for introductions and having fun, apparently this 5th period intermediate class is eager to start speaking Spanish because they practically beg you to do a review Kahoot. 

Who are you to deny them?

It ends up being a lot of fun. You get to see everyone’s personalities, and take note of a wicked competitive streak between Abby and Derrick. Paige ends up pulling through to second place in the end, reminding you of the story of the tortoise and the hare. 

The rest of your first week is about the same. You end up having lunch either by yourself or with Indiana most days, not returning back to Grace’s classroom. You don’t want to overstep, though he didn’t seem bothered by your presence. 

You finally start speaking Spanish in all of your classes, to the joy of your fifth period and the dismay of your beginning classes. 

By the end of the week you decide that you need some sort of reward system to get these kids invested in learning. With a trip to the dollar store and your meager salary, your eyes had honed in on a bag of plastic golden doubloons. When you introduced the concept to your classes on Friday, they were ecstatic. 

You decided that there would be a reward system for answering questions. A correct answer would win you some doubloons, and speaking English would get them taken away. You hadn’t thought as far as prizes, but you figure that this weekend you can do some research into what kids these days are interested in. 

At the end of 6th period on Friday you receive a text from Avery in your group chat with her and Indiana. Sneakily, you pull your phone from your pocket and check the text under your desk.

‘We are getting dinner this weekend!! All of us!! The cool ones!! RSVP ASAP!!’ from, Avery.

All of you? Including Grace? You can’t help the fluttering feeling in your chest, feeling a little excited to get to see everyone outside of work. 

“What are you smiling at?” A kid is standing right in front of your desk, trying to peek at your phone. You slam it down and he jumps straight into the air. 

“Lo siento,” you breathe. “¡Me asustase!” (You scared me!)

“I scared you?” He balks. 

“Yes! You’re standing so close to me! Class is almost over anyway, you can have your phones out now.” You call out the last part and watch as all of your students shimmy their phones from their pockets and backpacks. 

“You didn’t say that in Spanish,” the student (still at your desk) nags you. 

You groan and lean back into your chair. Before you’re able to respond, the bell rings and you watch as students hop from their chairs like rabbits to race out of your classroom - eager to get home. 

You’re also incredibly eager to get home. You lean back in your chair even further to see out of your classroom door, peeking at Grace’s doorway from here. 

Dinner with everyone, huh.

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋

taglist!

Da mi basia mille @sillytotsie @ireadmorethantalk

You like to think that the universe was on your side putting your classroom just a few strides away from Ryland’s.

It was incredibly convenient when you had to jog down to the teacher’s lounge to grab something - or in this case grab his birthday present. 

Did you feel bad asking him to babysit your classroom during his free period? A little bit. Had you done him the same favor? Absolutely.

From your standpoint in the middle of the kids’ desks that you’d organized in a circle (giving you flashbacks to socratic seminars during your middle school experience), you spin around to get a good look at each student with an accusing finger pointed in every direction.

“Be on your best behavior mis chicos y chicas! I’m going to collect Mr. Grace for his birthday surprise,” you grin. 

You weren’t sure if it was ok from a moral standpoint to have a favorite class, but 5th period was certainly the favorite. Rowdy and boisterous, but still willing to participate in class - this was the perfect period to throw Grace a surprise birthday party. 

One of your kids, a tall ginger boy pipes up from his desk behind you. 

“Yo, are we going to sing Mr. G happy birthday?”

“No entiendo,” you turn around to face him. “En español, por favor.” One of your hands smacks on his desk expectantly, palm up. He begrudgingly hands over one of his “doubloons” (your favorite form of class currency). 

While you would speak in English on occasion to make sure they understood you, the idea was that they’d try their hardest to respond in Spanish. A slip up cost one doubloon, but an answer in Spanish would win it back.

“Err…. Como se dice sing?” He offers with a sheepish grin. 

“Cantar!” Abby cuts in from her desk right in front of your own. Yours was tucked into the corner to make room for the circle gathering of your student’s desks, but Abby still insisted on being close to the teacher - ever the teacher’s pet. 

“¡Muy bien hecho, Abby!” You pull two plastic doubloons from the pocket of your skirt and hand them to her. 

            “Solo un recordatorio - cantar means to sing. If you want to ask if we’re going to sing, you can say Cantamos as the ‘mos’ implies we.” You explain cheerfully, pointing to the whiteboard where your regular 'AR' verb conjugations are drawn out.

“Try again Derrick.”

He nods his head and sits up straighter. 

“¿Cantamos.. ‘feliz cumpleaños’ para el señor G?” Asks the ginger to your delight.

Referring to Ryland as ‘Señor G always makes you giggle, even if it’s correct. Maybe you should start telling the kids to say profe instead of señor though, or just use señor Grace instead of G. Though thinking about it now, you can’t recall ever calling your Spanish teachers by their last names.

“Estupendo, Derrick!” his doubloon is returned to him with a few extra, and his friends hoot and holler as they hype him up. It brings a grin to your face that only grows wider when you check the clock. 

“Ok, I’m going to go collect him now. Abby, you’re promoted to teacher.” You usher the girl out of her desk to replace you in the center of the room while you go get Ryland. You have no doubt that Abby will hold a strict dictatorship over the classroom while you’re gone. 

Your walk down the hallway is short and quiet, thanks to most of the students in the 8th grade building being in class or lunch right now. Ryland’s classroom door is open, and the room is devoid of people except for him, where he’s perched in his rolling chair with his long legs kicked up on a filing cabinet. 

            “Knock knock,” you tease, rapping on the doorframe.

“Who’s there?” The reply comes immediately. You know he recognizes your voice, but you play along regardless. 

“An evil alien who’s come to abduct you and force you to babysit their Spanish class?” 

“I didn’t know that extraterrestrial life spoke Spanish,” he turns to look at you and your heart flutters. He looks tired, but not bad. Tired in a rugged, handsome way. You wish you could run your fingers through his messy hair as you approach the desk, eyeing the paperwork in front of him that doesn’t look like it’s even started being graded.

“Majority of alien sightings are in South America you know,” you lean forward on his desk, and he looks up at you from behind his glasses. “Wouldn’t surprise me if they picked up some of the local language.”

He huffs a laugh through his nose and his eyebrows draw together; your eyes trace the crow’s feet in his exasperated expression. 

You wonder if he thinks you’ve forgotten his birthday. You’re only slightly younger than him, but you wouldn’t expect anyone to celebrate your birthday at this age either - especially not at work. 

“Yeah, I’ll keep an eye on your neanderthals.” He agrees, already knowing what you were going to ask.

“Hey, like 40% of my students are your students too!” You punch his shoulder. “And I don’t know if neanderthal is supposed to have a negative connotation, but Homo neanderthalensis was highly intelligent.” 

He rises from his desk and stands in front of you, just slightly towering over you. Before you can help it, your hand reaches out to straighten his tie behind his school lanyard. The tie he’s wearing today is a deep violet color, and it had gone crooked most likely when he was lounging around in thought. 

Blue eyes flicker down to meet yours and you quickly pull your hands away from his chest, motioning for him to follow you to your classroom. 

“Vamanos! I have printer copies to collect!”

The decorations gathered in your arms aren’t anything special. Dollar store decor was convenient and cheap, but you’d still manage to find something you think Ryland would get a kick out of. 

The logistics of putting up decorations while he was in your classroom weren’t something you’d thought ahead for. Maybe you can just force him to close his eyes and face the corner like a kid in time out. He’d probably know what’s going on by then. 

A corny paper garland with planets and all sorts of “science-y” cartoon drawings, a birthday hat with a big golden puffball at the top, and a sash that read ‘birthday princess.’ Oh yeah, this was going to be awesome. 

Not to mention his gift, but you were going to wait until after school was over to give him that. You had scored a vintage lab safety poster from the antique store near your favorite lunch spot. That and an eerie animal specimen in formaldehyde for his shelf that holds various creatures (and his one “wet specimen” that was just a jar of spaghetti and boiled eggs.) 

You creep around the corner of the open doorway to your room. Ryland has his back turned to you and you can only assume he’s answering questions from your nosy 5th period class. 

‘Why are you always the one who watches us?’

‘Can we go see your classroom instead?’

‘Do you know what 6 7 is?’

If your hands weren’t full of party decorations you’d smack a palm to your forehead. These kids.

It takes more stealth than you’ve ever possessed in your entire life to enter behind him and place the decorations on your desk. You nod your head towards the light switch by the door and the kid closest to it flicks the lights off. 

“Close your eyes Mr. Grace!” You snatch his glasses and grab his hands to put them over his eyes. His glasses sit on top of your head now so he can effectively cover his gaze. This earns a surprised ‘Wha?’ that you shush immediately. 

Grabbing the birthday princess sash and hat, you drape the silk sash over his shoulder and awkwardly maneuver it under his arm as your students watch with stifled giggles. You snap the birthday hat into place, and you’re sure the moment that the lights turned off he had a feeling you were planning something.

“I thought you were just joking about abducting me,” he laughs nervously. 

You take a second to tuck the birthday banner into the corners of your white board, holding the corners in place with some thumbtacks. It’ll have to do.

“Ok class! Uno, dos, tres,” you count down and the birthday singing commences. Your hands remove his own from his eyes, and you take the glasses down from your head and put them back on the bridge of his nose. He looks a little embarrassed, but you know he’s happy by the earnest expression that forms on his handsome face. 

The singing is boisterous and out of tune as to be expected, but you’re happy with your students' pronunciation! You’d been teaching them this song all week. 

“Oh geez,” Ryland looks down at the pink birthday sash you’d smuggled on to him. “Thanks guys.”

You had no idea this was happening, but Abby steps forward and hands him a card that looks like it's been signed by multiple students. You’ve heard firsthand from Ryland how much of a spitfire Abby is in his class period with her - and you don’t doubt it. To think that she organized (and she was definitely the one who organized it all) a signed card for him was really sweet. 

A cartoonish pout graces your lips and your eyes water just the slightest bit. 

Man, it’s not even my birthday and I’m so thankful for these kids. 

You turn the lights back on and the room explodes into loud conversation and what you can only describe as animal noises. Some kids are still singing out of tune, while Abby has turned to her friends with a proud look on her face. 

You walk over to your desk in the corner and pull out a large blue gift bag from under your desk. It looks way bigger than the gift actually is, but you needed a way to conceal the rolled-up poster and jar inside. Ryland follows behind you and his expression perks up. 

He’s already reaching for the bag, but you quickly snatch it back, holding it close to your chest “You seriously didn’t have to ge-” 

“Oh shut up!” you cut him off. One of your students gives you a weird look. 

“Sorry, that was ruder than I meant for it to be,” you continue. You dangle the gift in front of him in the way you’d dangle a mouse toy in front of a cat. Though, if you were using pet metaphors here, Ryland was definitely more of a dog. A cute scruffy golden retriever or something. Now that you’re really giving it some thought, he was actually giving you Portuguese Podengo vibes. 

“I got you a little something, but I want you to open it later when school is over... If you wouldn’t mind.” 

He’s finally noticed the happy birthday banner on the whiteboard and reaches a hand to play absentmindedly with one of the paper triangles. 

“Why? Is it not school appropriate?” He asks under his breath, and you watch with glee as the tips of his ears turn a little red. 

“Of course it’s appropriate! I just want to have you to myself when you open them. They’re pretty freaking cool.” 

He sighs, but you know he’s just being sassy with you. The clock on the wall says there are 5 more minutes until class ends and passing period begins. Just 6th period and then the day is over and you get to overexplain your gifts to him. 

“Sounds like a plan, boss. Meet you in my room at-” he checks his watch - “2:50?”