he’s been assigned to write a story about the school's art program and to say he’s less than enthused about it is an understatement. perhaps he thinks he’s above it, getting into journalism for either the hard-hitting investigative, political, or crime aspects of it, not the fluff pieces like this. but it’s almost near as bad as that time he was on the wedding circuit and had to write about nuptials and deal with catty brides, fairy tale weddings, and women nearly killing him trying to get to the bouquet while he was interviewing a groomsman. he doesn’t hate children, but they certainly make him uncomfortable, whether it be smaller things like sticky hands, germs, or their shrill screams that are just generally unappealing and annoying. or something more overarching like his ability to connect with them or deal with their possible questions or needs. he’s pretty sure he was in the mindset of an adult by the time he was six or seven, so connecting with is not something he knows how to do. he walks into the classroom which is colorful and is immediately welcomed with about twenty-something pairs of young eyes on him, and he immediately wants to retreat. he coughs a bit, nervously, and ducks his head a bit as he makes his way towards the teacher who seems equally colorful, but at the very least his age.
“uh...i’m from the paper, the principal said he talked to you about me coming in and observing,” he says eyes continuing to dart towards the kids who are all staring at him as if to ensure none of them make any sudden movements. “so i’ll just uh sit in the back and watch,” he nods wanting nothing more but to plop himself down away from children’s eyes, and do the watching himself.