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He tiredly sighs, shuffling through continuous and repetitive piles of scattered papers, all of which look the same.
His eyelids feel like weights and his head bobs up and down, blacking in and out of sleep.
His laptop rings - the same old notification which jolts him awake, and it’s basically instinct now that’s making him drag his hand across the mouse pad, checking his inbox for any new e-mails.
And there is one, from the principal, his boss.
Dear staff,
Later this week a new student will be arriving, please welcome him. His schedule will follow the…
He quickly skims through the e-mail, too tired to go through the whole thing.
“New student coming later this week, his schedule will follow my homeroom’s schedule. Alrighty,” he summarizes.
Oh, the bed is calling his name right about now.
Quickly, he writes down a reply, His fiingers fly across the keyboard with practiced ease, ending it off with a thumbs-up emoji.
The chair screeches as he moves back, bones popping, finally being able to stretch. A couple of folders and aged files accidentally fall onto the floor, knocked aside by his long limbs — he tiredly reaches out to them. “Woah, careful. Those are important,” he whispers to himself.
The door creaks open as a certain teacher nudges it open with his back; he breathes a sigh of relief when his sloth-like eyes make their way to the clock. Two more minutes until the bell rang, just before he was late, again. Even with all his years of experience, it’s always a close call with him.
The class watches, amused, as he dumps all his materials on top of the already cluttered desk. The nameplate “Mr. Madej,” shakes along with the wooden surface. He was a favorite among students, with his laid-back attitude and easy-to-understand teaching, it made it easy for kids (in this case, teenagers) to be more open and comfortable with him.
“Y’ello, class!” Mr. Madej breathes, hands against his knees, still trying to catch his breath. A chorus of “good mornings” and “hellos’” rings through the class. Although exhausted, he kept his eyes peeled over the hall, looking to see whoever the new student in the email was.
He didn’t want to know who, so he didn’t check, didn’t ask — he does love surprises after all.
The bell rings not too long after his arrival, signifying that class had begun. “Attendance! Call out when I say your name,” he announces, sitting down and opening his laptop.
He does the same tedious routine with it, going down the list while checking off those who are here, late, or absent.
It isn’t long until he notices a name that’s not normally on the list.
He tries to suppress a sly smile in recognition of the new, or old, name, masking it by biting down on the inside of his bottom lip instead.
“Ryan Bergara,” he calls, looking up at the hand in the air, trailing it down to a familiar face.
“Here — Shane.” Ryan grins. The class turns to him at the use of Mr. Madej’s first name. No student knows what his first name is, it isn’t on the door plate nor his shiny nameplate that sits proudly on the messy desk, it’s a — popular mystery among the student body.
Yet here this new kid is, boldly announcing a name that they have not heard, not belonging to any student or staff they know of.
“Watch it, Beef boy. You just announced the answer to this year’s greatest mystery,” he threatens, though with a knowing smirk plastered onto his face.
“Still working in this ol’ rickety place, Shane?” Ryan asks, tapping his knuckles against the wood of the lecture hall table.
Shane huffs a laugh, “Didn’t the first lesson go through your thick head yet? Or are you finally back from your bathroom break?” He taunts.
Ryan clicks his tongue while the rest of the class holds their breaths. No one dares make a noise as their eyes flicker between the two people.
“See me after class, Bergara,” he calmly demands, closing the conversation, sending in his attendance, and finally starting the lesson.
“Finish the review and write a small essay of any choice relating to the pharaoh, Hatshepsut, questions?”
“When’s this due?” a student named Steven asks.
“A week or so should be good, anything else?” The class stays silent, no questions need to be answered it seems. “Alrighty, pack up class. Bell’s about to ring in a few.” Mr. Madej calls out, waving his hands to dismiss them. “Beef boy-”
“Yup.”
The bell rings and the class floods out of the room, eager to share what had happened earlier that morning. Whispers and gossip spread among them like the plague until they reach the bigger crowds where it becomes the main topic in almost every kid’s conversations.
Ryan watches and listens to the background chatter outside of the room through the nearly closed door from where his seat was — he hasn’t moved since packing up his stuff. He looks from afar as silhouettes of high schoolers block the small hallway light that shone through the crack as they walked past the door.
Getting up, he walks and pushes the door shut, locking it with a click.
“Finally, those pests are gone,” Ryan mutters, walking up to Shane’s desk and leaning his hand onto one of the only parts of the wood that wasn’t already covered in coffee cups, books, and writing supplies.
“I see those manners of yours still need working on.” Shane chaffs, looking up from his laptop. “Those are my kids you’re talking about.”
“Long time no see, Shane,” He says, ignoring the taunt and looking straight into the other’s ironically unbothered eyes.
“You really threw me for a loop for a second when I noticed that you didn’t even bother to change your name since. Even after all this time, short stack,” Shane says. The insult falls flat, though — Ryan’s taller than him when he’s sitting.
“I like it, it works and plus, you shouldn’t talk either.”
“It’s modern enough,” Shane shrugs, pushing slightly away from his desk. “But yours? I have to say — could have been a lot,” he pauses in thought, “cooler.”
“Yours too,” Ryan counters, fingers drumming in a rhythmic pattern against the table, “So we can both agree that we haven’t changed our names since the good ol’ 1860s — isn’t that right, Tinsley?” he questions.
“Don’t- oh, gosh. That name feels so… foreign, now.” ‘Tinsley’ cringes. “Shane. Just Shane is fine, Mr. Madej would be even better, actually,” he corrects.
Ryan hums, mentally taking note.
“Never imagined I’d see you in a classroom again though, Ryan.” Shane moves on, looking at his former enemy, amused.
“The first time was only to annoy you and you know it,” Ryan deflects, “Have to say though, you’re not as much of a shit teacher now, compared to back then,” he admits smacking his old friend against his shoulder, only to make the former-detective laugh.
The clock ticks, adding to the laughter and comfortable atmosphere the two old friends basically radiate, content in each other's familiar presence.
“I still have the files from when you were still in the mafia, when the force- or honestly just I — had to investigate your gang’s activity,” Shane reminisces, getting up once he realizes the time, and leading the shorter one to the door.
“Do you now, detective?” Ryan asks, intrigued.
Shane’s eyes seem distant, digging up an old memory among thousands. Finally, he says, “It was a pain to hide all the stuff from back then from clueless people moving all your stuff from house to house, y’know.” Ryan hums. “I can’t have any ‘FBI’ or ‘Men in Black’ agents ringing my door and asking why I have technically ‘illegal’ documents that belonged to a supposedly ‘dead’ detective.”
“Some people are snitches,” Ryan muses, “I get that, but I had to burn my stuff when we were entering the 1900s, can’t have cops coming up to my door for completely different reasons.”
“Yeah, how would we explain that we’re the infamous detective and mafia leader ‘duo’ who played cat and mouse almost 200 years ago?”
“ ‘Oh, yes, you see officer, we are immortal, I actually was the person who led an entire infamous gang and killed a bunch of people. And my friend here is really the only one who actually tried to put me in cuffs.’ ” Ryan mocks sarcastically, emphasizing the ‘immortal’ part, and they give each other a good chuckle.
The door creaks open and Shane gestures outside, clearing his throat and dismissing the other off with a tender smile. “Well, it’s been amazing catching up, ol’ pal. I’ll be seeing you, next class, hm?”
“And to you as well, Mr. Madej , I have a lunch to chow down on.” Ryan walks out, bidding Shane farewell with a wave.
Shane smiles and shuts the door, laughing to himself. “What are the odds!” he breathes. “That darn Ricky Goldsworth.” He smirks to himself. “Ryan Bergara.” The words dance along his tongue as if it’s a flavor he hasn’t tasted in ages.
Outside, Ryan walks far into the field, where there’s no one around him. Clicking his tongue, he whispers the name of the man he thought he'd never cross again, “C.C. Tinsley, Shane Madej.” He quietly wheezes. “Old pal.”