Chapter Text
“Oh, and what else, princess? Do we throw a treat at them when they get an answer right and beat them with a folded newspaper if they don’t?”
“Well, perhaps if you bothered to open a book before demonizing theories, you would know that is not what I’m talking about, Violet.”
“Oh, because you know everything from your textbooks? That’s why we’re getting replaced by robots. And I told you to stop calling me Violet.”
“And I told you to stop calling me princess, but that seems to be yet another thing you can’t grasp.”
“Alright, ladies,” Professor Dorothy cut in, voice warm but firm. “I’m glad you’re so passionate, as always, but there’s no need to fight, my dears. We’re bound to have disagreements.”
“I would hardly call it a disagreement if the other party isn’t even bothering to listen,” Caitlyn said.
“Look, princess—”
“Oh my god, shut up!” someone groaned from the third row.
Caitlyn had the nerve to smirk at Vi like she’d won the argument just because some idiot interrupted them. God, she was so rude. Not like Vi hadn’t done that before too, but still. so rude.
“You’re both right,” Professor Dorothy continued. “Vi is right to be wary of practices that can fall into archaic discipline methods, and Caitlyn is right to point out that it is not completely wrong. Behaviorism allows for replicable results and effective evidence-based behavior modification techniques.”
And then, perfect, proper, little Kiramman had the absolute audacity to stick her tongue out at Vi.
Vi damn near clutched her pearls. It was far from the most insulting thing anyone had ever done to her, but the fact that it came from Miss Textbooks herself? Outrageous.
When it was time to leave, Vi made sure to shove Caitlyn a little bit—well, not a shove-shove. More like she walked very fast past her, hoping Caitlyn would feel the violent brush of air.
God, what an irritating woman.
Vi can't wait to argue with her again.
The office was quiet, the waiting room had gradually emptied, and it smelled of freshly brewed coffee and Styrofoam for some reason.
Caitlyn heard her name called, unfortunately followed by Vi's.
"This is a job you must take seriously," the coordinator told them, looking at them through the rims of her glasses. "You're no longer students, you're professors, and that means the entire class depends on you. If you're absent here, it's not a minor, inconsequential matter; you'll be wasting students' time and money." Coordinator Gladys had always been very kind, but the weariness in her speech was evident. Caitlyn could only imagine how many times she had to repeat herself: "Understood?"
"Yes," Caitlyn said at the same time as Vi.
They made eye contact at that moment, and Vi looked away first, rolling her eyes.
Caitlyn knows perfectly well that she does it to annoy her, but she still falls for it every time. She hopes that one day her eyes will get stuck in the top of her head. Let's see what Violet does without that beautiful pair of crystal-clear lakes she has for eyes.
Caitlyn spoke first, reminding herself that she has no reason to be thinking about Vi's perfect eyes.
"I requested to be placed with senior apprentices. Community centers, retirement programs, more structured environments."
Vi snorted. "Yeah, what a surprise."
Caitlyn ignored her. She was getting better at it, except for those times when the scar on her lip distracted her. "It aligns with my pedagogical approach."
"Which is?" Vi asked, pedantic as always:
"Task-based, constructivist, and post-methodological"
"A lot of words just to say you'll have them filling in the blanks and rearranging sentences"
"It is an effective, tested, and proven approach"
"By whom, your textbooks?"
"By research"
"Yes, I'm sure that'll work well for you. The grandpas will love you."
"Better than scary little kids running around everywhere"
"They're not scary when they like you. You should ask someone who knows about it, like me, for example."
"Oh, children like childish. Groundbreaking."
"Ladies," the coordinator interjected without taking her eyes off the computer, "if you could focus."
They couldn't.
Vi leaned in towards Caitlyn. "Kids are easier. You just keep ‘em moving, doing something, and they learn without even realizing it."
"That sounds like, ‘My ego is so big I don't need to learn anything from educators and linguists and their historical contributions to the field of research,’ which is just another way of saying, ‘I'm too lazy to plan my lessons.’"
Vi straightened up in her chair, the irritation clear in her expression Good. That's two wins for Caitlyn in one day.
“You don’t know sh—”
“Done!” the coordinator said cheerfully.
Caitlyn would have laughed at Vi getting interrupted again if she hadn't found it too hypocritical after calling her childish.
Glady printed two slips of paper and passed them across the desks.
“Here you go, the locations, schedules, mentors, and you need to sign this workers' compensation insurance.”
Caitlyn immediately took hers, scanning it intently.
Vi took hers and folded it in half without looking at it.
“...what?” Caitlyn frowned. “There must be a mistake.”
Vi leaned toward her to look at the paper.
“I was assigned to…”
Caitlyn stopped, quickly rereading the page to see if her eyes were deceiving her. “1st grade?”
"Yep," Vi said, smiling. She unfolded her own sheet with a deft movement. "I guess we'll both be seeing the scary little kids." Caitlyn swiveled to glare at her, but out of the corner of her eye, she managed to read "community adult program" on Vi's form.
She didn't even address Vi about it.
"Professor Gladys, this is incorrect. Vi was assigned to the adults."
Vi flipped the sheet back to herself so quickly that her hair swung in the slightest breeze.
Gladys sighed. "Names, again, please."
"Kiramman"
"Vi"
Gladys typed casually, without a care in the world.
"Hm, no, there's no mistake. This is what you entered into the system."
"This is certainly not what I requested," Caitlyn said, a little sharper now.
"Well," the coordinator began, leaning back in her chair, "this is what you've been assigned and where you'll be starting your practicums in a week."
Vi stretched her legs, watching with delight as Caitlyn unraveled.
"Come on, princess," she said, "maybe it's destiny."
Caitlyn turned to look at her. "I don't believe in destiny."
"Me neither, except when it's mocking you."
"You're insufferable."
"And now you're going to have a whole classroom full of insufferable little me’s. I bet this is the best day of your life."
Caitlyn exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose. "This just can't be happening. I'm not trained to deal with children."
"Oh, relax, they don't bite."
"You know perfectly well that they do, in fact, bite."
"Yeah," Vi said, smiling, "and they throw things around too, watch your head."
Caitlyn looked at her with an intensity that said if anyone should be watching their head, it was Vi.
Vi, with an almost admirable lack of survival instincts, grinned even wider. "I'm sure Burrhus Skinner had something to say about snot on the seats and gum in the hair"
Caitlyn turned back to the coordinator. "I'd like to request a reassignment."
"Not possible."
"Excuse me?"
"The assignments are final."
"That's absurd."
"Policy."
"There must be some kind of exception."
"There isn't."
Caitlyn opened her mouth and closed it again. "Surely, given the clear discrepancy between..."
"Nope, there are no exceptions."
Vi let out a low whistle. "Damn."
Caitlyn wanted to stand up abruptly and storm out throwing a tantrum, but she cares far too much about respecting all workers; so instead, she simply resigned herself, thanked Gladys for her time, and left the office.
Vi followed close behind her. "Well, that wasn’t so hard."
"I’ll manage."
Vi overtook her and started walking backward. "With kids?"
Caitlyn met her gaze. "Yes, with kids."
Vi shrugged. "Good luck with that. I’m going to go charm those grandmas."
"I’m sure," Caitlyn said coolly, "that they will appreciate your... charm."
Vi scoffed. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Caitlyn added, already walking toward the building's exit, "I’m sure your disdain for authority and their enthusiasm for lectures will mesh quite well."
Vi rolled her eyes, but she lacked her usual conviction. "You just focus on not crying when an six-year-old tells you your class sucks."
"They wouldn't do that."
"They absolutely would do that."
"They wouldn't."
"Princess—"
"Stop calling me that."
"Make me."
Caitlyn stopped walking, and so did Vi. For a second, the proximity made it seem like the argument was about to transform into something else.
Then Caitlyn smirked. "Let’s see how you feel about nicknames after your first class."
Vi blinked, and Caitlyn walked away. Vi finally had the chance to look at her paper again and drop the nonchalant act.
"This is going to be a disaster," she muttered.
Caitlyn arrived 20 minutes early, entering the classroom tentatively.
Her meeting with her mentor had been anything but comforting. The man—with dark circles under his eyes and a coffee stain on his shirt—had told her that first grade was the most difficult year and congratulated her on her bravery.
The room was empty and wasn’t messy, but the splash of colors, posters, knick-knacks, and mismatched furniture gave her a headache anyway. It wasn’t that Caitlyn had anything against color and fun, as Vi seemed to think. It wasn’t that she wanted a gray cell for her students, but colors should serve a purpose; they are supposed to improve cognitive engagement, memory retention, and emotional regulation, not overwhelm and confuse.
Caitlyn had once been a child in these kinds of classrooms, in constant emotional and physical distress from the clash of senseless stimuli coming from all sides. She remembered her small brain receiving more information and input than it was capable of handling, and her teacher dismissing her struggles by calling her "antisocial."
Caitlyn exhaled.
She knew what Violet thought of her—what most people seemed to think: that she didn't like children, that she was cold, that she didn't know how to exist where there was no structure.
But the reality was quite the opposite. Caitlyn didn't like or dislike children; she respected them. She knew the responsibility that came with taking charge of them, even if only for their education.
And Caitlyn was scared out of her mind of failing them. How was she supposed to give them anything of value when the only thing she knew from the educational system as a child was apathy and indifference?
She placed her folder on the desk and aligned it perfectly with the edge.
"Good morning," she began practicing in the solitude. "Today we are going to explore..."
She stopped. That wouldn't work. Too rigid; her speech didn't resonate with the target audience.
"Good morning, everyone! Today we will embark on an adventure..." That was obnoxious. Maybe if she were a better actress, she could pull it off.
She stood up straighter. "Good morning, class."
Yes, that would do.
By the time the first child arrived, Caitlyn had already moved the desks in three different directions. She had already written the date, her name, the lesson objectives, and the day's schedule on the board.
Objective: Use simple present for daily routines.
Perfect.
The second student came running in right behind the first.
The third tried to enter sideways, resulting in all three getting stuck in the doorway.
She helped them get unstuck, and by the time the fourth arrived, she realized that "Good morning" was not going to be a unified experience.
"Good—" she started.
"Hi, miss!" someone shouted.
"Are you new?" another newcomer asked, eyeing her while making his way to his desk.
"Why do you talk like that?" a girl asked while dragging a chair from one table to another.
"I— Good morning," she tried again, projecting a bit more.
"Miss, why are you dressed like that?" a red-haired girl asked, and Caitlyn narrowed her eyes, briefly wondering if Vi had sent a little sister or something of the sort to terrorize her.
"It is perfectly appropriate attire." And indeed it was: high-waisted trousers, a black turtleneck, and a blazer.
"Appropriate for what?"
"For teaching."
"Mr. Ivern doesn't dress like that."
"I am not Mr. Ivern."
"Obviously," a boy muttered.
Caitlyn inhaled deeply; at this rate, she was going to run through the planet's entire oxygen supply.
"Very well," she said, clapping her hands once. "Let's take our seats."
They did not.
"Everyone, please sit down."
Two complied, one spun around in his chair—which Caitlyn counted as three. The others lingered near the tables or were scattered across the room, paying her no attention whatsoever.
When one climbed onto a table, Caitlyn felt something unfamiliar tighten in her chest.
"Sit. Down." She enunciated every word without raising her voice.
By some miracle from heaven, everyone scrambled to take a seat.
It worked. Though brief, it was enough for her to finally approach the board.
"Today," she began, "we are going to learn about daily routines using the simple present..."
"Miss," a girl raised her hand.
"Yes?"
"I’m hungry."
"That is unfortunate."
A wave of giggles rippled through the room.
Caitlyn tried to continue. "As I was saying..."
"Miss."
"Yes."
"Can I go to the bathroom?"
"We’ve only just started."
"Please."
Well, Caitlyn wasn't a monster, and these were small children who didn't have full control over their bladders.
"Fine, go quickly."
"Miss?"
Caitlyn closed her eyes for half a second.
"Can I go too?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because..." she tried to scavenge her mind for a valid reason, "because you can go after he gets back."
"But I can't wait."
"You can."
"I really can't."
"He can't," another boy laughed from one of the back tables, but Caitlyn could tell by his face that he was being serious.
"Go to the bathroom."
"Thank you, Miss."
She was about to turn back to the board when she saw that the first boy who left was already back.
"Teacher."
"Yes?"
"I can't reach the sink."
Caitlyn was two seconds away from pulling her hair out. What was even the protocol for this? Does she go help the boy reach the sink and leave a room full of hyperactive little gremlins alone, or does she stay and leave the boy to his own devices?
"Miss," a girl said quietly from the table closest to Caitlyn.
"Yes?" Caitlyn said, ready to receive yet another request that would further derail the lesson plan.
"The step stool is in that corner cabinet; you have to give it to them to go to the bathroom."
Oh, that was actually helpful. "Thank you, darling."
Stool dilemma resolved, she returned to her lesson.
"Let’s start with a simple example," she spoke while writing. "I wake up at six AM."
"Miss, I don't wake up at that time."
"I wake up at 7."
"I wake up at 8."
"I don't wake up, my mommy does it for me."
"That is not the point."
"Miss, my big brother wakes me up."
"Excellent," Caitlyn said quickly; she was going to have to take whatever bone they threw her. "That is a relevant contribution: 'My brother wakes me up.' Very good."
The boy beamed.
That was progress. No one could take that away from her.
A hand went up.
"Yes?"
"I play video games."
"Fantastic. 'I play video games.' That is very good."
Another hand raised.
"Yes?"
"I don't do homework."
"That is..." Caitlyn caught herself, "grammatically correct, but academically, not so much."
A boy stood up without warning. "Teacher, look!"
He jumped from one table to another.
Caitlyn froze.
"Get down."
He didn't.
"Get down immediately."
He took another leap, this one even more dangerous.
Something inside Caitlyn spiked in panic, but it came out as anger.
"SIT DOWN!"
The room fell into silence.
The boy flinched slightly and climbed down slowly.
Everyone went back to what they were doing, but Caitlyn’s gaze lingered on the boy's trembling lip. She felt something ugly knotting in her stomach.
"Let us continue," she said, but her voice was stripped of authority now.
She turned around, writing faster, trying to outrun the overthinking that threatened to overtake her.
Behind her, whispers began.
Then, poorly stifled giggles.
Then, something hit the board.
Caitlyn sighed louder than she intended, her head hanging low, granting herself a few seconds before having to turn around.
She saw a paper airplane lying on the floor.
When she turned, no one spoke; no one made a single movement.
Caitlyn leaned down, picked up the plane, and carefully placed it on the desk.
"Who threw that?"
Did she even care who did it? No, she didn't care in the slightest; in fact, if it were up to her, she would simply ignore it and move on with her lesson. But the question felt like something she was supposed to ask.
However, she was met with silence.
"Very well," she said. "If no one is going to take responsibility..."
Fortunately, someone spoke before she had to invent a punishment that would surely have been ridiculous.
"It was him!"
Three different children spoke at once, pointing in three different directions. Caitlyn’s gaze briefly passed over the girl who had told her about the stool, but she immediately decided it was a bad idea to put the little girl in that position; she would know better than anyone.
She could only close her eyes and keep rowing forward.
"Group activity," she said out of nowhere.
"What?" someone groaned, annoyed that the distraction had been discarded so quickly.
"You will work in pairs," Caitlyn continued, ignoring the groan entirely. "Create five sentences describing your daily routines."
"Can I work alone?"
"No."
"Can we work in a group of five?"
"No."
"I don't like him."
"That is not relevant."
"He smells bad."
All of you do, Caitlyn said to herself mentally.
"I’m sure you will manage."
Pairs were formed, following more than one debate about who was the most annoying—which, in Caitlyn's opinion, was a title they could all very well share. Finally, they were able to start the activity.
Caitlyn moved between the tables, correcting, making comments, guiding, adjusting, and at one point, waking up a child who was drooling on the table.
Then she noticed that at one of the tables, two students were actually working, their small faces pinched with concentration.
"I play soccer."
"I eat breakfast."
"Good," Caitlyn murmured. "Very good."
She leaned down a bit, bringing herself slightly to their level. "And what else?"
"I go to school."
"Excellent."
The students smiled, their eyes shining with pride.
It was something small—perhaps the only good thing that had happened all day—but it was real. Something about that tiny achievement, something most people take for granted in every day conversation, warmed Caitlyn's heart with such purity that she couldn't help but smile genuinely.
"Miss, she stole my pencil!" someone shouted from the other side of the classroom.
Caitlyn stood up immediately.
Of course. Too good to be true.
"Give the pen back," she said, moving toward the crime scene.
"But it's mine!"
"No, it's not!"
"It is!"
"It has my name on it."
"Then why is it in my hand?"
Caitlyn pushed out of her head the thought that this was probably how people saw her and Vi during their arguments.
"We are not doing this," she said, completely deadpan.
The girls looked at each other for a second, then at Caitlyn for another, and finally...
"Fine," one of them muttered, returning the pen.
Another crime solved. Fantastic.
By the time the bell rang, Caitlyn felt like she had run a marathon while tied to a bus, and then the bus had run over her, and then an elephant had fallen on the bus, and a pigeon had pooped in her hair.
"Bye, miss!" someone called out.
"Goodbye, teacher."
"See you tomorrow, miss."
Not if I find a building to jump off of, Caitlyn thought.
"Miss, you're a little scary."
"Miss, you're funny."
"Miss, your handwriting is weird."
Caitlyn stood at the door, nodding mechanically as they left in a hurricane of noise and chaos contained in small bodies.
When she turned to look at the room, she realized that children have enough chaos to take home and still leave some behind.
There were papers thrown everywhere, glitter on the tables, scratches on the chairs, and a sock on the floor for some reason.
She began to tidy up a little, her hand stopping on one of the sheets.
"I hate lettuce."
It was a valid sentence. She gave a small smile despite herself.
But it was definitive: she was neither equipped nor built for this.
And somewhere, uninvited, a voice echoed in her head…
You should ask someone who knows about it, like me
Caitlyn stared at her mess
“absolutely not”
Vi knew she was in trouble the moment she had been inside the classroom alone for ten minutes after class started, because apparently, her students had been waiting outside for the professor—since they thought she was just some random kid setting up the projector.
"Would you like a herbal infusion, dear?"
"What?"
"You look tense. Lemon balm tea helps with that."
"Where are you even going to get tea from?"
"I have an excellent selection; I can bring you some next class."
"I’m fine."
"Nonsense," another voice intervened. "You look tense!"
"I’m not tense."
"Oh, honey," a third voice added gently, "your shoulders are practically up to your ears."
Vi rolled her shoulders, realizing they were indeed higher than they should be.
"See?" the first woman said, pulling a small planner from her bag and making a note. "There, dear."
"Thanks?"
"Now," the third woman spoke up again, settling into her chair as if she were the most authoritative person in the room—Vi would soon discover that she herself didn't even make the top ten in that ranking—"you must be our new teacher."
"Yeah. Vi."
"Just Vi?"
"Yeah. Just Vi."
"Hm."
Vi didn't like that hm. What was that hm supposed to mean?
She turned back to the board, pulling a marker from her pocket. "Alright, uh—English class. We’re going to start with critical analysis. We think of a topic and discuss it, easy enough."
"Your posture is terrible."
Vi turned around, offended.
A man in the second row was looking at her like she was a child eating boogers.
"I—what?"
"You’re slouching," a woman clarified kindly. "You’ll regret it in twenty years."
Vi straightened up begrudgingly. "I’m fine."
"Mhm."
That hm again.
Vi went back to writing, her jaw clenched.
"Okay," she started again. "First of all, we’re going to introduce ourselves. State your names and maybe something about you."
"Oh, how lovely," the tea lady said. "I am Margaret, and I enjoy gardening and correcting people."
"I can tell," Vi muttered.
Margaret smiled sweetly. "What was that, dear?"
"Nothing."
Another hand went up.
"I am Helena," a woman said. "I used to be a teacher."
Vi doesn't overthink—that's for people like Caitlyn—but she felt a chill run down her spine.
"...Cool."
Helena smiled. It was a friendly smile, but Vi felt like she was being evaluated nonetheless.
From the back row, a man spoke up. "Name's Jonas. Retired pilot."
"Nice."
"You remind me of my granddaughter."
Vi blinked. "Oh. Er—thanks...?"
"She also makes questionable decisions regarding ink."
The room hummed in agreement.
Vi let out a short, sarcastic laugh. "Alright, okay, I see how this is going to be."
"Language," one of the seniors corrected.
Vi stared at him. "I didn't even..."
"It’s the tone, darling," Helena added. "You’re very tense."
"I’m not tense!"
"Kids these days, moving through life as if they’re being chased."
"Tell me about it. My granddaughter works like there’s no tomorrow."
"And then what little free time they have, they spend glued to those screens that ruin their eyesight."
Vi dragged a hand across her face.
"Okay," she said, clapping twice. "We’re getting sidetracked. English. Focus."
She pointed at Margaret. "You, pick a topic."
Margaret smiled excitedly. "Healthy habits."
"Great. See? That wasn't so hard."
Helena nodded. "Relevant real-life topics. Very good."
"Yeah," Vi said. "That’s what I said."
Helena tilted her head. "In a way."
Vi exhaled through her nose. "Do you want to teach the class?"
"I already did, love. For thirty years."
"Right..."
Jonas chuckled.
Vi pointed at him. "You’re next. Say something about the topic."
He leaned back. "I drink coffee every morning."
"Good."
"A lot of coffee."
"Still good."
"The doctor said I should stop."
"Okay, that’s... less good."
Another woman—Dorothea, Vi would eventually learn—nodded. "See? You’re learning."
"I’m not..." Vi caught herself. "Wait, I’m the teacher."
"Mhm."
That hm again.
Vi gripped the marker tightly and started to improvise on the board. "Okay, now you’re going to try to write."
"Oh, sweetheart," Margaret interrupted gently, "you’re holding that much too hard."
Vi looked at the marker, then at her own hand, and then back at Margaret.
"It’s a marker."
"Yes," Margaret said patiently, "and that kind of grip will give you arthritis."
Vi loosened her grip slightly. "I’m not going to get arthritis."
"And your handwriting," Helena added, peering at the board, "is very... enthusiastic."
"What does that mean?" Vi narrowed her eyes.
"It means," Helena continued, "that it could be much better."
Before Vi could react, Helena had stood up and taken the marker from her hand.
"Hey..."
"Watch," Helena said, writing neatly below Vi's sentence.
The difference was obvious: larger, more legible letters; the sentence wasn't crooked, nor were the words different sizes.
"There," Helena said, handing the marker back. "Much better."
Vi stared at the board. Then at Helena.
"I hate it here."
Her students laughed affectionately.
Margaret patted Vi’s arm from her chair. "You’ll get used to us."
"I don't want to get used to you," Vi grumbled.
"You say that now."
"I mean it."
"Mhm."
Vi pointed at Dorothea. "You—stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"That hm thing."
Dorothea blinked innocently. "What hm thing?"
Vi narrowed her eyes, trying to determine if this conversation was even worth the effort.
Across the room, a hand went up. "Dear?"
"Yes?"
"Your shirt is buttoned incorrectly."
Vi looked down, and indeed, her shirt wasn't buttoned all the way and a couple of buttons were where they didn't belong—but it was intentional.
Jonas laughed again, followed by the others.
"I’m quitting," Vi muttered.
Everyone laughed again.
"Oh dear, don't be dramatic, you're doing a great job," Margaret said.
"No, I’m not."
"You have great potential, honey," Helena added.
"Okay, new rule: nobody corrects me unless I ask for it, and I can tell you right now, I won't be asking."
Dorothea smiled empathetically. "We’ll try, sweetheart."
"Or you could just... do it."
"We’ll try."
Not only did they not do it, but Vi suspected they didn't even try.
Vi finished her first class, and the only things she took home were a headache, twenty-five lectures, the contact numbers for three granddaughters, and—worst of all—the certainty that not only did she not teach anything, she actually lost knowledge in the process.
“No,” Caitlyn said, precise and firm, “we are not turning this into a competition.”
“Why not?” a boy shot back immediately. “Games are better.”
“This is not a game.”
“It could be,” another added.
“It won’t be.”
There was a pause in which Caitlyn and Dylan stared at each other intently.
“Miss, if we win, do we get candy?”
“No.”
“Then why would we try?”
“Because learning is its own reward.”
Silence.
Then, from the back:
“That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Alright,” she said, recalibrating quickly. “New approach. If you complete the exercise correctly—”
“Candy?” someone hopeful.
“No.”
A chorus of groans.
“you will receive positive reinforcement.”
“What is that?” a girl asked.
“It is—” Caitlyn stopped. “…Encouragement.”
“That’s not candy.”
“I am aware.”
"Teacher?"
"Yes, Ray?"
"I don't feel well."
Caitlyn immediately moved toward Ray and crouched down to her level. She placed the back of her hand on the girl’s forehead and began to ask questions.
"Does your head hurt?"
Ray hesitates for a few seconds and finally says no.
"Is it your tummy?"
Caitlyn can see the conflict in her eyes, and it confuses her deeply, but finally, Ray says that yes, it’s her stomach.
Caitlyn is no expert on children, but she is very observant and knows when someone is lying. She is faced with two choices: either dismiss it and say something like "drink some water," or trust her instinct and dedicate herself to finding the true root of the discomfort.
"Do you want me to call your mommy?"
Her voice is incredibly gentle—it’s something she didn't know she had inside her, but she can't help but think of the responsibility she holds in her hands every time she enters this room. The girl’s eyes widen as if she hadn't expected to be taken seriously.
She nods her head vigorously, and Caitlyn tells her to take her backpack and wait for her in the principal's office. Caitlyn quickly sends a message to Principal Medarda explaining the situation and tries once more to get through her lesson.
"Very well."
Her voice sounded sharper this time, and it worked—for an instant.
"Form pairs," she said, quickly. "You will create a dialogue using daily routines."
"Like acting?"
"...Yes, sure"
That, finally, caught their attention.
"Ooooh!"
"I want to be the teacher!"
"No, I want to be the teacher!"
"You can be the annoying student!"
"That's you!"
Caitlyn blinked.
"...Alright," she said cautiously. "Yes. Roleplay. Why not."
Immediate chaos.
The students stood up. They moved. They argued. One climbed onto a chair again.
"Off the chair!"
"But I’m the teacher!"
"You aren't on a stage."
"But..."
"Off."
He climbed down.
Caitlyn turned toward another pair. "You will start with 'What do you do every morning?'"
"Miss," one of them said, "can I say I fight dragons?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because it’s not a daily routine."
"It is for me."
"It isn't."
"You don't know my life."
Caitlyn opened her mouth... and closed it.
"...Fine. You can fight dragons," she said with a strained voice. "But you must use the correct grammar."
The boy beamed. "I fight dragons every morning."
This wasn't working. Not really.
They were making too much noise. They were distracted. Half-engaged at best. She looked at the chalkboard. Her carefully structured plan. The chaos unfolding beneath it.
"...This is inefficient," she murmured.
And, uninvited... You just have to keep 'em moving...
At the end of the day, Caitlyn received a summons to the principal's office. She sat down in front of Mel, who was rubbing the bridge of her nose, deep in thought.
"Mel?"
"Oh, Caitlyn, darling," she said, her eyes softening immediately upon seeing her.
"Is something wrong?"
"A guardian says she wants to speak with you."
Caitlyn blinked, and Mel continued.
"I don't think it’s anything bad, don't worry too much. After all these years I’ve learned to recognize angry parents from miles away, but she did look quite worried."
"Oh... I see."
"She’s in the waiting room. Take her to your classroom and don't hesitate to call me if you need anything."
The walk back to the classroom is silent, and Caitlyn doesn't know how she’s supposed to act. The mother in front of her looked exhausted, but above all, sad—profoundly sad. Caitlyn, like everyone, had been sad in her life, but she didn't think she could recognize this specific kind of pain in the mother's eyes.
Once in the room, the woman gripped her purse strap tightly. "Miss?"
"Yes."
"I’m here for Ray."
"Oh... yes, she said she was feeling unwell."
Caitlyn didn't know if she should reveal her suspicions; after all, she didn't know how Ray's mother would take it if Caitlyn said her daughter was lying.
"I am called to come pick up Ray at least three times a week. I’ve taken her to all sorts of medical appointments. For a while I wasn't called, but it was because the teachers ignored her complaints until she would start crying inconsolably."
Caitlyn nodded without saying anything.
"Miss, I know this is a respectable institution, I know you must protect its image, but if there is any possibility that my daughter might be suffering from bullying, or... or something like that... Miss, please don't turn your back on her."
"I wouldn't," Caitlyn said resolutely. "I would never do that."
Something in the mother broke into relief, and though she didn't cry, her eyes were glassy.
"I promise to keep a closer eye on Ray. I know I’m not the only teacher with her during the day, but I will do everything in my power."
The mother let out a breath that sounded like a broken sob.
"Than—thank you... it’s just that every time I see her waiting for me in the principal's office with that lost look on her little face, it breaks my heart."
Caitlyn wraps the mother in a hug. She doesn't know if it's professional, if it's appropriate, but for a brief second she recognizes the pain in the mother's eyes. Not because she's felt it herself, but because she's seen it before in her own mother's eyes.
That afternoon, Caitlyn didn’t go back to her apartment; instead, she went to her parents' house.
Caitlyn had to roll her eyes at how her parents' faces lit up as if they had seen an angel—so dramatic.
When night fell, she was in the living room, nursing an untouched glass of wine in one hand. She heard the soft click of her mother's heels behind her and then felt a hand stroking her hair.
"What happened, darling?"
"Nothing. Can't I visit my parents without something being wrong?" Caitlyn said with an unconvincing smile.
Cassandra’s mouth curved into a small smirk; even after all these years, Caitlyn still thought she could be sneaky. She moved to sit beside Caitlyn, who let her head fall onto her mother's shoulder.
Caitlyn sighed. "Mum?"
"Hm?"
"Do you remember when I was in preschool, when they told me I had to see a psychologist because of my 'antisocial' behavior?"
Cassandra scoffed. "Of course."
"How did you feel back then?"
Cassandra fell silent for a few seconds. The question caught her by surprise; it was something she had never really considered before.
"...Scared, I suppose."
"Of what?"
"Of letting you down. Of everyone failing you because they didn't put in the effort to understand you," Cassandra said in a low voice. "You were such a lively child, full of curiosity and questions, and other times you would simply... shut down."
"I don’t know if it was fear that I felt too," Caitlyn explained. "It was more as if my body simply didn't have the skills that everyone else seemed to have."
"Everyone kept throwing colors, sounds, and lectures at you. The teachers got angry if you didn't want to go out to play during recess. You found comfort playing with shadows in the puppet box, and they decided there was a problem with you." Cassandra took a deep breath. "You finally found a place where you felt safe enough to drop the mask, and they decided that was a problem."
"But you didn't let them take it from me."
"Did it take me too long?" Cassandra asked, and there was a vulnerability in her voice that pricked Caitlyn in the chest. It’s so easy to forget sometimes that the Great Cassandra Kiramman doesn’t always know everything—that sometimes she can only try and hope for the best.
"No... it didn't," Caitlyn whispered. "Even when I didn't understand it all, I knew I had you in my corner, and that was enough to be able to endure."
"I’m glad, dear. But I promised myself a long time ago that I would strive every day to understand you, or at least try. So I don’t want you to 'endure.' I want you to live."
Caitlyn laughed softly.
"How are your classes going?"
Caitlyn huffed. "It’s a disaster. I’m a disaster... I’m simply not built for this."
"No one is built to know how to deal with a room full of children," Cassandra mused. "But if anyone were, it would be you. Not because of how much you know or the different strategies you’re familiar with, but because it’s hard to match your empathy."
Caitlyn exhaled slowly. "They deserve more than me just winging it."
"Be better, then." Cassandra lifted Caitlyn’s face, cradling her cheek. "You give too much credit to other people and too little to yourself. Being good at something isn’t innate; it’s the intention to be better because you care enough to try."
Caitlyn reflected on that and wondered if Vi would have noticed something was wrong with Ray sooner. If Vi would have acted differently. If she would have had the words to understand that girl, to comfort her mother.
She decided that yes, Vi would be much better at this than her. But the thought didn't cause jealousy, or even a sense of inferiority—only curiosity. And it was then she realized she was done for, because if there is one thing Caitlyn Kiramman cannot suppress, it is her curiosity. And there was nothing she wanted more in that moment than to ask Vi a million questions.