It's Definitely Not All Mary Poppins

They Don't Care About The Book, Just the Covers (2)

He shook his head, a frown spreading across his lips.

"...am I in trouble?" he asked. His tone over the past few weeks had moved from annoyance into defeated exhaustion.

Matthew nodded his head down the corridor. "Come on."

The boy stood and followed.

He took in a long, slow breath. "I'm not going to lie, Eli, I'm getting really tired of coming in here every single week."

"I didn't do anything this time!" he insisted. "Like, okay, I drew runes on the back of my test! So what? Mrs. Jefferson took the voodoo doll and the stuff from my backpack! I wasn't even, like, it wasn't even like I was taking them out – they were just in my backpack! It isn't, like, I'm indoctrinating people into a cult."

Matthew stopped in his tracks. "You're not starting one, are you?"

"No," he insisted. "The other guys in my class asked me to teach them how to draw them. I'm not telling them how to write in runes. That's stupid."

A smile tugged on Matthew's lips.

Eli scoffed. "They think it's something called 'Unknown Pokémon' 'r some shit like that."

"Come on, dude. Language."

He groaned. "I – okay, I know you don't like coming in, and I'm sorry," Elliot started, rubbing his hands on the front of his shirt. "I've been trying to keep my stuff to myself."

"...Eli?"

"Yeah?"

He wiped his face with his hands. "Please, for one week, please don't do anything." The words leapt to the tip of his tongue, but Matthew swallowed them back. For one week, he wanted to not be called into Brookfell's classrooms for either children, to have to suffer the indignation of being on a first-name basis with the teachers so soon into the year. To have the receptionists and the occasional Mr. Hanford watching him sign in and out every time.

Matthew couldn't ask them to do that. The mere thought made his stomach turn.

He sighed. "...let's go get your cousin."

"Can I wait outside?"

"Sure...fine, whatever," he whispered, waving his hand. "Wait by Lloyd. I'll be there as soon as possible."

Elliot trotted off down the hall.

Matthew turned, heading deeper into the school.

"...though this outburst seemed to be spurned from my asking another classmate to consider another color besides yellow," Mr. Burgess explained.

Matthew buried his face in his hands, groaning. He so desperately craved a cigarette.

"Art is about painting what you feel, you fart nugget!" Lilliana shouted, standing up on her chair. "You told Charlie what to paint!"

"Lilliana, sit down," Matthew hissed.

She plopped and sank into her chair, crossing her arms. The girl grumbled under her breath.

"The assignment, in question, was painting still life. Charles was using just shades of yellow."

"It was abstract! There's nothing wrong with that," she insisted.

"That unit isn't until February," Mr. Burgess noted. "This unit is all about light and shading."

Matthew stared, not hearing her teacher say something. Something about what he said seemed to suggest that this wasn't originally meant for first graders.

Mr. Burgess leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desktop. "Mr. Robinson, have you been working with Lilliana for her writing exercises?"

He sat up a little straighter. "Isn't that Mrs. O'Reilly's class?"

"Yes, but she asked me to breach the subject."

"...every night." God, how he wished he didn't have to suffer the agony of realizing how innate cursive was. The absolute frustration of relearning how to write a stupidly curvy "z" did not seem lost on Lilly, either, who complained every second they did the exercises.

The older man withdrew a paper from the desk. "Can you..." He turned the page to Matthew. "...read that for me?"

Matthew leaned forward, then sighed through his teeth. Doctor's handwriting proved more legible than whatever this was. It was cursive – or, rather, an attempt at it – which only made the answer more illegible. The prompt was simple – "What is your favorite place to go with your family?", yet the scribbles burst through the space given and into the next prompt's space. A crude arrow pointed towards the backside.

He turned to the muttering girl beside him, turned back to the teacher, and asked, "I can't read that, but shouldn't you be encouraging some kind of creative spirit in that regard? I mean – " He gestured to the assignment. " – clearly, she was quite passionate about the prompt. Cursive aside, she clearly understood it."

Mr. Burgess smiled, his lips pressed firmly together in clear annoyance. "Regardless, Mr. Robinson, that's not cursive."

Matthew swallowed back a scream.

"I can read it," Lilly insisted, fumbling over her own feet to grab it.

He smacked the paper face-down on his desk. "No, thank you, Ms. Yang."

Lilliana pursed her lips and sat back down.

Matthew wiped his fingers across his forehead. His breathing drowned out the endless, angry words for Mr. Burgess floating about his head.