Fashionably Late

ur total comes to hella pain and 17 cents

"Mr. Taylor and Mr. Webb to Mr. Douglas' office," the intercom announces.

Mr. Webb and I regard each other in fear. Previously, we were peacefully grading papers during the students' recess, but now we are being called down to the principal, and we both know exactly why. That rich kid who saw us sucking face in the classroom decided that his daddy should hear about this, or maybe his daddy taught him so much about business that he felt the sort of authority that would drive one to speak directly to the principal. Either way, we're screwed.

It's not like I expected for Mr. Webb and I to last. I'm not even sure what we are at this point or if the either of us have any intentions of continuing it. We kissed twice, but I still wouldn't put it past him to slander me in the teachers' lounge or at recess. But we have one thing in common no matter what -- we're frightened of what Mr. Douglas has in store for us.

We rise slowly from our seats and meander through the halls towards the principal's office. I'm sure Mr. Webb has never been here on account of something mischievous he's done, whereas I have, so I'm accustomed to the feeling, even though I haven't experienced it in a few years. He must be writing his will in his head right now, and that's not an exaggeration.

I push the door to the office open, knowing full well that Mr. Webb would need a full mental pep talk before he could do it himself, and Mr. Douglas' face is revealed, along with his interlaced fingers.

"Mr. Webb, Mr. Taylor, please sit down." He gestures to the two seats in front of his desk. He's making it seem more like a formal interrogation than a professional scolding.

I look over at my co-worker, who is practically shaking but still laboring to hold onto his strength. In order to become a teacher, he must've had to go through rigorous tests of composure, tests whose principles have been thrown out the window in this real life application.

"We have been notified that you two were caught in an inappropriate situation by one of our students before school started. Is this correct?"

"Yes, sir," Mr. Webb acknowledges.

"And do you understand why this is an issue?"

Mr. Webb answers again. "Yes, sir."

"Mr. Taylor?" Mr. Douglas prompts, and I copy what Mr. Webb said.

"So I believe you know what to do. If you two are going to engage in a relationship, please do not make that clear while your students are around, even when you think they're not."

"Yes, sir," Mr. Webb and I reply in unison, having gotten the perfect response down.

Mr. Douglas nods for us to leave, and as soon as we exit his office, I start ranting. "Kids these days are still so homophobic. I had my suspicions about that guy. You know, his family is probably--"

"Jamie," Mr. Webb interrupts me, using my name for the first time ever, and that alone is enough to halt me. "Have you ever considered that maybe Mr. Douglas is right about this? We can't blame everything on homophobia. The truth is, it's unprofessional to display our relationship at school, and you know it."

I stare at him in disbelief before casting my eyes to the ground and shifting my physical stance a tad. "No, yeah, I get it. It's not like you ever had feelings for me anyway. You just hated me sometimes pitied me other times."

"That's not--" Mr. Webb starts, but then he stops all of the sudden, and his expression jumps from one of defense to one of defeat. "You've figured me out."

My own expression is that of someone about to go off, anger bubbling up inside and about to burst, only to be quelled right before it does. "Tell the administration I will be finding teaching assistant experience elsewhere." I begin my march down the hallway, away from Mr. Webb, away from the pain that I can't actually abandon as easily as this.

"Jamie, you can't just do impulsive things like this just because you're feeling hurt," he calls after me, but I don't listen. That's what he always hated about me.

~~~~~

A/N: y'all just got fUCKed

~Dicknoodle