Hey everyone! Thanks for checking this out. As a general disclaimer for this and future chapters: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya and the characters in here are not meant to represent actual countries in the real world: only the fictional characters. Enjoy! :)
Alfred can only recall a handful of situations that have led to being called to the school's front office.
1. When he was six years old, he fell down in the mud and needed a change of clothes.
2. A few years later, he was attacked by a rather indignant Canada Goose. The nurse had a good laugh.
3. During Alfred's first year (check that - day) of middle school, he decided to set off a stink-bomb in the boys locker room. The principal was not amused.
4. When he was fourteen, his first year of high school, he joined the marching band and somehow wound up getting his head stuck in a tuba. The nurse at that school had a good laugh as well...as did the entirety of the fire department.
So that would make this the fifth time then, right? The four previous times, he had learned to expect the snickers and the chorus of drawn out "oohs," from his classmates, sounding much like a car struggling to change gears on the on-ramp to a highway. Admittedly, he has been guilty of a few himself over the years as others were called out of class. What can he say? It brought ten seconds of class time that didn't have to be spent slaving away over trigonometry.
But in the library? Is it really necessary? It isn't that he doesn't like attention, quite the opposite in fact. He just doesn't like that kind of attention: the patronizing whispers that normally come from mud splatters, unfortunate tuba incidents, and goose bite marks (though people insist that geese have no teeth, Alfred, to this day, begs to differ). The best thing to do before the pissy office receptionist can ring in over the intercom again, demanding to know where he is and for him to him to report to the office this very second is to just suck it up and make the walk of shame to the front of the school so that he can fess up for...Come to think of it, what had he done? He's been sitting in the library: literally staring at a wall and doing nothing but daydreaming with a chemistry textbook sitting neglected underneath his elbows. At least he doesn't think he's done anything.
At the very least, Alfred gets to walk past the art room on the way, smelling like cut construction paper and wet glue. Somehow, it always reminds him of kindergarten.
He opens the office door tentatively, the only thing alerting the receptionist of his presence being the loud creaking of the rusty hinges.
The secretary looks up and smiles sympathetically (something Alfred didn't know she was capable of) before putting up a finger for him to wait while she finishes up her phone call. From the look she's wearing, it's probably a relentless parent complaining over a trivial problem that the she (is Mrs. Brown her name? Darn him and his bad memory) has no control over.
Alfred looks around the room awkwardly, from the plain round clock ticking, to the goldfish lazily gobbling at the surface of the water in a fishtank pushed up against the back wall. The main office isn't small, but he notices not for the first time that it's pathetically empty. Industrial tiles that were once white, but have long ago faded to a bright gray with little flecks of purple-blue and beige, cover the floor along with a far too small welcome matt that is in surprisingly good condition. It must be new. There are a few small windows, some metal folding chairs for people waiting to pick up their kids early, and blue plaster walls with two thick sickly green horizontal stripes to match the school colors. Alfred is pretty sure that the only reason there is a fish tank is to conceal a big dent in the wall. Though, honestly, the dent would probably be less of an eye sore than whatever half-brown substance that fish is swimming around in. Poor thing.
"Sorry about that," the secretary says, clicking the phone back into its holster after sighing and shaking her head. "You can go on back now."
Alfred cranes his neck to look down the office hallway behind the front desk. It looks more or less like the rest of the office. "Go where?" There's the nurse's office on the left, the counselor's office behind that, the meeting room somewhere on the right, and a multitude of other rooms that he doesn't know about and never cares to find out.
"They didn't tell you?"
Alfred shakes his head.
"The school psychologist's office. Mr. Arthur Kirkland is the third door on the right."
"The what?" he sputters. The psychologist!? "No. No way." He shakes his head again vigorously, blond mop of hair flying about. "Not happening."
"I'm sorry ," says, face hardening slightly into that 'I mean business' expression, although she keeps her calm tone (most likely from years of practice with the more vocal parents over the phone), "but Mr. Kirkland called for you specifically."
But he doesn't need to talk to a psychologist! Alfred stands there for a moment, fuming and considering just flat out turning on his heel and making a run for it. Something tells him he won't get very far, though. Tacky and dilapidated as the school is, they have pristine security, and getting brought to the principal's office by one of the on-campus police officers isn't exactly near the top of his to-do list.
"Fine," he mutters finally, and walks back to the third door, feet dragging. He doesn't even knock, just bursts into the office.
A man with ruffled blonde hair and thick eyebrows (which in Alfred's opinion are several years overdue for a trim) is sitting at one of those circular red cafeteria tables with the wrap-around bench seats (which is odd, to say the least), writing, rather than at a desk. Geez, the school can't be that bad, can it?
"It's customary to knock, Mr. Jones," the psychologist says without looking up.
"My name is Alfred." He pulls out a beaten-up folding chair and flops onto it unceremoniously on the other side of the office, disregarding the bench seats that are already available at the psychologist's makeshift "desk".
Mr. Kirkland purses his lips, clearly annoyed, but says nothing. "Listen Alfred, it's my job to-"
"So what, do you think I'm crazy or something?" Alfred bursts, quite unlike himself, cutting the psychologist off.
"Listen !" Arthur says, trying and failing to keep his voice down. A flicker of impatience shows in the set of his jaw for a moment before he's able to stamp his emotions down again. Alfred opens his mouth to correct the name, but the next thing his psychologist said stops the words in his throat.
"I called you here to talk to you about the loss of your mother." Arthur looks up at the student, who has paled a few shades, to make sure he won't interrupt again. "Alfred, it's my job to check up on students in your situation. So how are you?"
Alfred blinks a few times, wrapping his head around the simple, yet not so simple question. Of course, he knew that the conversation would go here, that this is why he was called into the office. He knew it the moment the receptionist told him who he was called up here to see. But still, to see someone approach the situation so boldly...it's a bit of a shock. Everyone he's talked to as of late has tried and put way too much effort into treating him as if nothing had happened (which is pointless because, at the root of it all, something had happened). Either that or they had just given him silent hugs and asked how he was with pitiful expressions without actually saying why they were asking, because, let's face it, it's an awkward topic to breach and both knew anyway. Both approaches are equally infuriating. He doesn't want pity, nor does he want anyone disrespecting his mother by pretending nothing happened to her. So here comes someone who treats the situation exactly as he wishes the dozens of others would, and how does he react? He's stunned out of any honest response.
"Me? Oh I'm fine!" The student's face transforms into it's typical bright smile that would make most people's cheeks sore after just a few minutes.
"This is a safe place you know." he gestures to the room: a pretty bland thing with the only windows being a thin strip of glass at the top of the room too small to see out of (the kind normally seen in showers), a small blue rug, the "desk," and a metal file cabinet. The plaster walls are cracked in several places, though not nearly as badly as whatever that toxic goldfish pond out there is concealing.
"Dude, I'm fine."
Arthur raises an eyebrow and turns his computer monitor toward his student.
"Your grades suggest otherwise."
Alfred grimaces. Yes, it's true. Lately, his grades have seen a slight decline (crashed and burned is what most people would say). He's never been able to get straight A's, though that's never really bothered him. It's always been mostly B's, with a fair amount of A's. Good enough. There's the occasional C, but he has never gotten a D. He's never even imagined getting a failing grade in a class before. Nevertheless, D's and F's have been splattered across his latest report card.
"The, uh," Alfred reaches up and adjusts his glasses nervously. "Umm. The classes got harder." He winces internally at his own excuse. This is one of those situations where he'll find the perfect comeback…. a week from now. But it's not completely unfathomable. Classes do tend to pick up the pace come second quarter.
"You were excelling in them a month ago."
Alfred shrugs, his half-convincing smile unwavering.
"What can I say? It's school, right? I can get them back to normal for you, though. Don't worry about me." He gives Mr. Kirkland a thumbs up and stands to leave.
Arthur sighs, deciding not to push his luck. He knows when a student isn't going to talk. Although it ends in a student giving him the finger (along with some choice words) more often than not, especially when he's with students that have just been in a fight or gotten suspended, he isn't unfamiliar with students like Alfred who will just say whatever it takes to leave.
"Do you need a pass back to class?"
Alfred shakes his head. "No. I have a free period right now."
Arthur can't help but smirk at his sour expression. Most sixteen year olds would love to have a free period. "Where do you go for your free period?"
"Library with some friends." Alfred stands by the door and shifts from foot to foot, anxious to leave.
"You like to read?" Arthur asks, surprised. Alfred doesn't strike him as an avid reader for some reason. Especially not with those grades...not that he's one to judge.
"No. That's why it's boring."
The psychologist chuckles lightly under his breath. "Would you by any chance be able to come see me after school some days?"
He shakes his head. "I have chess club."
Arthur does his best to hide his shock once again." Very well. You're free to go." He extends the little paper pass with his signature on it toward the student, despite him saying he doesn't need it.
Alfred leaves without another word.
The sixth time Alfred is called to the office is not two weeks later: a week or so before Thanksgiving.
Once again, he walks past his snickering "friends" and is directed to Arthur's depressingly bland office.
The computer has been pushed off to the side (on a floor against the wall. Alfred can't help but wonder how someone like Mr. Kirkland managed to move that dinosaur of a computer out of the way) and in the middle of the desk sits a chess board. It's a nice one, too: marble pieces and a marble board set into a reddish wood (mahogany?) frame.
Alfred raises his eyebrows.
"You said you were in chess club and that you didn't have a class this period?"
Arthur gets a hesitant nod in return. Alfred looks one second away from bolting, constantly shooting nervous glances towards the door.
"Good then. Sit down. Lets play."
"Why?" Alfred asks skeptically, dragging a chair up with a sound akin to nails on a chalkboard and once again ignoring the seats built into the table.
"You're failing all but one of your classes. I've found this game to improve focus." Arthur keeps the part about his secret hope that Alfred will eventually open up to him after so many visits to himself. He doesn't seem like one to fare very well in the uncomfortable silence that will be their chess games. He'll find out all in good time, he supposes. Alfred just frowns, jaw set and arms folded across his chest, staring indignantly before eventually reaching stiffly over the desk and moving a pawn forward two squares.
"Your move."
Alright, so there's chapter one! More chapters will be up soon. Any feedback would be very much appreciated! Thanks again for reading. :) This was originally past-tense and I've been going back and editing chapters to make the story present tense. If you find any straggling past tense words, let me know. :) Generally, I'll keep a section strictly based on one person's point of view, but I felt that I needed some of both here. Do any of you play chess? I think it's a fun, challenging game, but I personally STINK at it… and that's putting it lightly. Maybe you all have better luck with it.