A Teacher
He finally shows up after three months of supposedly being ill. This time, it is because he needed to undergo a complicated and lengthy surgery. There is something about him that you ponder. When you forget to take your pills, it keeps you up at night sometimes.
On the rate instances when he is in attendance, you try to covertly stare at him and unravel this enigma. It was a completely ordinary afternoon when you finally identified the nagging sense of recognition.
His eyes.
They remind you of your father's eyes after he returned from Afghanistan. You remember the eyes so well because you just cannot erase the vivid image of your father shooting himself in the head.
Haunted eyes who had seen too much.
Haunted eyes of the beholder who had been through too much.
It was so disconcerting to see such a look on an obviously intelligent boy. No, he was definitely a man. He is worlds away from ordinary teenage boys, who you fondly listen to complain about girl problems and homework.
Not too long ago, he had a group of friends. He had never sought popularity, but he was generally well liked and universally admired. Now? His peers taunt him and avoid him like the plague. They do not want to get infected. Apparently it is fatal.
When his uncle died, you understood that he needed to take a while off. You knew what it was like to lose a father. You reasoned at the time that he just needed time to cope. Time flew by and your concern heightened, only to peak when he returned with a slew of injuries.
Rumours have sprung up that he is a gang leader and is in rehab for cocaine addiction. You refuse to believe them because it is something else, but you cannot put your figure on it.
Even the older students have taken it upon themselves to tease Alex mercilessly.
You yearn to help, your conscience is screeching at you to intervene, but there is an air to him that indicates that he can take care of himself. He is always calm and his face is devoid of any emotion. He is so perceptive, calculating and aware of his surroundings, as if he's grown expectant of mortal danger. That is what scares, no terrifies you.
You steady your voice to contrast your frazzled thoughts, "Alex, can you stay behind a moment." The bell has rung and students nudge each other, gossiping about the kind of trouble he must be in.
He walks up to your desk, past his smirking classmates. He gait is rigid and military like. His gait is not a pompous swagger, but it is an assured manner, one of complete control.
During class, his eyes alternated between being fixed on you and the board; a paradigm for attentive listening. Yet, you had the feeling that his mind was elsewhere. It is beyond everyone how he manage to score almost perfect on all his exams and that is the only thing holding the school from expelling him.
He stares at you, eyes expectant.
You take a good look at him, avoiding his eyes because they remind you too much your father. He has evidently matured dramatically since you last saw him: his blond hair is still in its constant state of disarray, but his muscles are prominent and are almost bulging.
He is waiting, but you are at a loss at what to say. Or rater, how to express all your thoughts. You mentally congratulate yourself for putting your English degree to good use.
You settle for inquiring, "Are you okay?". You inwardly cringe because it's quite obvious that he isn't. But you can only ask tentative and awkward questions, because the truth makes you uncomfortable.
Normally when he is asked this, he provides a bland answer that sounded like it came from a script. Not this time,he smirks "Well I'm alive, aren't I?" There is a bitterness in his tone that breaks your heart. And you realize with a start that this is the first time you have heard him speak more than two words in too long. He said four words.
"You've changed since your uncle died. Is everything okay? You can always come to the staff if you need help." Even as you say it it, you know it is not true.
"I'll manage." he insists firmly, his tone closing the discussion for debate. HIs navy but hoodie is rolled up to his elbows. You try not to stare at the very visible and very recent scars. Your father used to hate it when people stared and gaped at his chemically disfigured face.
You raise an eyebrow. He knows that you are unsatisfied by the doctor's note and are suspicious. Perhaps that is why he does not give you a bullshit answer.
"Are you aware that many unpleasant rumours have sprung up regarding your disappearances? You and I both know that you are not that sick. If you were ill as often as you say you are, you would be declared an epidemic risk."
"People can continue making rumours." he shrugs nonchalantly. "They'll never come close to the truth. But thank you for the concern." You finally meet his eyes and they are kind; sympathetic. You realize that he knows about your father.
You sigh, because it is crystal clear that he will not elaborate. And you are not sure you would want him to. You're curious, but are unsure if you'd even be able to handle the truth.
You write him a late slip and watch him slip out the door, so quietly that if you had no teen watching, you would not have noticed.
You heart nearly stops at the concealed gun that he purposely exposes to you. Military grade, heavy and only used with those exceptional skill.
But you just shake your head and start grading papers, because whatever Alex Rider is doing, he's in deep.