So back in my high school days... this once upon a time I had a very incredibly beautiful French teacher. She was super nice and really funny, not to mention she had the prettiest hazel eyes I'd ever seen. All that on top of her gloriously godlike booty had me crushing on her hard. Even despite the fact she was a straight, married, with kids kinda gal.

ANYway this is a fluffy ideal world. Obviously.


He could remember quite clearly the exact moment he decided to become a teacher. He'd always had great teachers throughout his life. Or maybe he'd always just gotten along with teachers better than his fellow classmates... Either way, they had all been exceptionally wonderful folk that had fanned the flames of his passion for learning, and he'd appreciated that. More than that, they had given him the best advice of his life, over and over and over again.

Better advice than he'd received from his actual family anyway, but he'd long since gotten over the way of the world as according to his unfortunate youth.

In any case, he could remember it was seventh grade. Sitting in Miss Evans' classroom chatting her up before the bell. Most kids got shuffled towards the auditorium to wait for classes to start but he'd long since learned that if you go about yourself and your business with a certain air of confidence, people will leave you be... And he had a pass to her classroom that was yearlong and unquestionable... But the confidence usually made it unnecessary for him to whip it out.

She was a wonderful woman, a bit on the pudgy side with moss green eyes and hair that couldn't quite decide if it was red or brown. In her late twenties, he always had assumed, because it was rude to ask a lady's age and she was bright with the energy of youth. He had asked her on that particular day why she didn't want kids. Her desk was always cluttered with pictures of her family and their young ones but she'd always said she wanted no children. She'd told him it was because she had children already, ones she cherished dearly. Hundreds of them, in the five years she'd been working at the junior high.

He'd understood, of course, that she meant her students. And growing up without his mother in the picture made that comment of hers warm his insides. But he'd followed up with a joking question, even the ones that don't care?

And the warm smile had melted from her features. Into a very small, forlorn sort of frown, a far away look taking the shine from her eyes. She'd, responded,

"Yes. Especially them. I cherish them so much, if it were up to me I'd keep them here for another year. I'd show them how much I do cherish them in hopes that they would trust me enough to help them. To educate them. To show them that they aren't just a pay check... But it isn't up to me."

He wanted that. He wanted that to become a truth. He wanted to love and cherish so many someones he almost couldn't handle it. He wanted to inspire a student, he wanted to care enough that even the ones that usually didn't would find a spark rekindled within them that the world and its inhabitants had seen fit to put out. He wanted to be a Miss Evans and a Mr. Graves and a professor Reaves. He wanted to be those heroes of education that had done everything in their power to impress goodness and curiosity upon young minds. Upon his mind in particular.

And so far things were going great.

The students were responding well to him, for the most part. He could already pick out a handful of troublemakers but they would be dealt with. Boys would be boys and nothing and no one could ever make them stop trying for a pissing contest of stupidity to see who could make the girls around them laugh. But he was a pretty determined guy, so he was confident he could change them. And if he couldn't, he was certainly having fun throwing pencil erasers at them whenever they acted up. Which was often

"Oy!" He hit another square on the forehead. "Leave the pretty girl alone and get back to work!"

"Oh come on teach! I was helping the pretty girl with her work!" Hans was his name, and from the way he held himself and acted, this kid either ran the school or thought he did. It wasn't an air of confidence he wore, but over confidence. He was a cocky little shit with a bit of an attitude and a chip on his shoulder that Alexander found intriguingly challenging. He chuckled and walked over, first retrieving his projectile, then stopping to consider what the young master WestergÄrd had said.

"Hmm, I might almost believe that were it not for the fact that Miss Clark finished her work nearly ten minutes ago," he turned to the smirking blonde. "Isn't that right, Elsa?

"As a matter of fact, sir, it is."

She called him sir. No one else was calling him sir. It felt like her own special signal. To him, it meant, I've heard your shame and know of your two left feet. But hey, he could be wrong. Maybe she was just being sassy and sarcastic about his authority. She certainly seemed the type. At least he'd gathered as much from their interaction that morning. He felt very little shame in admitting she was already his favorite student. He couldn't help it. There was just something about her.

In some way she reminded him of himself. Plus it was very apparent that she was incredibly intelligent. In fact, she would have fit much better in an AP class. He made a mental note to question her on that matter later. She was far, FAR too smart for this course, for the likes of Hans and his snickering band of loyal dumb asses. And it bothered him mostly that it was her level of intellect that had her here.

"Get your work done," he lightly knocks his knuckles against Hans head. This is all very ballsy for him to be so forward and honest (and most importantly TOUCHY) with his students. But they like it. And that had been his biggest hope. "Then talk to pretty girl. Who knows? Maybe she'll be attracted to your smarts, eh?"

Hans grumbles something unintelligible but bends back over his work. Which is really just a short writing assignment about describing something that emphasizes showing instead of telling through the art of written word. The beauty of metaphor and detail. Knowing the class had their full attention on him - being so personable did make him the epicenter of all attention, which really made his job much easier - he raised his voice to call to them all,

"Let's get this out, for future reference," and this would either go very well or ruin him entirely... "You're all adults. Well, not really; the majority of you are eighteen or seventeen- do not censor yourselves in papers. I enjoy eloquence and every flamboyant, flowery way to dance around insults, but as a fan of dialogue truthful to a fault, I WILL accept papers that might otherwise be deemed inappropriate. So long as there is reason and logic in it, I will accept it."

There was a period of silence as the majority of the trouble makers gazed at him with the widest of eyes. It was with awe, however, and a warm sense of self satisfaction overtook him. This might pass over very well, in fact. He heard, very quietly, a low muttering of,

" Well God damn."

He chuckled. He winks at the perpetrator, nodding.

"Yeah pretty much that. Anyway, I mentioned that a bit late if you think you can change your paper in time, think again. Bell rings in two minutes, so no rush but y'all might want to jump on it," he's staring at Hans and his crew. Ones that had written nothing are suddenly bent over writing furiously. Ah, just a touch of trust and an inch of freedom and he was already convincing them to do better. He doesn't really expect all that much from those that didn't care until he'd given permission to curse. But this is just the first class and the fact that they're working at all is a godsend.

Ahh the sweet sound of scribbling pencils is but music to his ears; he smiles to himself and tries to pick a tune out of the noise to hum along with as he strides over to the whiteboard, quickly uncapping a pen and scrawling out a messy message. Well. Not quite a message. It says, in bold blue lettering,

JACK LONDON.

He admires his own chicken scratch and the treasured memories it surfaces in his mind. He steps back and turns to face the class. Only a handful have their eyes on him. Elsa is but one of that handful, and in her eyes there's a spark of recognition and excitement. She's familiar with one of his favorite writers. He feels... so, oddly, proud. No. No it's not pride that he feels, it's approval. It has him wondering, in some smaller part of his mind, how she'll react to each of his lesson plans as he reveals them throughout the course.

"So I lied. Bell doesn't ring for another ten minutes," he admits with a chuckle. Almost at once the song of his success as a teacher falls silent while the class regards him. "Ohh, don't give me that look. Not as if this assignment is really very challenging, you bunch of ungrateful bums!" He scolds but he's smiling and chucking still.

"Anyway, look upon yonder chicken scratch, as provided by my elegant hand, and soak up that thar name. We'll be reading some of the fine labors of his soul for our first few weeks. Two of my favorite novels - 'Call of the Wild' and 'White Fang'. If you've never heard of them, that's fantastic. All the more for you to be surprised!"

He knows he's the most excited to start on the novels. Never once in his schooling days had he been assigned either of the novels, a rather large disappointment to him considering they'd been his favorite childhood books. Gramma did always say he read beyond his years though... well they should be old enough anyway. Caught up in his own musings, it takes him a long moment to notice the class still staring at him. Waiting... Waiting for what, he's not certain. So he ventures,

"Well go on. Back to work my little minions!" That earns some eye rolls and grumbles, but for the most part they listen. Half of Hans and his crew sit back and watch the clock. Content with the basic five sentence paragraph structure they'd been taught since kindergarten(wait was that kindergarten or first grade? Meh fuck it, not his class, doesn't matter), and oh would he be overjoyed to break that nasty little habit. They aren't stupid, not as stupid as the school system assumes them to be. And they aren't sheep.

Writing should flow in the way that is most natural to the writer. Rigid archaic formulas for writing have no place in his classroom. But that's for another day, he reminds himself, no time for passionate speeches. Not unless he wants to become the one professor he'd had for math. Get that man talking and there would be NO class. Only stories. And he'd failed that class spectacularly. He couldn't make those mistakes, not for his students. He'd already decided they would be the best, damn it!

Like no class ever was. To teach them to pass the test. To educate them was his cause.

'Gotta teach 'em, mon, TEACHERMON!... I need new hobbies.'

The bell shrieks and it's an awful, lovely sound. He'd have to trade out this awesome batch of students for the next, but he'd get to start understanding his students from their innermost thoughts on the papers they hold with some amount of uncertainty. Oh. OH!

"Guys, just leave the papers on my desk," he provides and they surge forth in a wave to do so then rush, laughing and chattering, out the door. He makes his way over to his desk to assess the pile. There's a two to five minute wait for his next class to make it. Well maybe he's overestimating that time, but he'd hardly be mad at a kid across the school stepping in shortly after the tardy bell. Shit happens.

"You did pretty good out there, Anders," He blinked slowly, straightening up from bending over his attempts to organize the messy pile of papers and turning ever, ever so slowly to face his unofficial(official) favorite student.

"Uh, what did you just call me?"

"Anders; it's your name now," she smiles very much like the Cheshire cat. He wonders if she practices that or if it's just a God given thing, like her outward appearance. He wonders also if her mind is as pretty, besides just the intellect. He wonders a lot about her.

"... Anders." She nods, and her smile lessens and simultaneously grows. Less perfect teeth, more stretching lips. "Seriously? Not Xander, not Lex, not Al or Alex?"

"Nope," she pops the 'p'. "I've been thinking all class, and figured those names had been well and overused. And I'm particularly against second fiddle. So Anders it is."

"I don't even have an 's' in my name!"

"Anders sounds best." She concludes with an air finality. He groans and throws his head back. Dramatic as always. His head falls forward, a sudden thought occurring to him. His cheeks flush just a pinch as he runs a hand through his hair.

"Hehe, so you think I make a pretty good teacher?" When she's not smiling like Cheshire, her smiles light her whole face. Cheeks pinked and nose slightly scrunched, eyes shining. If he were poetic, he might write poetry about a smile like that.

'Is that weird to think?'

"Don't get so ahead of yourself, I didn't say all that," she says and he squawks indignantly. And that just makes her laugh and he would definitely write poetry about a laugh like that. "Only that you did pretty good today."

'That's totally weird to think.'

"You're not very giving with the compliments. I'm suddenly starting to rethink our friendship..."

"Oh don't be like that, you just have to work harder. And Hell, if you can survive the next class I might actually be nicer."

"Don't try too hard on my account," he quips. More laughter. "And don't be late on my account." He chides, remembering the time as students start to trickle in and find seats. Elsa regards the clock and then him, heaving a sigh as dramatic as one of his own. He approves.

"Yes sir!" She salutes him, winking. She waves only with her fingers as she slips out of his classroom. "Bye Mr. Gray."


I based Anders off of no less than fifteen different educators. Five English teachers/professors, one geometry teacher, two different home ec teachers, a Spanish teacher, my beautiful French teacher, a tech teacher, one social studies teacher, a physics teacher, an art history professor, and a human migrations professor. Also like eight other people. But yeah, anyway.