As I mentioned, many of the canon characters in this fic will be more like cameos or just support. I can't give everyone a significant plot line. Dickens or Tolstoy I ain't. So if it seems like I'm just glossing over some of them or not fleshing them out more, I apologize.
Chapter 4
…Being an assistant principal takes strong conviction, personal empowerment, and a willingness to seek out learning experiences beyond the school and district. APs must refuse to wallow in the discouraging aspects of the job and instead generate a positive energy that is so contagious that others are inspired to excel...
Solf glared sullenly at his monitor.
Seriously?
King sent him links to articles like this about once a week. He was always "looking out for him" like that.
…One of the harshest realities of being an AP is realizing that the daily routines and responsibilities are all consuming. Doing some of the "important" work translates into doing it in addition to all the "expected" work. It means putting in extra hours on your own time. It really means investing upfront to reap the returns through job promotion. Administrators who devote time and demonstrate commitment, patience, professionalism, and a positive attitude even in times of great disappointment or frustration are the ones who will move ahead...
"Yeah, I don't think so," Solf murmured and sent the email to the file he created for that purpose. He didn't dare just send it to Trash. You never knew who might find out. He would have liked to name this file Useless Shit Sent To Me By People Who Think I Give A Shit, but it was a little too long and would probably get him in trouble. He named it U.S. and if anybody asked he'd say it stood for Useful Stuff.
Solf leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. There were certain perks to this job, not the least of which was getting to instil terror in the hearts of adolescents. That, of course, paled in comparison to the real sweetener, the one that appealed to his basest weaknesses.
In his youth, it was assumed that he would eventually become his father's primary business partner. He dawdled his way through an expensive private college with an eye to moving on to an MBA. After a few sidetracking distractions, it became clear that Solf was not master's program material. His father was annoyed but not discouraged. After all, he never went to college, and look where he ended up. So he let his son venture out into the world to pick up the same street savvy and survival skills that got his old man to the upper stratum of Amestrian society.
Solf spent his twenties making it increasingly clear that he did not inherit any of his father's business instincts. That was the difference between being born with a silver spoon in your mouth and having the smarts and the balls to forge your own spoon.
When Solf reached his thirties having carved very little of his own way in the world, his father gave him an ultimatum. Get a damn job, stick with it, and his father would match his salary cenz for cenz. Such an incentive was too good to pass up. With help from Solf Sr.—a word in the right ear here, a favor or two called in there, an old-boy network appealed to—Solf found himself an administrator at one of Central City's high schools with only the barest qualifications.
The catch was if he quit without lining up another position on his own (or was dumb enough to get fired), the deal was off and would not be offered twice.
So here he was, gainfully employed and more than generously compensated. Nice car, luxury apartment, expensive toys, lavish vacations when school wasn't in session. Other than having to work at all, he really couldn't complain.
The lunch bell rang and he glanced up at the clock. Halfway through the day. There were no meetings scheduled after school, but something might come up. If he ducked out in time, he wouldn't get stuck in anything. In the meantime, he thought he would wander across to the lounge and chew the fat with his colleagues. He smirked to himself. He harbored no illusions that he was in any way popular. Just like he did with the students, he liked to see them squirm.
…..
The last of his fourth period class had left the room. It was lunch time and they hadn't hesitated to exit quickly. This was the class of students who had not scored well on their placement exams and math was a struggle for them. Andakar could feel their frustration and their anxiety and their unwillingness, and it made him angry that they had gotten all the way to high school by just "getting by." It was clear that in their earlier exposure to math, there was too much emphasis on procedural accuracy and not enough on conceptual understanding. He told them that he would be available during lunch periods for help, but none of them had taken him up on the offer.
He turned to clean off the whiteboard in anticipation of his fifth period class. He then sat down to glance through that day's unit one more time. As he opened his book he reached into the lower right hand drawer of his desk and took out a white paper bag. When he and Mattas stopped at La Sorelle that morning, Lucy had presented him with a sandwich which she said was to congratulate him for having gotten through two days of teaching high school without running like his hair was on fire. He guessed that she had the ulterior motive of trying to get him to like her. He certainly didn't dislike her, and it was unfortunate if she thought he did, but there was only so much he could contend with at once.
"Okay, this has got to stop!"
Andakar looked up with a wary start. Maes Hughes leaned in through the doorway, an eyebrow lifted in mock sternness. "I believe in healthy workplace boundaries as much as the next guy," he went on. "But you have to establish some first, not exile yourself."
Andakar had observed that of all the other teachers he had met, Hughes was the most extroverted. His idea of a healthy boundary—or exile, for that matter—was probably not that of other people's. Andakar sat back in his seat, a little at a loss. Should he apologize? Make excuses? Lock his door?
Hughes waved for him to stand up. "Come on! We're going down to the teacher's lounge. No arguments."
Andakar looked down at the open geometry book, recalling the conversation he'd had with Mattas just that morning.
"I hope you're interacting with your co-workers."
"Of course I am."
Mattas cast him a sidelong look. "I mean other than just saying good morning and then hiding out in your room."
"I'm not hiding."
Mattas let out a long groan at that point.
Andakar closed the book and stood up. I'm not doing this for anyone but you, Brother. "I've been meaning to get down there," he lied.
"Well, here's your chance," Hughes replied cheerfully. "Now you won't have to make your grand entrance by yourself."
There was something in that, Andakar had to admit. Since there didn't seem to be any way of backing out now, he picked up the bag with his sandwich in it and followed Hughes out into the hallway. Students were still milling up and down, heading toward the stairs or gathering into groups. Two boys came barreling toward them.
"Whoa there!" Hughes called out. "Cool your jets, guys!"
The boys both grinned easily and slowed to a quick walk. "Sorry, Mr. Hughes!" one of them called back over his shoulder as they passed.
As they moved along the flow toward the stairs, Hughes raised his hand and called out. "Hey, Hey!"
Heymans Braeda, one of the Language Arts teachers, glanced at them with a smirk on his face at what was probably an old joke that he had resigned himself to. "Heading on down? I heard that Marian mixed up her killer spinach salad for the staff counter."
"Ooh, the one with the strawberries?"
Braeda nodded with a look of awe. "That's the one." He turned to Andakar with cordial interest. "How's it going? You settling in okay?"
"Well enough," Andakar replied.
"That good, huh?" Braeda nodded toward the stairs. "Heading down to the cafeteria? Or brown-bagging it? Or white bagging it, I guess." He took a second look at the parcel in Andakar's hand, which had the name of the coffee shop printed on it. "Oh, hey, La Sorrele! They make a mean sandwich over there! And I know my mean sandwiches."
The two men kept up an easy back-and-forth banter as they headed toward the stairs. Andakar followed them, silent for the most part, included into their conversation at least by proximity, but not excluded by limited acquaintance. They seemed to simply accept his presence as they would any of their other colleagues. It somewhat eased Andakar's urge to excuse himself and head back to his room. He had taken the plunge, unable to climb back up through thin air.
They crossed through the downstairs foyer and toward the teachers' lounge. This room had been used as an informal meeting place during the days before school started. It was furnished with a few couches, some tables and chairs, and a kitchen. A number of other teachers were already there, sitting around the tables or on the couches. Some were in the kitchen, reaching into the refrigerator or waiting for the microwave.
"Have a seat! Have a seat!" Hughes urged, steering Andakar toward one of the tables. There were four others sitting there who looked up and registered a little surprise at seeing him.
"Welcome!" Alex Armstrong, who taught Drama as well as Art, swept a hand to indicate the seat beside him. "Stand not upon the order of your sitting! Join us and be merry!"
Rebecca Catalina, who taught Physical Education, rolled her eyes, then smiled. "Nice to see you, Andakar." She pointed to a package of bottled water on the counter behind her. "Help yourself before you sit."
"Save me that seat there, Roy," Hughes said as he moved away from the table. "I'll be right back."
The teacher he addressed, Roy Mustang, looked up and gave a nod, then went back to his discussion with the man who sat next to him. Alonzo Garfiel taught Auto Shop and Metal Shop, both of which were in danger of being removed from the curriculum, from what Andakar had heard.
Mustang, who taught Chemistry and Physics, turned his attention back to Garfiel. "So what do you think?"
Garfiel tilted his head thoughtfully. "Well…I'd talk the price down. Sounds like it's a fuel pump problem, and you're looking at three hundred just for parts. Otherwise you're just paying a lot of money for someone else's headache."
"But it's a '98 GT!" Mustang insisted.
Garfiel let out a sigh that ended in a quiet chuckle. "Roy, Roy, Roy. A car is not an investment. Not even if it's your dream car."
Mustang spread his hands in a helpless gesture.
"We are such stuff as dreams are made on," Armstrong remarked sagely.
Garfiel waved a hand vaguely in the drama teacher's direction. "What he said. Okay. I'll see what I can do. I have a couple of favors I can reel in."
Mustang grinned. "Thanks, Gar."
"Don't mention it." Garfiel suddenly grabbed Mustang's wrist. "Tell me it's not red, please!"
"No, it's silver."
"Oh, thank goodness! Red is so obvious."
Andakar sat at the table and took his sandwich from its bag and unwrapped it. Garfiel leaned a little closer and inhaled appreciatively through his nose. "That," he said, "is the work of a genius. That must be one of Miss Lucy's specialties. I have so got to get back over there one of these days! Smoked turkey and Havarti with pesto. Am I right?"
Andakar picked up one of the cut halves. "I don't really know."
Garfiel's eyes widened. "You don't know?"
"She just gave it to me."
"Well, you lucky bastard." Garfiel clapped a hand over his mouth and glanced around quickly while the others laughed.
"Don't worry, Gar," Rebecca assured him. "King's not here and we won't tell."
Andakar bit into his sandwich. It seemed to be exactly what Garfiel guessed. It was also very good.
Hughes and Braeda returned with white foam trays piled with spinach salad. They joined the company at the table. "So where are Kain and Vato?" Hughes asked.
"They're in the computer lab, playing Twitch Plays Pokemon with some of the kids," Roy replied.
Rebecca shook her head. "Pokemon? Seriously? Am I the only adult in here? Roy and his Hot Wheels…"
"Oh!" Maes suddenly looked up from his salad. "I got Elicia this awesome little hot pink Corvette!" He held his thumb and forefinger a few inches apart. "Like this big! She makes little vroom noises and everything!"
The conversation bounced around easily in this manner for several minutes. It was a far cry from when Andakar would join the priests and the lay teachers during the midday break and discuss philosophy, theology, literature, history. Even so, he found himself beginning to relax just a little. He was not being scrutinized (not obviously, anyway) and no one was prying into his personal life. He was just being accepted as a part of this company of people.
When the door that connected to the foyer opened, the atmosphere of casual ease seemed to change. Assistant Principal Kimblee strode into the teachers' lounge carrying a ceramic coffee mug that had the words I AM smiling printed on it. There was a barely perceptible shift in the room, as though each scattered group closed ranks.
The others sitting around Andakar stiffened slightly and cast panicked glances at the remaining empty chair at the table. Kimblee pulled the chair out and sat down. "What say, troopers?" he greeted.
The others murmured their replies with a cordiality that was informal but not overly warm. If Kimblee noticed any of this, he gave no indication that he cared. Conversation lagged for a few moments as everyone concentrated on eating their lunch. Kimblee took a drink from his mug, eyeing the others over the edge of it. Andakar turned his attention back to his sandwich.
"That must have hurt like hell."
There were a few moments of silence, and Andakar looked up to find the assistant principal's eyes on him.
"Excuse me?"
"Your, um, injury." Kimblee prompted. "Painful."
Andakar hesitated, casting a quick glance at the others. They kept their expressions guarded but expectant. Expectant of what he wasn't sure.
"Yes, it was," he replied with enough terseness to discourage further inquiry. It didn't work.
Kimblee nodded. "I understand—" He sat forward a little. "Can I call you Andy?"
Never in his life had he ever been asked that. "I would rather you didn't."
"No problem." Kimblee replied easily. "I understand that you got caught in an explosion." He watched Andakar with a kind of fascination. "I remember reading about that a couple of years ago. Must've been a mess!"
The man's casual attitude struck Andakar as peculiar. He did not seem as interested in the event as he was in Andakar's reaction. He didn't know the man at all, really, and as his superior, he couldn't reply as he would have liked to. But perhaps that was the man's goal. But he was actually saved the effort.
"A mess?" Roy Mustang stopped short of giving Kimblee a hostile glare. "That's putting it mildly."
"Jean hates getting called out for explosions," Rebecca put in. She looked at Andakar, sympathy in her dark eyes. "My husband's an EMT," she explained. "There was a gas explosion down in the warehouse district a couple months ago." She shook her head. "Very nasty."
"But this one wasn't an accident," Kimblee went on, bringing the focus back to Andakar by pointing at him. "It was deliberate, isn't that right? It was set off by that IPA group." He picked up his mug and sat back in his chair with a disdainful look. "Bunch of religious crazies!"
This time Andakar bridled. "To dismiss them as crazy would be to absolve them from blame. They knew exactly what they were doing. And as much as they claimed to be defending our religion, their grievances were strictly political. If they had truly been moved by faith, they would never have done such a thing."
He was tempted to say more, but he caught himself. What he did say was more of an answer than Kimblee apparently expected, and the assistant principal considered him with a raised eyebrow. The entire lounge had gone quiet.
Kimblee quickly recovered and pressed on. "It was the Civic Center in—whatchacallit—Kanda, wasn't it? They'd just finished building it and blooey!" He shrugged. "What a waste."
"It was a tragedy," Maes countered with a solemn gravity as well as a little heat. "And it hit a lot closer to home than just Ishval. One of our own students lost her parents in that explosion."
Garfiel drew in a little gasp. "I know!" he said sadly. "Poor Winry!"
Andakar stiffened as the scene from the first day of school replayed unbidden through his mind. The quiet, profound sorrow that passed over that girl's face. He knew he would have no trouble remembering her name. Now it was seared into his memory. "Winry Rockbell?"
Garfiel nodded. "That's her!"
As the shock set in deeper, Andakar struggled to find his voice. "What…what were they doing in Ishval?"
"They were both doctors," Roy explained. "They had gone to Ishval to help open a clinic that was part of the Civic Center."
"I had Winry in my freshman class last semester," Heymans said thoughtfully. "She wrote an essay about her parents. I was bawling like a baby by the end."
Andakar could feel his hands start to shake and he set his sandwich down, having forgotten he was even holding it.
"Well, you must be thanking Ishvala big time for not getting any worse than that!" Kimblee said brightly, jerking his chin toward Andakar's face.
Andakar's head snapped up. He felt a rage that he hadn't felt in some time begin to burrow its way up through his chest. His mouth opened, dimly aware that he would regret what was going to come out of it.
"Your turn, Solf!"
With his mouth still open a little, he, along with the others, turned their heads toward the door that opened to the outside. Assistant Principal Armstrong had entered and was striding past their table. "Cafeteria duty," she announced.
"Is it that time already?"Kimblee twisted around to look at the clock. "So it is." He stood up and waved his hand with a smile. "Catch you later, folks!"
He sauntered toward the door and went outside. As soon as the door closed, the others stirred as though released a collective tension.
"Well, that was fun," Garfiel remarked drily, using his fingers to place invisible quotation marks.
Alex Armstrong rumbled darkly, "A villain with a smiling cheek, a goodly apple rotten at the heart."
Heymans nodded and gave a sly grin. "All that is within him does condemn itself for being there," he agreed.
Alex chuckled. "He has not so much brain as ear wax."
"He is not the flower of courtesy."
"He's a douche nozzle!" Rebecca hissed. She turned to Andakar with a concerned look. "Are you okay? You look a little shook up."
He was staring at the table top, only partly aware of the others' attempts at commiseration. He wrapped up the rest of his sandwich, unable to eat anymore with the tight knot in his stomach. "I'm fine," he said quietly. "I have to get ready for my next class. Excuse me."
He stood up and left the lounge, aware of how odd his behavior must seem. That awareness shrank in significance next to the idea that he couldn't push from his mind. Kimblee's questions and remarks were more annoying than anything else. What had shaken him was having a flesh-and-blood face put to the ghosts that haunted him.
