Disclaimer: Cut and paste denial of ownership and credit to Butch Hartman here.

Interlude

Mr. Lancer

"Go easy on that coffee, Ron. You never know how long it's been there."

Looking up from his mug, Mr. Lancer sighed. "Long enough to achieve a colloidal consistency, at the very least."

Cade shook his head, retrieving a bottle of cola from the lounge's refrigerator instead. "Do I even want to KNOW why you're drinking something that's in a transitory form?"

"I'm not drinking it, I'm staring at it moodily. I'm not suicidal yet."

"Ah." Slipping into the seat across the table, Cade studied the older man. "You know, Ron, I'm not just here for the students. If you want to talk, I'll listen, and I promise not to tell the principal you're not toeing the party line."

Lancer snorted. "It's that obvious?" he asked, using a tea spoon to poke the semi-solid in his mug. Then he sighed. "I just got back from a meeting with her and the school board, "strongly suggesting" I reconsider my decision to issue failing grades to several members of the football team."

"What class is this in, anyway? You're always in a different one every time I look."

"Yes, apparently the vice-principal position translates to 'short-notice substitute.' Who knew?" He shrugged. "It's the English class. I can overlook some of their substandard efforts, but when they don't even bother to turn the assignment in, I reach my limit. Oliver Twist, who in their right mind lets a bunch of freshmen get away with simply skipping a major term paper?"

"The school board, apparently, at least if said freshmen are the key to pumping money into school coffers," Cade replied, sipping his cola.

"Indeed. The bullying seems to have gone down somewhat-- I'm assuming you gave your little speech on legal definitions to a wide audience?"

A feral smile crossed the psychiatrist's face. "Managed to slip it into a few of my interviews, yeah. Guess somebody on the team's smart enough to realize that even their golden status won't keep the law off their backs if one of the 'losers' finally gets up the guts to press charges."

"Good. I'm rather sick of having to turn my back as certain troublemakers get off scot-free." The balding man added a bit of creamer to his coffee, which, Cade noted, did seem to move it closer to a liquid state.

"Must be tough. You can't nail the football team, because the board will have a fit. You can't let the other kids involved walk, because that sets a precedent."

"And as a result, most of the student body considers me a cross between Colonel Klink and Attilla the Hun, yes."

Cade raised an eyebrow. "Did you just actually make a cultural reference that DIDN'T involve literature? I'm impressed." Then he sobered.

"Ron, the students don't like or trust you because you're a teacher, pure and simple. No teenager trusts authority figures; they figure we have no idea what they're going through. And to some extent, they're right. We don't really remember what high school was like; nobody can remember that far back with perfect recall. That's probably the reason we're still sane."

"I'm pretty sure my job used to involve teaching, not politics."

"Ennnh, wrong answer, doc. EVERYTHING is politics. Politics is just the science of human interaction. And if you wanted to TEACH, you should have gotten a job with a college. American public schools are twelve years of glorified babysitting, with two years in there for cramming for the SAT's. School's just a place to keep the kids for six hours a day while their parents are at work."

Lancer snorted. "You're not cynical, are you?"

"No more than the students."

"It just... so many of them have POTENTIAL... and they waste it playing stupid games of popularity and one-upmanship, and heaven forbid any of them possibly try and EXCELL at anything..."

Another sip of cola. "Are you familiar with the bucket of crabs theory?"

The other man took a cautious sip of his coffee, winced, and continued to add creamer. "Of course. Crabs trying to get out of a bucket will pull down the crabs that get ahead in their efforts to get out. You think that applies here?"

"Tear down everybody else to make yourself feel good. The nail that sticks up gets hammered down. Yeah, sounds like a good metaphor for high school to me. No wonder most of the kids are just keeping their heads down and waiting for graduation."

"And don't forget pulling stupid stunts for absolutely no reason."

The psychiatrist shook his head. "Ron, everybody does things for a reason. Even if it's a dumb reason like 'I thought it would be funny' or 'I was trying to get that hot babe's attention.' ...Actually, between hormones and alcohol, you can probably explain ninety percent of the stupidity performed by the human race."

Lancer sighed, standing up. "Well... thanks. I've got a few more papers to go grade, and then I'm off to get a few grinning idiots kicked off the football team." Crossing to the sink, he poured the muddy, still mostly-gelatinous contents of his coffee mug down the drain.

"Dash Baxter?" Cade asked casually.

"Actually, Mr. Baxter is not one of them. His grades are usually passing, though unremarkably so. And he seems to view Mr. Fenton's recent A as a challenge of some sort... I've actually been getting some half-decent work out of the two of them. It will be interesting to see if that will continue." With a smirk, Lancer set his empty mug on the drain board and headed out the door.