Disclaimer: I still don't own Charmed.

A/n: Thanks for all of the lovely reviews so far! Chris' chapter got a little away from me, so it's slightly longer than a drabble. Still, I hope you all enjoy this.

-Katie

Tales of December

a story by Ryeloza

Chris: December 2, 2021

Miss Charles was standing on a chair in her high heels, attempting to place the clock back on the wall—this marked the fifth time it had fallen this semester—when Chris walked into her room after school. Slightly impatient, Chris shifted his backpack from one shoulder to the other and said, "Miss Charles?"

Precariously, his English teacher turned to face him. "Oh, Chris! I'll just be a minute. Sometimes I think this clock is more trouble than it's worth."

With the clock in disrepair, Chris glanced at his watch. He'd promised Mel and Nora that he wouldn't be more than ten minutes, but that this rate he'd be lucky if she let him go in fifteen. "I'll get the clock," he offered, hoping to speed things along.

"Just a sec—there! Got it!" Miss Charles hopped from the chair, clearly proud of her achievement, and clapped her hands together. "Now, Chris, I wanted to talk to you about the creative writing assignment we did."

Chris suppressed a groan. Every year he'd been in high school there had been a least one supposedly creative writing assignment. He'd had the same teacher his first two years of high school; Mrs. Jacobs had hated every creative piece he wrote. He'd hoped—in vain he realized now—that his junior year would be different, but apparently Miss Charles had the same mindset as her predecessor.

"What about it?" Surely his voice didn't come across as sullen as he thought?

Miss Charles shot him an appraising look as she crossed the room to her desk to dig through a large pile of papers. "I don't know if you heard about it before…" She pushed her bangs from her eyes. "Who were your other English teachers?"

"Mrs. Jacobs. Twice."

"Oh. Well then. Did she ever mention the California State Scholastic Art and Writing Competition?"

Chris raised an eyebrow, the only outward sign he would give of peaked interest. "No."

With a flourish, Miss Charles whipped out a pamphlet and handed it to Chris. "It's a state-wide competition, obviously. They take all sorts of writing entries selecting three winners and twenty honorable mentions in essay, poetry, original nonfiction and original fiction. There's a monetary award for the winners as well as publication in their literary magazine. I know the deadline is soon—"

"January first."

"—but you have a real talent, Chris. I mean, your essays have been top notch, but I had no idea you could write fiction so well. I really think that if you could get something together, or even polish up the story you did for my class, that you'd have a real shot at this."

Chris' eyes traveled from the slightly wrinkled pamphlet to his teacher; his bewilderment was overwhelming. "You liked Appendages then?"

"I loved it, Chris. It could use some fine tuning, like I said, but you really did very well. Please tell me that you'll consider."

Startled, Chris nodded slowly. "Sure," he said.

"Fantastic! I wasn't going to give the papers back to anyone until I had all four classes graded, but I'll make an exception for you." Rummaging around again, Miss Charles pulled out a stack of papers so high Chris couldn't help but wonder how she didn't lose her mind grading each one. After a minute or so of rifling, she held Chris' out to him. "Just don't tell the other students I gave yours back early, okay?"

"Sure," said Chris. He shook his head slightly. "Is there anything else, Miss Charles. I should really get going. I have to drive my sister and my cousin home."

"No, that's all. But I'd love to read whatever you submit. If you'd let me."

"Sure," Chris said again. He felt stuck on a loop and Miss Charles seemed to realize it as she dismissed him with a small smile. Out in the hall, Chris leaned against the wall for a moment, attempting to regain his bearings. All he'd ever seriously wanted to do was write and to finally hear some validation was overwhelming. Here in his hands, finally, was some sort of proof that maybe someone did like what he wrote. Still, for now this would stay between him and Miss Charles. No one else, ever, needed to know if this didn't pan out. Slowly, he stuffed his A paper and the pamphlet into his backpack and started down the hallway.