The Practicum

Rating: M. Because why else do we do this?

Summary: "He's talking about lady parts, and I'm mildly ashamed that my own thoughts are having a hard time adhering to the strictly biological functions of the aforementioned parts."

Acknowledgement: HollettLA leaves me margin notes like, "Penis gets the same treatment." And she's totally talking about punctuation. Is there anything about that that isn't awesome?

Chapter Two

"That is still one of my favorites," Angela sighs as we step into the crisp March night, the exposed bulbs outside the small theater casting the sidewalk in a warm yellow glow.

"Way better than the remake," I agree, hugging my lightweight jacket around my shoulders and wishing I'd opted for my wool coat instead. Sometimes I let my optimism for spring's arrival cloud my good sense. "Something about the serendipity of it all gets lost in the transition to e-mail."

"Agreed. Although I do enjoy Tom Hanks."

"Can't argue with that. He's probably the closest thing there is to a modern-day Jimmy Stewart."

Angela gives this declaration the serious consideration it deserves before nodding slowly. "I think you might be on to something there."

As is tradition, we make our way to the small café a few doors down from the theater and attempt to shake off the chill of the damp evening as we shuffle up to the counter. Shortly after we have ordered our drinks, we are once again wandering the sidewalk, clutching our paper coffee cups for warmth as we make our way to Angela's car.

"Jasper asked if we could move margaritas back to eight o'clock next week; he has a date," she says, taking a small sip of her latte and licking the foam off her upper lip.

I blow on my tea through the small hole in the plastic lid. "I thought he was swearing off dating for a while."

"I thought so too, but apparently his mother insisted on setting him up with some guy from her law firm."

"I also thought he was swearing off lawyers."

Angela shrugs as she digs her keys out of her oversized patchwork purse. "Hasn't Jasper sworn off everything at one point or another? I think the only time he stuck to his guns was when he swore off women." She hits the keyless entry and we open the car doors, sliding into the seats.

I laugh, placing my tea in the cupholder as I reach for my seat belt. "True story. But you know, maybe he's on to something. If neither of us finds a man in the next decade, we might be made for each other."

She echoes my laugh as her own belt clicks. "Sweet talker. Though I can't say I've ever seen you look at me with quite the same concentration you were giving Edward Cullen through your classroom window."

I roll my eyes as I retrieve my drink and settle into my seat for the drive back to Forks. "He's good looking. Sue me."

"Seriously, Bella. You're going to be getting to know him, right? There isn't exactly a plethora of single, attractive men of desirable dating age in Forks, so what's the harm in seeing if there's something there?"

"You mean besides the fact that it would be eighteen different kinds of awkward if it didn't work out and we still had to work together?"

Angela rolls her eyes as she reverses out of the parking spot. "Please. How much time do you spend in the same wing of the building? I'm pretty sure the gym is about as far as you can get from your classroom."

She has a point, though I opt not to admit it. "I'm about to spend four weeks working with him," I argue halfheartedly, and she shrugs as we pull out of the lot and into the flow of traffic.

"Suit yourself," she says, and the topic of Edward Cullen is blessedly absent from our conversation – if not from my mind – for the remainder of the drive.

As if to prove Angela's point, I don't see Edward at all on Wednesday, and the ever-present rain means soccer practice is moved indoors, so I don't even get to enjoy my daily ogling from the safety of my empty classroom. That evening, after a quick swing by my house to change out of my teacher-clothes, I'm shuffling through my father's front door rather inelegantly; his lock sticks, and the bag of groceries is more cumbersome than it is heavy.

"Hey, Bells," Charlie greets from his recliner, lurching in an awkward attempt to rise and help me.

"Stay put, Dad. I got it." Finally inside, I kick the door closed and drop a kiss on the top of his head as I pass on my way to the kitchen. "I brought stuff for breaded chicken," I toss over my shoulder, and he rumbles his approval as he heaves forward, completely disregarding my command to stay where he is.

A few moments later, he appears in the doorway of the kitchen, pausing momentarily before lowering himself gently into one of the chairs at the table. While his movements aren't completely fluid, the casual observer would probably never guess that this side of five years ago he could barely walk. "How was school today?"

I grin at the carrots I've just started peeling; the way he always says "school" instead of "work" makes me feel like a kid again, and the sentiment is unexpectedly comforting. "It was good," I reply, pulling another carrot from the bag and skinning it over the sink. "The usual. Although I met the new phys ed teacher the other day."

Charlie grunts. "Hear he's got a good soccer team this year," he says. Forks is a bit of an anomaly for an American high school; too small to have a football team, soccer and basketball are the dominant sports about which the local yokels chat over the Forks Diner counter. And, as indicated by Edward's grievance about the poor form of the students' layups, soccer is the one at which the mighty Spartans excel. Sometimes.

"I've heard that too," I reply, slicing the peeled vegetables before dumping them into a saucepan.

"First game's this week, isn't it?"

I frown as I set the vegetables on a burner and wipe my hands on a dishtowel. "I'm actually not sure. Probably soon, though."

"Have to check 'em out," he mumbles somewhat absently, squirming slightly in his chair.

"You okay?" I ask, purposely casual.

He nods. "Yeah. Little sore today."

"Need some meds?"

"Nope. Just need to stand." Five years ago, during a routine traffic stop, Charlie was standing by the driver's side window of the car he'd just pulled over when a drunk driver swiped him and shattered his pelvis in addition to breaking both his legs and fracturing a few of his ribs and vertebrae. It was a long road, but his recovery amazed even his doctors; I attribute it to his stubbornness, which is infinite. Still, there are days when he feels the ache. "You look at that website I e-mailed you?"

I roll my eyes as I lay out the chicken cutlets on the cutting board before me. "Yeah, Dad. Thanks." Some days I curse the day I introduced Charlie to the Internet; similarly, I sometimes regret giving him my e-mail address.

"It's worth checking out, Bells. Looks like a good program."

"It's a great program, but it's not for me."

"How come?" Like I said: infinite stubbornness. This is a discussion we've had a thousand times, always with the same result.

"I'm not going back to school, Dad."

"But you could."

"I could. But I'm not."

"I don't need looking after, Bella."

"That's not why." I press one cutlet after another into the breadcrumbs I've poured into a bowl. "I like my job."

"You wanted to be a college professor."

This is true, so I nod. "I did. But things change. I like teaching high school. I'm happy."

With my job, I add silently, and as if he's heard the thought, Charlie huffs from behind me. I know where this is coming from, which is a key reason it doesn't irritate me like it otherwise might. When Charlie got hurt two months after I finished my undergraduate degree, I put off going to graduate school to come home and help him. The guilt at feeling like he derailed my life plan is something he can't seem to shake, and my guilt over his guilt isn't much easier to swallow. Despite my reassurances, he's convinced that I've given up my life dream for him, and it probably doesn't help that as a teenager I despised high school and couldn't wait to get out. That I enjoy teaching it was a surprise to me as much as anyone; the only downside to my job is that it happens to be in Forks, and the social life for a twenty-something in such a small town is limited, to put it mildly.

I line up the cutlets on a baking sheet I've lined with foil and rinse my hands, crossing the kitchen to mock-punch his shoulder. "Lighten up, pops. I'm going to start thinking you're trying to get rid of me, and my cooking's not that bad."

His moustache twitches. "Except when you make that god-awful hippie food," he replies, and I roll my eyes.

"Health food, Dad. It's healthy. You can't live on red meat, you know."

He mimics my eye-roll, and the subject of my career is blessedly dropped.

It isn't until I'm sitting in the overstuffed armchair of my living room later that night that I recall his words, both spoken and unspoken. I wish I could convince Charlie that I enjoy teaching, but I can't say his skepticism is entirely unfounded. As a teenager I made no secret of how deeply I loathed high school in general and Forks in particular. I didn't fit in with my peers, who spent most of their time looking for bad decisions to make, and instead I opted to spend most of my free time with my nose buried in books. When I finally left the perpetual rain of Forks behind and enrolled at Berkeley, a major in English literature was all but a foregone conclusion. It was truly serendipitous that four years later, Charlie's accident happened on the heels of the retirement of one of Forks High School's longtime English teachers, and while I'm the first to admit that I accepted the position begrudgingly, the immediacy with which I took to teaching high school English was a revelation. It has since amazed me how different a place can look from the other side of the fence, and while I would never admit it to anyone else, I sometimes watch the students at Forks and wish with at least half of my heart that I'd spent more of my teenage years actually being a teenager.

I am pulled from my reverie by the shrill and somewhat unfamiliar sound of my landline ringing and I glance at the clock: 9:20. If it's a telemarketer at this hour, I'm going to flip my shit.

"Hello?" I inject as much irritation into my voice as I can muster.

"Um, hello? Is this Bella?" The voice is hesitant, and I feel slightly pleased that my tone was appropriately translated until it registers that the caller asked for me by name – and my nickname at that. Telemarketers who do ask for me by name tend to ask for Isabella.

"Yes?"

"Bella, it's Edward Cullen. I'm…I'm sorry to call so late; I'm only just now realizing the time."

"Oh, it's fine. Sorry. I thought you were a telemarketer."

"Oh." He pauses, and I wait for him to speak again. "Right. Sorry. Um, well, I was just calling because I was looking over the lesson plans again and I realized that the diagrams that we're supposed to use are actually on transparencies and I was wondering where I'm supposed to get an overhead projector. I haven't used one in any of the health classes yet, and I know there isn't one in the room."

"I can bring the one from my room," I offer, even as I come to the realization that I'm going to have to transport it to the first floor. "I don't use it much anyway, so we can just leave it in the room until the end of the unit."

"Oh. Okay, that would be great. Thank you."

"No problem." He's quiet, and I wonder idly how someone so pretty can be so unfailingly awkward. A part of my brain suggests that perhaps it's the whole Sex Ed thing, but something tells me it's just Edward. I hear him clear his throat.

"Okay, great. Sorry again to bother you so late."

I tell him again not to worry about it, and as we disconnect, I wonder if he'd loosen up with a couple of margaritas in his system.

The next morning as I stand before my open closet wrapped in a towel, my damp hair sticking to my neck, I sigh. I can't deny that I'm tempted to wear something attractive, given that I'll be spending an hour of the day with Edward, but the last time I wore a shirt that wasn't a turtleneck or a bulky sweater for this particular part of the curriculum, I had more pubescent boys trying to look down my top than I do on an average day. After another beat of debate, I spot a black turtleneck on the shelf at the top of the closet that I can pair with my gray pencil skirt. Full coverage, and yet ever so slightly form-fitting. Perfect. A blow-dry and a mug of coffee later, I am out the door, pleased that there's no misting rain to negate the work of my hairdryer.

The Washington State high school physical education and health curriculum is laid out in such a way that students have two days of health for every three days of physical education; in the case of the high schoolers, they have PE Monday through Wednesday and health class Thursday and Friday. Which is all by way of saying that Thursday morning is the first time I see Edward Cullen not wearing athletic apparel. Dark slacks sit low on his narrow waist and the sleeves of his crisp blue oxford shirt are rolled up to just beneath his elbows. I wasn't expecting to see him until second period, and certainly not in my own classroom, so when he appears at the threshold of my room, I'm caught off-guard.

"Hey," he says, his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

"Wow, you look nice," I say and immediately curse my incredible lack of tact.

Edward glances down at himself, and I can see that the tips of his ears are pink. God, these kids are going to eat him alive. "Uh, thanks. Yeah, I can't really get away with track pants on days when I'm not hurling dodge balls at teenagers."

A relieved laugh escapes my lips. "Right. I'm jealous; there are days I'd give anything to come to work in yoga pants. Let alone hurl projectiles at my students."

His eyes travel up and down my form, and his lips twist. "Well, you look nice as well, but that's nothing new; you always look nice." I feel my eyebrows jump and he looks away, scratching his chin. "I, um, realized this morning that your classroom was on the second floor." Off my frown, he gestures toward the back corner of my room, where the overhead projector sits with its power cord looped over the arm. "I didn't think about that last night when you offered your projector. I thought you might need a hand getting it downstairs."

"Oh! Yes. Thanks, that'd be great." Edward winds his way between the desks and toward the projector, which he drags away from the wall and pushes back toward the door. "The service elevator is at the other end of this hallway," I say, and he nods.

"Lead the way."

I'm mildly disappointed to be walking in front of him, bent as he is over the cart that holds the projector; between his posture and the fit of his slacks, walking behind him would probably have been the highlight of my week. I force the thoughts away as I nod and smile and return the greetings of the students who have begun to loiter in the hallways, leaning against lockers and walls. I spot Jasper walking toward us, his curly hair damp and his trademark tweed jacket with elbow patches unbuttoned. Despite endless ribbing about his buying in to the math nerd stereotype, Jasper refuses to part with that coat. It isn't until he gets closer that I see one of my students, Alice Brandon, bouncing along beside him, chattering nonstop and gesturing animatedly with her hands. I stifle a smirk and Jasper spies me through the crowd; at my look, he rolls his eyes. Alice has a crush of epic proportions on Jasper and has made no secret of it, seeking him out for tutoring despite the fact that she's a straight-A student in every subject including math.

"Mr. Whitlock," I greet him as we pass, and he nods.

"Ms. Swan."

"Oh, hi, Ms. Swan!" Alice beams up at me. "We're starting A Farewell to Arms today, right?"

"We sure are," I confirm, nodding, and she returns her focus to Jasper.

"I just love Hemingway. So romantic."

"Actually, Hemingway was an alcoholic, misogynistic cynic, and A Farewell to Arms was a direct contradiction to people's tendency to romanticize the war," comes a voice from behind me, and I don't miss Jasper's eyebrows climbing as I spin to stare at Edward. He meets my eyes and shrugs. "What? It's true."

I know it's true, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm slightly stunned.

"Jeez, Mr. Cullen, way to be a buzzkill," Alice huffs. Before she can refocus on Jasper, Rosalie Hale appears beside her and loops her arm through Alice's.

"Come on, Alice. I need your notes from chem. Hello, teacher-types." She offers the three of us a half-wave before dragging Alice up the hallway in the opposite direction.

"Bye, Mr. Whitlock!" Alice half-yells over the escalating hum of the students, and Jasper sighs.

"She's relentless," I say, grinning; Alice's single-minded focus on Jasper is a source of endless amusement for me, as well as for Angela and Jessica.

"You're telling me," he mutters, nodding to Edward in a man-greeting that is apparently typical of gay and straight men alike. "Morning."

"Morning," Edward replies, and I glance between them before nodding my head toward the end of the hall.

"We're just taking the projector down to the health room," I tell him for absolutely no reason other than I have the compunction to fill awkward silences with inane chatter. I wonder idly if there's a support group for that.

"Okay," Jasper says. "Have fun with that." He nods again as he resumes his walk up the hallway, and I once again lead Edward and the projector cart through the crowd. When we reach the service elevator, I punch the button and Edward straightens, arching his back. I try not to notice the way his dress shirt pulls against his broad shoulders; I fail spectacularly.

"Math, right?" he says.

"What?"

"Jasper. Math teacher, right?"

"Oh. Right. Sorry, I should have introduced you."

"No, no, we met at the luncheon. I just met a lot of people in one day; I've been trying to get everyone straight."

"Right. Well, yeah, Jasper teaches math."

He nods and the elevator dings; I attempt to help him navigate the cart into the small car, but he shakes his head. "Look out, I don't want to jam your fingers." I step back and hold the doors open as he wrestles it inside and straightens, nodding. "Thanks. I'll, uh, see you second period."

"Okay," I say, nodding as the doors slide closed.

"All right, everybody, settle down and find a seat, please." Edward dumps a small stack of books atop the wooden desk at the front of the room and tugs absently at his earlobe as he glances around at the group of teenagers settling into their desks. Show no fear, I will him silently, and as if he's heard my silent support, his eyes lift to mine. I give him an encouraging nod.

"Yo, Coach, can we use Playboy instead of those lame-ass diagrams? I think you'll agree it's much more accurate." Mike's voice is followed by the expected wave of whispers and hushed laughs, and a pleased smile twists his lips as the rest of the class watches Edward for a reaction. He doesn't disappoint.

"Congratulations, Newton, you just scored yourself a timed mile before practice today," Edward says without looking up, sliding the top book off the stack and retrieving a manila folder from beneath it. He glances at me, eyebrow cocked, and I hide a smile; if he were a betting man, Edward would have just come into some money. I hear Mike groan and a few of his classmates snicker. "Okay everyone, I trust the rest of you can handle this like adults. Those of you who can't, we'll find something fun for you to do."

As he directs the students to retrieve their textbooks and turn to the appropriate page, I settle into the seat beside the desk, the teacher's text open on my lap. I watch Edward's fingers slide a transparency from the folder and onto the top of the projector before flipping the switch; immediately, a diagram of the female reproductive system is cast on the screen at the front of the room.

"You all lived here once upon a time," Edward says immediately, and any murmurs and hushed whispers are halted as the class stares at him. I'm fairly certain my own expression mirrors theirs; that definitely wasn't in the lesson plan. He looks around at the sea of faces and nods once. "Biology. That's what we're talking about today, so let's leave all of the other stuff at the door, okay? We'll get to it soon enough." He looks over his shoulder at the screen. "The female reproductive system." From there he launches into identifying the various parts, and as I watch him, I'm gob-smacked. Gone is the blushing, awkward, slightly unsure rookie teacher I spoke to in his office at the start of the week. This version of Edward is confident, no-nonsense, and professional. And, I'm not ashamed to admit – at least to myself – insanely attractive. He's also talking about lady parts, and I'm mildly ashamed that my own thoughts are having a hard time adhering to the strictly biological functions of the aforementioned parts. The girls in the class squirm slightly when he starts detailing the biological process of menstruation and cycles, and I remember how intensely private I felt about all of that stuff when I was their age. A quick glance around shows that the boys don't feel much more at-ease; in fact, Edward seems to be more relaxed than anyone in the room, myself included.

"The male reproductive system," he says smoothly, replacing one transparency with another, and I don't miss the warning glance he tosses in Mike Newton's general direction. His body is angled slightly toward me as he ticks off the labeled parts of the illustration; the word "penis" falls effortlessly from his lips, and before I can catch myself, I find my eyes darting from his face to the front of his dark slacks. My face burns as I look hurriedly away, glancing down at the book in my lap as I will my cheeks to cool. All that time I spent worrying about Edward's visible discomfort, and I'm blushing like a schoolgirl. When I am composed enough to look back up, he is sliding the sheet from the projector, but he's looking at me oddly; I offer him an encouraging smile and his lips twitch as he moves on to detailing the production of sperm and semen. Amazingly, the students handle the subject matter like adults, and before I know it, the hour is up. I realize as textbooks and notebooks are closed and the bell rings that I haven't said a word during the entire class. Once all of the students have filed out of the room, I stand, closing the teacher's book and placing it beside his pile of things on the desk.

"Edward, that went really, really well. Seriously. Coach Clapp was teaching this lesson for decades, and in all the times I sat in, I never saw him have complete control over the class like that."

"Thanks," he says, sliding his pen behind his ear. "Your advice about the coach-talk actually helped."

"I'm glad," I say, even though I doubt my pointers had anything to do with it. "Though he was a coach as well, and he still couldn't nail the menstruation stuff like you just did."

Aaaaand he's blushing again. What the hell?

"Tomorrow, then?" he says, shuffling his feet and tucking his stack of books under his arm.

I nod. "Tomorrow."

That afternoon, I don't even pretend not to be looking out my window, and I can't fight the smile that comes as I watch Mike Newton running his timed mile.

A/N: Thanks for reading, and thanks for the lovely reviews for Chapter 1. Please know that I cherish every word of your feedback. xo Coming up in Chapter 3: a little insight into the mystery that is this adorkably awkward Edward.

I was sort of stunned yet pleasantly surprised by the number of people who know the "Reproduction" song from Grease 2. The song is every bit as awesomely horrific as the movie itself; if you YouTube it…well, be prepared.