The Gap

spockjasperlokizukowriting

Four- Hurry Home

It didn't take long to figure out why on earth Finley had called Mrs. Spencer an old hag. The sour, cold, middle-aged woman wore a permanent scowl on her face while she butchered our math and assigned assignment after assignment, her ungodly scrawl littering the board against the stark, bare classroom.

She was a spindly old thing, with veined legs and hands, a ruffled, unflattering skirt, blouse, and half-moon glasses. Her hair was pulled into a painfully tight bun, a dirty brown run through with gray while she hobbled around, slapping our desks with a ruler whenever someone bothered to talk while we craned over the pop quiz. The material wasn't hard, but it irritated her whenever we solved something without a struggle.

"You ungrateful, ungodly children!" she snapped as we cowered at our desks, the poor students clearly shaken to have survived through her for so long. She fumed as she shouted, "I've spent my life developing this curriculum and you will show some respect!"

I didn't receive any special treatment for being the new girl, the only reason for her lack of resolve to was of the hard look I wore as I concentrated on my calculations, remembering all that I could about the circles she handed us. The impression that I had unwittingly given off while struggling with the math had given her a figurative pat on the back, and I loathed every moment of the class. Grinning and bearing it, the class seemed to take the longest out of the entire lot I had experienced so far, and I longed to be back in Mr. Clark's class, learning about Physics, something that was probably more useful than Trig.

I snuck a brief peak at my schedule, remembering that I had English next, and that my duties as a Trig student would soon end. I didn't really favor English as a class, but at this point, I was in the state that anything was better than being a prisoner of Mrs. Spencer's. I would take crashing into the black-haired boy a million times over if it meant that I could get out of the hell-hole early. I thought of the black-haired boy during the middle of a problem and blushed, remembering how he had just watched me, silent as he held my scarf in both hands, on his knees as I tore off running. I sketched out his expression briefly on a sheet of paper, hiding it quickly as Mrs. Spencer bumbled next to me, her stone gray eyes burning as she watched me scratch away at the problem.

My ears felt hot and I let out a sigh of relief when she teetered over to the next group of students, our desks cluttered into small circles. The teen sitting next to me gave a You-got-lucky expression as I finished the edge of the black-haired boy's face, feeling red as I shoved the paper in my binder and got up to turn in the quiz.

The time dragged, but eventually, after what felt like years, the bell rung like the siren it was akin to, and we all got up in unison, vacating the cage-like classroom and tearing after our next class. I kept pace as I looked down at my schedule, routing myself down to the English hallway. Students continued to giggle and socialize, but I kept to my purpose, leading myself with the directions Sif had neatly printed on the paper.

It wasn't far, much closer than I had expected, and after rounding a short corner I arrived at a painted, pink doorway with books, flowers, and suns splattered on the wooden surface, the title ENGLISH inscribed in cursive along the window. A few students were bobbling around the classroom, but no teacher was present. Darcy sat in in the first row of slate tables, formatted similar to that of Mr. Clark's classroom, buried in one of the Twilight books.

I smirked and rolled my eyes, but was grateful to at least know someone, looking about the room. Like the door, it was pink and painted, with a lip of yellow edging around just below the roof in a golden ribbon, lines of bookshelves pressed against the wall with a locked cabinet at the far end of the room. It was clear of dust though it resembled a library, and the teacher's desk sat in the corner, away from the whiteboard, sunlight streaming through the open-curtained windows.

Darcy looked up, saw me, and gave a smug look. "Well, looks like I can't shake you, so I guess I have no choice but to say hi," she lilted.

I grinned back. "Hi."

"You say goodbye, and I say hello!" sung a large, husky voice from behind me. I started and whirled to see a medium height man bounce inside. He was young, though probably not as young as Mr. Clark, with sable stubble running along his shaped jawline and a mess of black curls bouncing atop his head. He wore a light purple tee-shirt and cargo pants, complete with the look of black, high-top converse and a thread-bare, leather bracelet clasped around his left wrist. Toting a couple of papers, he immediately skidded to a stop, his eyes glinting as he strode up to my side.

"Well hello there," he greeted, a British accent thick in his calm voice. "You're certainly an unfamiliar face. What might you be called?"

But before I could speak, he immediately interjected, "Oh, that's right, you're Isla! How silly of me, I had forgotten for a moment that we were expecting a new student!" He abruptly stuck out his hand, the largest of grins on his face as he introduced himself. "I'm Mr. Blake, and I'll be your English teacher for the year! Quite literally, hence the accent." He laughed.

Mr. Clark, Mr. Blake: these male teachers were a fan of first names for surnames. I smiled and shook his hand, hugging my schedule to my chest as he gripped my hand strongly. "Nice to meet you."

He laughed and released his grasp on me, placing the files on his desk before he got out another, one with my name labeled on top. He trotted up and handed it to me. "We were given a fair warning of your arrival, so I've already printed up the necessary things for you," he explained. "We're just in the middle of reading Cymbeline by William Shakespeare, so nothing so drastic to catch up on. Usually students provide their own copy of the book, but that's unnecessary for you at the moment. You can simply borrow mine until you secure your own version."

I smiled, flattered as I drew the file in and added it to my schedule. "I...wow, thank you. That's one of the nicer things a teacher has done for me all day," I thanked.

Mr. Blake shrugged it off. "Learning is fun, and I try to make it so," he confessed. "We do all kinds of smaller projects during the times, and I try to give my students as much freedom with their creations as possible. Once every two weeks, the students come up with some kind of art piece, whether it be a story, a poem, a painting, a model- you name it- and they present it to the class. The only rule is that it has to do with something happening to them in the current moment. When we get closer to Christmas, for the final, I'll have you make something about the event that changed you somehow as a person during the semester."

I grinned. "Sounds like fun," I encouraged, automatically figuring ideas in my head for what I could do for the projects.

He rocked on the balls of his feet and smiled, gesturing with his hand to follow him. "I've already planned where you are to sit, and I've taken the liberty of claiming the vacated the spot next to one of my better students for your own. This lad is a fine young man who'll be sure to fill you in as we go along and keep you welcome. Excellent writer, he is, and smart, too. If you ever feel lost, just feel free to ask him questions during class or stop him in the hallway. He doesn't exactly know you're coming, but I expect he'll be cordial nonetheless." He winked at me from over his shoulder.

Mr. Blake stopped at one of the blackened tables closest to the outside wall, directly next to the window with an expansive, glorious view of the neighborhood, placing both hands on the table and leaning forwards. "This it to be your spot," he explained, grinning as he got up and added, "Enjoy your first English class, Miss Isla."

"Thank you," I responded, putting down my schedule and folder on the table and letting my backpack slide to my feet, setting myself down on the stool used for a chair, entangling my feet comfortably in the metal framework as Mr. Blake talked with the students coming in.

Darcy sat with a friend of hers, chattering away eagerly, while some people nodded and smiled at me, probably already briefed to make me feel normal in the new environment. I recognized some of the faces from my bus and earlier classes, but still was lacking when it came to names. Amidst the small hellos, Mr. Blake began to write down the agenda on the board, scribbling down to get out our version of Cymbeline while he fetched me his personal copy.

I flipped through the pages of the worn, well-loved book, being gentle with the spine as I read some of his personal annotations, all the little clues to understanding the older English. It was interesting to read into his own thoughts in interpreting the play, and I was immersed so as to not pay attention particularly to my surroundings, engulfed in the reading. The play's own plot wasn't hard to grasp- an old King named Cymbeline had a daughter, Imogen, who was in line for the throne due to the absence of her older brothers. She was expected to marry well, but had ended up falling for Posthumus, a young but poor man. It was full of tests and trials for the young couple's love, innocence and jealousy changing the tides of the play, but it the end it all came to a happy resolution as the lost brothers were found and Imogen was freed to marry whomever she wished.

"Ahh, you're here!" I heard Mr. Blake enthusiastically greet above the voices of the other students. "Just in time! I was becoming worried. Here, you have a new neighbor today!"

I looked up to see Mr. Blake walking towards me, a wide grin on his face as a tall, resolute figure trailed distantly behind him. Mr. Blake stood aside to allow me a full view of who I was to sit next to in English class, my heart picking up speed and racing in my chest, my face feeling redder than red, the heat expanding down to my throat, the embarrassment filling my now hollow chest, the blood rushing to my head.

The black-haired boy, the boy from the bus- the one from Photography, the one I had run over just several hours earlier. He looked impassive as he leveled my gaze, pursing his lips in thought as he raised an eyebrow at the bubbling Mr. Blake, his hands in his pocket, the satchel swung elegantly across his chest. "Here you go, Isla! Your partner for the rest of the semester!"

I felt my heart plummet to the floor. The rest of the semester?

The black-haired boy looked away and to the English teacher, avoiding my gaze, his lips tight and jaw clenched as Mr. Blake laughed. "Isn't he gorgeous? Well, you two introduce yourself and get to know each other!" He winked and then scampered past the black-haired boy, skipping to his place up front and clapped his hands together, calling for his 'bright, young learners' to take their seats and get out their copies of Cymbeline like the board had ordered.

The black-haired boy remained stiff and he stood, slowly walking around me and rigidly placing himself on the stool. I looked away, hiding my blush, begging for there to be an exit to this, but I found none. The black-haired boy shifted uneasily, taking out his expensive, well taken care of version of the play and set it before him, his hands no-longer gloved, his scarf and trench coat shed to reveal his blue button down and a simpler, gray jacket. His hair was still pushed backwards, his glowing green eyes intent as he stared in a straight, fixed line to Mr. Blake. I let myself ease into a brief comfort zone, knowing that he had no intention of talking to me, staying as quiet and reserved as normal. The boy would've appeared emotionless if weren't for the hand he let cover his mouth as he leaned forward on his elbows, stuck close to the desk.

I edged my own seat as far away from him as possible, letting my overgrown bangs hang forward and hide my pink cheeks, sitting back as Mr. Blake started to speak.

"So, my bright, young learners, how was everyone's weekend?"

The grin in his voice was contagious and I giggled, distracted from the black-haired boy momentarily as the class chorused, "Good."

"Any hilarious stories anyone is willing to share?" he asked, spreading his hands wide and expectantly, tilting back in relief as he charismatically teased several people into raising their hands. He laughed and called on a girl in the far corner of the room. "Yes, Mandy, do tell!"

Mandy laughed and rubbed her hands together. "I went sledding with my two-year-old brother for the first time down our hill. I taught him how to face-plant."

"You're two-year-old brother?" he asked, mouth agape. "I'm sure I can call Child Protective services on that."

Mandy continued to laugh, the class snickering. "Nah, he thought it was fun! That isn't so bad, is it?"

"A face-planting two-year-old, how unique," he giggled, calling on another boy. "Yes, Zach the Man, what did you do?"

Zach flipped his hair to the side and grinned mischievously. "My mom made me cook dinner on Saturday, and let's just say that I found out the hard way not to add sugar to pasta and then eat it."

The class burst into laughter, myself joining in on the cheer, when I glanced over at the black-haired boy to find him impassive as ever, not smiling, not laughing, not partaking in the fun. His eyes were narrowed as he leaned back and stared at the desk-space before him, lost in his own little world, quiet and thoughtful. My own smile fell and I gulped, facing forward once more.

"So, a face-planting two-year-old and sugar pasta! How wonderful. I need a third story: anybody have a third story?" The hands shot up, flapping and waving at him while he deliberated for a brief moment, his gaze venturing over to me. He straightened from his thinking pose and blinked at me. "How about you, Isla? Do you have any funny stories from the weekend to share?"

The class turned to me, their eyes wide and expecting as I went rigid, stifling a nervous gulp as I strained to think of one. I thought about my brother's first reaction to snow, and forced a smile as I began, feeling a particular pair of green eyes burn me as they stared. "Well, my brother and I went exploring in our backyard and made a snowman. Halfway through the day, it started to melt and its head fell off, so we dug a small snow-grave behind it and pushed it in. We had a small hot-cocoa ceremony and everything!"

The class chuckled, turning back as I had dodged the bullet, feeling the black-haired boy's gaze leave me and return to Mr. Blake. "So, class," he continued. "Today we continue reading Cymbeline. I know that you all have different copies, but if you remember where we were last, and I believe we were in the middle of Posthumus's speech about Imogen's primary heavenly virtue, which if I recall, was what?" He extended his hand to gesture for the class while they struggled to remember.

Slowly, the black-haired boy reached up, his hand shaking minutely as Mr. Blake called on him. "Yes?"

"Chastity," he answered, his voice dulcet as it echoed around the room. "The vice of which is lust."

"Correct," he praised with a small smile, opening up a spare copy of Cymbeline. "Now, if all of you would join me at the beginning of his speech."

I turned Mr. Blake's copy of the book open, searching for the point in the play, but was at a loss when Mr. Blake started naming who was to read who's lines. I struggled, flipping through the pages frantically, trying to be subtle about it getting absolutely nowhere. A long, pale hand suddenly placed itself atop the faded pages, and I looked up to meet the green eyes of the black-haired boy. He bit his lip and gently tugged the book from my fingers, easily pulling it before him and flipping through it with well practiced movements, turning to the correct page the moment Mr. Black ordered the class's Posthumus to start reading. The black-haired boy gave the book immediately back to me, his finger placing the correct page and line for me, before returning to his own copy, his eyes darting over the words as we read together.

Taken back by the small act of kindness, I hesitated to turning my gaze to the text, but forced myself to, embarrassed as I caught myself staring at the black-haired boy in wonder, pounding into my mind that he had no reason to be nice to me after what I had done to him earlier. As Mr. Blake started to explain the words, bringing the class in and out as he fostered discussions about the scene, I continued to remain far away from the boy, trying to work up the courage to say anything: to at least say that I was sorry. I even turned to face him, biting my lip, my throat aching as the words caught. The black-haired boy was pulled from the lines as he felt my gaze on him, staring at me emotionlessly as I struggled with the words.

"I... Um," was that came out in a stammer. I quickly shunted my gaze back to the text, immediately turning the pages to catch up as I realized that I was several scenes behind. As the time dragged on and I continued to seethe, brooding next to the unaffected boy at my side while I struggled to comprehend what I was reading. There was a reason English was not my favorite topical class, even prior to learning that I was going to have to suffer through five more weeks of it at the side of the black-haired boy. Only a few words managed to thoroughly relieve my suffering.

"Alrightie, bright, young learners! That's it for today's reading," Mr. Blake dismissed, and the entire class stretched, stirring and shuffling as they pushed their books back into their bags. The black-haired boy quietly did the same while I snapped my book shut and stuffed my file and schedule into my backpack. "We have about two more minutes left of class, so feel free to take it for yourselves! Happy Monday!"

The class got up, slinging their bags over their shoulders and crowding around the door, thanking the sparkling English teacher for his time while they discussed plans for the rest of the week. I pulled my own backpack to the table-top and pushed out of the desk the same time the black-haired boy did, kicking the stool under the table as I sorted through my bag. He pulled his trench coat from his satchel and slipped it on, folding the collar up and tying his scarf around his neck.

My fingers slipped as I watched him and my bag fell over, my sketchbook sliding out and onto the floor between us, falling open to the page of my illustration of my sixth-grade crush. To my horror, he leaned down and gently picked it up, closing it and offering it back to me while I turned bright red, almost tearful as my eyes burned. I snatched it back and shoved the cursed thing into my backpack, immediately turning and heading to the outskirts of the gaggle of students, keeping my head low as several people stared at me, hoping that I had left the black-haired boy behind as I hid my face behind my hand.

I quickly learned how dead wrong I was when Mr. Blake jogged up to my side, the black-haired boy timidly following him as Mr. Blake smiled. "So, Miss Isla, how was your first day?"

"Entertaining," I said slowly after a quiet deliberation, desperately trying not to cry in embarrassment. I felt on the verge of tears as my voice cracked. "I can't wait until tomorrow so that I can meet the rest of my teachers."

"I'm assuming you didn't have any trouble with the text, Miss I-Skipped-Two-Grades?" he pried, still smiling, folding his arms across his chest. I could almost feel that he could tell that I so desperately wanted to leave, finally having enough as the day had tested my mettle thoroughly, the black-haired boy's green, intent gaze pinning me down from behind.

I shook my head, telling a small lie as I answered, "No, it was fine. I'll go home and read the rest to fully catch up. This day certainly has been...a load, to manage." My face fell and I looked away.

Mr. Blake nodded understandingly out of the corner of my eye. "I know how it can be hard to adjust to a new school, and how impossible it can seem to live in a new place, but please take solace in knowing that the students here are inherently good, and that you'll find friends among them."

I grinned weakly. "I believe I already have," I admitted, hugging my arms to my chest and fidgeting.

His eyes brightened. "Really? Wonderful! Might I ask whom?"

I shrugged, blinking profusely. "Just a couple seniors." I stared at the floor, wanting to fall through it, hoping that this was all just a nightmare and that I would wake up sooner or later in my own bed at home, in New Mexico.

In my peripheral vision, the black-haired boy shifted, his trench coat rustling as his soft voice said, "Er, Mr. Blake..."

Mr. Blake perked up and whirled to face him. "Ahhh, I almost forgot you were here! So, I trust that you helped out Miss Isla on her first day?"

I looked up, my heart racing and my breath hitching, air something I suddenly had to struggle for while the black-haired boy gave a considering look to Mr. Blake. "Not as much as I should've liked," he answered after a dawdling beat.

Mr. Blake laughed. "She's delightful, isn't she? And a pretty young lady, too! You two will make smashing partners," he enthused.

The black-haired boy gave me an almost guilty look as I clenched the bridge of my nose, well and truly trembling, feeling like I was about to burst when the bell rung and saved me. My peers immediately pushed through the door, shoving to get out and running once they reached the hall. I leaned in with them, about to go when Mr. Blake stopped me with a small hand on my shoulder, bringing the black-haired boy around to my side.

"Perhaps," he suggested, addressing the black-haired boy, "you could show Miss Isla to her bus?"

I interrupted the black-haired boy before he could speak, his pale lips parting as I stuttered, "Oh no, it's okay, my- my parents are driving me," I lied, turning bright red as I shrugged Mr. Blake's hand from my arm. "I know you're trying to help but I- I really need to go."

I practically sprinted through the door, keeping a fast pace as I followed the snakes of students travelling down the stairwell, hiding my face and slipping on my gloves and beanie, my neck absently feeling cold, bumping into people before I heard a familiar voice ask, "Isla?"

I looked up to my side to see Tom staring down at me, the smile dissolving as he noticed how red my face probably was, my eyes shining in the horrid light. "Isla, what happened?"

I quickly decided for cover, laughing shakily as I wiped my eyes. "Oh, Mrs. Spencer's an old hag and English drives me nuts," I attempted, blinking like there was no tomorrow as we exited a set of double doors and entered once more the front of the school, buses lined on the curb as students migrated to their vessels for home.

Tom nodded, laughing. "We weren't lying, you know," he defended, but couldn't shake the look of concern as he gently took my hand. "You're sure you're okay? It seems like there's something you're not telling me..."

I shook my head, smiling as I saw Finley and Sif wait at the front of the bus that was to be ours. "I just... It's been a chaotic day," I said, dreading sitting next to anyone else. "Can...can I sit next to you on the way home? I'd feel better to have a friend at my side."

"Anything," Tom promised, squeezing my hand and letting go as Sif came into view. Sif smiled down at me while Finley clapped my shoulder.

"You okay, sport?" Finley asked curiously, but Tom shook his head at him and he quickly took the hint. "Well, no matter, we're going home now!"

Sif grinned, also taking in on the hint that I did not want to talk about it. "Exactly! Home and rest, and you have two days to finish the homework. How's Mrs. Spencer?"

"A witch of a woman," I agreed as Tom lead me onto the bus, pulling me to the back while our bus-driver lost herself in the latest issue of her gossiping magazine. Tom sat by the window while giving me the aisle seat, Finley joining Vlad and Hayden while Sif claimed a seat for her own next to me.

Vlad chuckled as more students flooded in, amongst the mixture the black-haired boy appearing, looking slightly shaken. I avoided his gaze as he stared at me, pausing momentarily in the middle of the aisle. A larger jock bumped into him from behind, urging him to move before he was run over. Looking like he had just seen a ghost, the black-haired boy slid into a seat quickly near the front of the bus, scooting towards the window as he stared into the outside.

A pang of guilt ached in my chest, but I stifled it as Tom started to speak. I occasionally provided a comment, but felt almost empty as their conversation surfaced around me. Eventually, during one of the stops after the bus kicked into gear, Tom and I switched places as he offered to supply what was supposedly my end of the conversation to the rest of his cousins. I watched as Jane got off the bus at her stop, followed by several students, her head down, a book clutched to her chest. I wanted to wave at her- to somehow socialize with her, but she didn't see me as she turned down her neighborhood and began walking.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and watched the snow, the houses starting to become familiar in sight as we drew to a close in one of the last few stops, Tom gently nudging me and saying, "We're here."

I looked up to check the stop, seeing a patient Andrew waiting for me, the beanie on his head covered in a thick sprinkling of snow, his hands in his pocket and his shoulders relaxed, feet parted beneath him in the layers of ice. I smiled to myself, grateful for his presence, and followed Tom and Sif from the bus, thanking the bus-driver for her time while I hopped down the stairs and ran into Andrew, circling my arms around his waist and hugging him tightly. The black-haired boy stood a little closer to the stop-sign, Tom and his eyes tickling the back of my neck with their gazes. I pulled back and grinned at the shocked Andrew.

"I don't think I've ever been happier to see you," I admitted, grateful to be in his shadow once more.

Andrew gave me a stunned look as he slowly replied, "...who are you and what have you done with Acorn?"

"Acorn?" giggled Finley curiously.

"I couldn't pronounce Acacia when I was three, and Acorn was the result," my brother explained, eying the smirking Sif with a subtly interested expression. "I trust my baby-sister wasn't too much of a burden?"

"Quite the contrary," Vlad assured. "We loved her company. She was, without hyperbole, the highlight of our day."

"We don't want to keep you waiting," Finley politely added. "I'm sure Isla wants to catch up with you."

Hayden nudged Vlad and Finley away, Sif following with a curt nod while Tom stayed behind, a little bit shy as the black-haired boy followed suit, walking a little behind the three cousins, his head bowed.

Andrew rolled back his shoulders and started in the direction of our home, clearing his throat and dismissing, "Well, I'm going to get a head start back home as well. Catch up when you're ready."

Tom smiled at him, but then quickly spoke up. "Actually, Andrew, I was wondering if I could ask you something, if it's not too much trouble."

Andrew paused and gave him a curious expression. "Sure..." Both brows were raised in temperate expectancy.

"I was wondering if I could briefly relieve you of your duties and take Isla to the bus-stop tomorrow morning," he voiced. "I think it would be a wonderful thing to help get to know her better."

Andrew shrugged before nodding. "Sure. Thanks Tom- that's a favor to me. If you want, and if Isla wants that, then great."

I smiled and nodded. "Yes, most definitely! That sounds awesome!"

Tom blushed slightly, saying, "Good," a little too quickly. "Well, I mean, excellent. I'm grateful that it suits."

Andrew gave me an amused look before turning and walking across the street. I looked back up to Tom, the tall teen appearing slightly nervous.

"Well, it was great to meet you, Isla," he acknowledged, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm going to go home and tell my parents about you, if that's okay. They've been looking forward to your arrival. Feel free to come visit us anytime- we live just a little down that way, in the house by the end. We'd all like to show you around and make you feel comfortable in the neighborhood."

He then laughed nervously. "But, I warn you, Finley might want to steal you away for a game of ping-pong or two. It's quite the addiction of his."

I laughed. "Sounds like a plan," I replied, glancing down to see his group vanishing around the corner, but started as I saw the black-haired boy waiting about two driveways down, shoulders hunched, hands in pocket as he stared at me, his face unreadable from the distance. Tom tried to follow my gaze, but I distracted him as I added, "Well, I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Tom nodded eagerly. "Yes, tomorrow." He grinned. "I look forward to it. Seven twenty?"

"On the dot," I warned, giggling.

With that, he raised my hand once more to his lips and gave it a gentle kiss, turning tail and heading down towards the black-haired boy, the boy still unmoving, still staring at me. I felt the blush return to my cheeks and sprinted down after Andrew, my backpack thumping as I ran to his side, my brother still walking with his iPhone in hand before him, typing with one thumb a message to Georgie.

"So, Acorn, how was school?" he began.

I sighed, flexing my fingers as I shook my head. "You have no idea."

A/N: Something interesting to note is that Tom Hiddleston, the actor for Loki, played Posthumus in Cheek by Jowl's own production of Cymbeline. Ah, the irony.