Seras Victoria's nervous twitches and the bubble she kept between herself and his desk, grated against the priest's steeled nerves. But he kept himself cool, and no sparks flew as he remained seated, and Seras remained standing. Just out of reach.
Stationed behind his desk, as if it were a podium, with the guilty trio before him, Mr. Anderson lectured with an amount of gravity the children were not supposed to be able to ignore. But John and the other boy, each with over five years' worth of experience as teenagers, effortlessly tuned out the old, repetitive teacher. For a while. "-and you should respect me, as your teacher, and your elder. As it has been written by the Lord:"
'Lord' snagged on the teens' thoughts, drawing their attention though they tried to reel it back in. When they failed, the boys groaned: I can't believe he's getting Biblical on us. We're not in a freakin' Church dude. You're here to teach, not preach.
But of course Mr. Anderson remained ignorant of their irritation, and couldn't have even begun to comprehend it, as he respectfully recited, "'Children… obey your parents (your elders) in the Lord, for this is right.' Just as you obey your parents, you will obey me. Showing respect involves silencing your phones, leaving them in your backpacks, and paying attention-"
A trilling sparrow-like song tittered sharply, cutting Mr. Anderson off as his cell phone buzzed in his pants' pocket. Befuddled green eyes blinked down at the noisy pocket, while the boys smirked to themselves but knew better than to reuse Mr. Anderson's words. (Ho ho ho! Who's lookin' at his crotch now, Mr. Anderson?) However, John still crossed his arms smugly, as he thusly denounced the man as a hypocrite.
Seras merely looked on, her hands in a tangle at her chest. She swallowed when Anderson revealed a silver flip phone and stared at it dully. He looked confused, which, Seras quickly learned, was yet another terrifying expression the paladin was capable of.
…
…After briefly scanning through his mental catalogue, Father Anderson concluded: he truly did not know this number. It could not be a lapse in memory; he was too organized to be held up by such things. He'd selected a specific ringtone for Maxwell: Joy to the World, beautifully sung by a digital-sounding, all-boys choir. Then he'd selected a ringtone for the school: Fur Elise. This distracting, tittering music was the phone's default, something the priest had not heard before.
Saying that Father Anderson had a very constricted circle of friends, would be an understatement. He hated 83.15% of the human race, and was very selective among the 16.85% who were Roman Catholic. But more importantly, the only sentient being Anderson talked to on a daily basis was his best friend, Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. And the only son of God didn't need a cell phone.
(Though, if He did, Father Anderson surely would have been one of the first to get His number.)
Therefore, Father Anderson generally had little use for his phone. And it rarely called for his attention.
When the tittering ended, Anderson growled and laid the now silent phone on his desk, detesting the idea that he was setting a bad example. He was a perfect role model, and to prove this, Mr. Anderson switched his phone to silent immediately. Folding his hands, the calculus teacher/priest looked each boy dead in the eye. He ignored Seras, for which she was immensely thankful. "See how distracting these are?" He jabbed a finger at the guilty phone, "Now consider what it would be like to have such a nuisance interrupt lessons you've taken hours to plan ou-mnt-"
A grunt of annoyance butted against the backs of the priest's clenched teeth, and his pointing hand became a quivering fist, as he glowered death and suffering upon the buzzing phone. And yet the phone skittered excitedly over his desk and refused to die, just to tell him exactly how powerless he was against it. At this point, the calculus teacher's hair stood on end, and his teeth creaked under the strain, but Mr. Anderson managed not to slam his own phone into a hard, destructive surface (like a wall). Instead, Mr. Anderson watched his little phone clatter its way towards the dead (much larger and more expensive) phones that had been scraped off the floor and laid in a clutter on his desk. But Mr. Anderson couldn't help but feel, as he watched it scuttle… the phone was taunting him.
Mr. Anderson grunted, "Alright. That's enough of a demonstration." Before it reached the ruined devices, the lively phone disappeared into one of the teacher's flexing fists. And as though he had a more significant grudge against the rather outdated device, Mr. Anderson chucked the flip phone into a paper filled drawer, and slammed the drawer shut. The crack of the drawer made the living and undead teens flinch in unison. They stared mutely at their teacher, none of them smug as they watched his teeth grate together with suppressed rage. The boys fidgeted right along with Seras.
Inside the desk, the phone's buzzing dulled, but it quickly took advantage of the sides of the drawer and used them to amplify the sound, as well as add a new clattering effect to the racket it caused.
Anderson's teeth snapped, "Fine then." He shoved himself out of his wheeled chair, and sent it spinning wildly away. Yet as soon as Mr. Anderson wrenched the drawer open, the phone fell silent. Lying on the papers, continuing to mock him, the phone acted as though it was innocent of any accusation. Like it had never made a sound. Mr. Anderson frowned, viewing the phone with growing resentment. But then, following a dissatisfied grumble, he shut the drawer smoothly, and calmly walked away to retrieve his chair. Once his footsteps were the only audible sound in the room, he was able to acknowledge that it was not really the phone's fault. Phones just didn't call themselves in order to ring at inappropriate times.
As Anderson reached out for his chair, the phone rattled excitedly in the drawer. The man spun back readily, killing off his recent pardon, and tromped over to his desk, cursing the phone and foreseeing its sudden, inexplicable demise. Phones drowned all the time. They just happened to leave themselves in a pocket on laundry day. Or they make a sudden leap for freedom, and just so happen to end up in a toilet bowl…
Maxwell, it's God's will that I not have a phone.
But, Alexander, how will I call you?
Maxwell, when was the last time you heard of a letter disrupting a class?
Letters. Everyone should go back to writing letters. It would give them a reason to teach cursive again. He missed cursive.
…
Of course, when Anderson took hold of the drawer, the phone became at once quiet and respectful. A stunted giggle that sounded like a hiccup came from one of the students. John covered his mouth with the back of his hand, giving himself away. He gagged on another giggle as the man's flaming eyes stared back at him.
Anderson went to his chair, touched it gently, and the phone began to clatter in the desk. John's face turned bright pink, and the boy beside him grinned from ear to ear. But Mr. Anderson made no effort to move, nothing could break his new, unruffled composure. He watched the boys coolly, with an amount of maturity they were simply incapable of, while he of course was a mature adult. When the phone had finished, he pulled his wheelie chair back to his desk, counting out the seconds, and finding that the phone seemed to have given up, at last.
The chair squeaked when Mr. Anderson dropped into it and surveyed his mute students. Then he stared at the drawer, and counted: 23, 24, 25…
As the racket began again, seemingly louder than ever, the man's eyes rolled into the back of his head automatically. Mr. Anderson bent his face into his hands, enduring this fifth interruption. All the while, the phone danced ecstatically against the walls of the drawer. His students looked at one another, then edged back discreetly when their teacher straightened and cracked his neck forebodingly.
Mr. Anderson paused, as a new thought came to him.
The phone call might be important.
The priest's eye twitched with distaste.
But there might be some reason for the caller's dogged determination to contact him. Probably not a reason that would satisfy him, but a reason, all the same.
With this, Anderson sighed heavily and pulled open his drawer in a much more subdued manner. He waved off the children and ordered them to come to him tomorrow, after class. As the children made themselves scarce, the overworked priest slumped in his seat. Father Anderson held the phone up before his face, and contemplated its significance. He let the phone fall silent, and then waited.
…
After twenty seconds, when it buzzed in his hand, Father Anderson flipped the little phone open and set it against his ear calmly.
He used a civilian tone, a teacher's voice. "Yes- Hello? I was with a few of my students."
There was a long, prolonged and annoying pause. Father Anderson checked the phone to make sure the call hadn't been dropped. Then he kept it at his ear, straightening out his legs, which pushed his chair back. He swiveled a little, because it was just too irresistible, and checked his watch. He watched ten halting seconds tick by. "Hello? Are you still there?" His impatience began to come through the civilian tone.
A chuckle was heard, which creased the Judas' brow. Father Anderson frowned and repressed a growl, as though someone had proposed he throw a Halloween party at the Vatican.
Fluidly the voice eased away from its humor, and assumed a pleasant air as Anderson began to listen. "Hello, Mr. Anderson… I recently started working for the school. I'm in charge of cleaning your classroom."
Oh! Father Anderson's mood changed completely, and he forgave the man for being so coy earlier. "Yes, thank you. I noticed that it was much cleaner today than usual."
"Yes," the voice said, or rather chuckled. "I noticed that some things… had been neglected."
Father Anderson nodded in complete agreement, although there was no way the janitor could have seen this response.
"I made sure to remedy that," the janitor purred, as if pondering something while he spoke. He asked politely, "Did I happen to… miss anything, you'd like seen to?"
"Oh," Anderson shook his head, used to relying on body language to communicate.
"'Oh?'" the voice on the phone echoed Anderson. "Have you recalled something?" the janitor inquired, unembarrassed to show his surprise. "I even polished the legs of the chairs, all forty-three of them. I scraped off seventeen pieces of gum, and one deceptive pink Starburst."
"That's not it, no." Father Anderson tried to resume his teacher persona, but it was difficult to keep his voice so unnaturally stiff when he was trying to show his thanks. "No, you did everything perfectly."
"Thank you," the janitor's words curled like a fiendish smirk, but the priest did not pick up on this, again, more used to reading body language than picking tones apart.
Anderson nodded, revolving in his chair to see the immaculate blackboard, as it remained unsullied after a day's worth of classes. Truly a miracle. Father Anderson scratched his beard and tilted his head as he appreciated the board anew. "I'll admit, it's quite rare to find people who really invest in their work." He didn't quite like the wording, so he grumbled on to better explain his compliment. "These days, young or old, people overlook the necessity of their effort, what it means, how it affects those around them. Well-kept or messy, the state of a classroom has a significant impact on the students' moods, though they might not know it. If they came in to take a lesson on a dung-heap though, they might learn to appreciate what they usually have, let alone what you've provided for them."
It was quiet for a time, and Father Anderson eased out of his natural, mentoring role, clearing his voice and attempting to sound more like a stereotypical, stuffy instructor. He wasn't here to make friends. "That aside, what was it you were calling abou-?"
"I will agree," the janitor interrupted. "The students could use a field trip to a dung-heap, if that would teach them how to appreciate and respect my work... And teach them to read my bathroom closed signs, my wet floor signs…" As the janitor trailed off, he touched some sense of comradery in the calculus teacher/paladin, and Father Anderson nodded at the immaculate blackboard which had come to represent the janitor. His chair creaked as he leaned forward to examine first the floor, and then the drawers of his desk, which he realized had been pristinely polished. They now bore his finger smudges, but no matter.
"Yes," Father Anderson again agreed with the janitor. "We could all use a little more appreciation and respect from those we aid. But then, many things are, and ever will be, thankless."
"Mhm," the janitor replied, somewhat darkly, and there was another pause. "However, the reason for my call," the janitor continued in his smooth, charismatic voice, which Anderson did not find wholly disagreeable. But there was something different, perhaps sharper in the tone. "It was brought to my attention as your students were leaving your classroom…. so I thought I would ask you, in order to confirm… So. Mr. Anderson," the janitor paused to sound serious and severe. "Have you been using my clean walls to break some brats' phones?"
Mr. Anderson frowned, and ceased to swivel and admire his clean room. He had nothing to say. So he gripped the edge of his desk and pursed his lips.
The janitor flowed on as smoothly as before. His tongue proved itself to be a rather fine and flexible blade as it sliced through the priest, drawing out wince after wince. "If you have misused the walls for such destructive, though perfectly understandable, purposes, I'd prefer it if you used some other means to control your students. Since your current method, though theatrical, glorious, and effective, not only damages the walls and scrapes the paint, it also leaves marks that I have learned, from my experience with coffee mugs and their propensity to break against any surface they please, do not come out. No matter what forces of physical integrity or natural or chemical artillery are used, these marks do not improve. They must be painted over.
"Therefore, Mr. Anderson..." The janitor had to have been smiling as he spoke, even Anderson could sense it. "I'd be most appreciative if you made an effort not to misuse the walls I will then have to mend-"
"I understand," Father Anderson grimaced but released his desk and settled more comfortably in his chair. "I'm sorry for any trouble I have put you through. You've done a good, a quality job on my classroom, and I appreciate and value your hard work. There aren't many who recall that they are here to earn their wages, not to merely stand by and receive a check. You show that you do not feel so entitled."
"Thank you." Father Anderson heard the chuckle in the response. The janitor's humor had returned. But it was not unpleasant this time.
"So I'll make sure not to 'abuse' the walls in the future," Father Anderson smiled slightly, amused by the promise. He looked at the wall he'd 'abused' and squinted for a moment. He was relieved to find that the wall bore no physical marks or scuffs, beyond a few indents, which the man assumed were present. But he was too far away to see them clearly.
Father Anderson sighed, a bit weary with his day job and nightly, unsatisfying hunts. He rolled a shoulder, and then cracked his neck again. He rubbed it, wincing, "Well, there doesn't appear to be any damage done to the wall. So fortunately no additional work seems to be necessary."
"That's good to hear."
Anderson rubbed his neck, eyes closing for a moment. As the conversation lulled, he frowned, knowing that the janitor was lingering unnecessarily. And if the janitor was so hard working and admirable, he should be out doing something beneficial. He should be working.
"Well, I've used up enough of your time. I have to get back to grading papers," Anderson said in the busiest teacher-like tone he could manage.
"Yes," the janitor seemed to agree, and then added, "But make sure to grade them properly."
Every good feeling Anderson held for the janitor was doubted. The priest took this reminder, and its peculiarity, its familiar concern, as an insult. "I grade all of my papers properly, thank you," he stated dryly, with a creased scowl. "Now please. Get on with your day. And allow me to get on with mine."
"I apologize if I offended you," the janitor said 'sincerely,' and then explained in a 'friendlier' tone, "My daughter is in your class. And she has expressed that she is worried that you… do not much… care for her."
The priest had no recollection of any encounter with a female student that could have produced such a suspicion, but he responded earnestly. "I'm sorry to hear that. I don't have any problems with my students personally. I'm here to teach them and improve them, to improve their lives in whatever way I can."
But the janitor/father had not finished. "And my other daughter, she's terrified of you."
Father's Anderson's heart stung, and he chewed his lip as he mulled this over. "That would be a problem." He sighed, cringing and shifting in his chair uncomfortably as he further admitted, "I know the children are a bit- I know that it takes a while for them to get used to me. But they do get used to me. I don't, I will never, pose a threat to any of the children here. My goal is to protect them. …And teach them," Father Anderson amended his statement, thinking his 'goal' was a bit too ambitious. And a father likes to think he is the protector of his daughters, Anderson knew this and knew the importance of taking the backseat in such things. Let the man feel like a father, though, unfortunately, it was Father Anderson who was truly keeping the janitor's daughters safe from the monsters that hungered after them.
But Anderson sighed as the father showed he needed to demonstrate his patriarchal status. "Protect them? No, I'd say I'm their only protector." The voice was very possessive.
Yes, yes, get it over with. Father Anderson glanced at his watch unhappily. The sun was lowering, the sky was deepening into a golden, orange radiance, and he needed to get these quizzes and homework packets graded before the sun set.
"Sir," Anderson interrupted, "I really have other matters to attend to. If you'll excuse me-"
"Not to worry," the janitor continued to disregard the teacher's attempts to conclude the discussion. "I'm still standing outside your classroom."
An eerie, unsettling feeling descended upon Father Anderson. His expression hardened, and remained hard, as he listened to the janitor.
"I'll come in so we can have a proper, face-to-face chat about my daughters."
"Sir," Anderson said slowly, in a deep, inhospitable voice. "That's really unnecessary-"
But Anderson was cut off by a distracting outburst on the other line. Then he could hear it coming through his closed door. It made Father Anderson blink, perplexed as he heard the loud angry voice doubled, shouting the same angry things, only sounding slightly different. One voice muffled by the wall and door, and the other distorted by the phone.
'Finally found you,' or something like that, was said twice.
As Anderson listened, it sounded like a big man was trying to pick a fight in a bar, which was odd, considering this definitely was not a bar. And this was the type of school that was not supposed to see brawls of any sort. Anderson soon confirmed that the object of the man's discontent was the disturbing, yet hard working, overprotective janitor. And this also gave Anderson the janitor's exceedingly bland name.
"What's your name, jacka**?"
'Neither' was what Anderson thought he heard as the response.
"Huh?" The angry man either ignored the response, or had misheard it. "I'm going to make a formal complaint to the school. Or else, if you'd like," he became even more threatening, "We can step outside for a bit, and take care of this the way men are supposed to."
Anderson could barely hear the janitor's voice, but what he said was repeated by the much louder, angrier man. "Oh, alright, BOB. What is your position here? Are you a janitor?"
Bob said plainly, "I work for Building Maintenance."
"Ha!" The angry man scoffed, his tone scornful. "You're trying to make it sound more impressive. Huh? You know, how long did you have to study to become qualified to work for Building Maintenance? How many years of training did it take?"
Rather than give the proper answers, Bob made a keen observation. "I believe these questions are meant to insult me."
"Right you are," the angry man snorted, as if he were talking to an imbecile. "So you can recognize an insult. Good job. Very good. Now, choose. Do you want me to report you? Or do you want to settle this outside?"
With an exasperated groan, Anderson snapped his phone shut, and pushed himself out of his chair, grumbling as he stuffed the phone into his coat's pocket. He trudged tiredly towards the door, adjusting his coat and tugging on the zipper as he began to hear Bob more clearly. Father Anderson paused on the wrong side of the door, never having opened it, as all sense of annoyance fell from his face.
Bob inquired, somewhere between mocking the man and being professionally polite, "Settle this outside? Sir, how would you go about doing such a thing?"
"Oh?" the angry, goading man chuckled, hoping the janitor would take this route. "Do you want me to show you?"
The door to the math class opened, and Bob looked over his shoulder to smile familiarly at Father Anderson, whose face still wore a beautiful shade of disbelief and disgust. "Oh, Hello Mr. Anderson. I'm afraid I got sidetracked with this nonsense." Bob indicated the man with the red, bloated face that was puffy with suppressed fury. "But I still intend to have that little discussion we talked about. Please wait inside while I take care of this. …Or, don't. Either way." Bob smirked as Father Anderson frowned crossly, having purposefully shut the door behind him and crossed his arms to glare at the undead janitor.
Mr. Anderson's appearance deterred the basketball coach from continuing immediately, at least, not by the same direct track. He aimed to get the janitor outside, even if he had to stuff the a**hole into his mop bucket and wheel him out. The coach observed Mr. Anderson, searching for any signs of trouble, but, oddly, it seemed as though the teacher couldn't care less about him. All of this large, dark-skinned blonde's focus was on the a**hole standing between them. It made the coach a little warm and fuzzy inside, to know there was someone else who hated Bob (almost) as much as he did. "Hello Mr. Anderson, if I heard that right," the coach waved a hand briefly, catching Father Anderson's attention. "How about Bob and me move someplace where we won't disturb your work?" He smiled, villain-like, at mundane janitor Bob, who dully received the amateur expression. "How about we move our conversation elsewhere?" the coach asked Bob directly.
"No," Bob sighed, his arm resting on his extremely yellow cart. He tapped the side of the cart impatiently. "I have more important business to attend to with the teacher over there. Go make your complaint to the school, or whatever it is you had planned."
Bob turned to Father Anderson and made to go to the classroom, but Anderson stood solidly before the door, and refused to move. Bob, having no alternative path, stopped before the priest. Then, suddenly, Bob looked down at his shoulder, where the basketball coach's fingers dug into his muscle. The face behind Bob truly was paladin-like. And yet, as Bob looked up into Father Anderson's expression, the coach couldn't even begin to compete with the original.
"There's a parking lot out back," the coach's unoccupied thumb jerked in a direction to indicate where they should go. His other hand tightened over Bob's shoulder.
The coach was overjoyed when Bob complied, but his celebration was immediately dampened by the giant teacher's decision to tag along. The three turned down a corridor, and a little while later the coach pushed open a black, windowed door. He let it swing gradually back to close on Bob, but the janitor made no comment. Instead Bob took the opportunity to politely hold the door open for the calculus teacher. Without words or blows, Father Anderson told Bob exactly how much he loathed him, and in return, Bob gave him a curling, devilish smile.
Roughly, Father Anderson grabbed the edge of the door and wrenched it out of Bob's hand, keeping eye-contact all the while. He threw the door behind him, and stood scowling heatedly at Bob. But there was a very noticeable silence that followed. The door never slammed, which made the disappointed priest look back and scowl harder. By centimeters, the door closer gradually, and gently, allowed the door to close. Although it was only doing its job, Father Anderson still gave the door a dirty look when it finally clicked shut, and the group was locked out of the building (with the exception of Bob).
A single, empty, once-green (and now nearly grey) car stood in the shadow of the Math and Sciences building several paces away. Besides that, they were alone.