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Seen Through a Teacher's Eyes

"And one, two, three. One, two, three," I count aloud. The girls move their feet in tandem. More or less. "Arms up; keep your back straight. Miss Wendell, higher. Your left— no, the other— yes, only…" I keep another correction to myself. We can only be glad that Miss Betty Wendell is not the one getting married. She is too young anyhow.

Harper Maynard is on the young side too, if you asked me. Of course, nobody asks me. I've merely been their trusted teacher and confidant for nearly two thirds of their lives. Ms Maynard did not pursue the higher education we are so proud to be able to grant.

In my school days, children could leave school as early as at the age of thirteen. Now, our generous Fuhrer has enabled us to keep teaching anyone to the age of fifteen, unless they are excused for farmwork at home. With the new programme that was implemented two years ago – although we lack instructors in the countryside – we can teach children until the age of eighteen.

If they choose to be taught.

But with a man as affluent as Delbert McGrath, I can almost not blame Ms Maynard for choosing marriage over education. The boy is polite, I find, a good virtue.

"Hey, look at tippy toes over there."

Of course, that doesn't apply to every boy from around here.

"Bet she can't even climb into her own bed with those stubby legs."

"Or reach the sink without a baby step stool." Another boy – Augustus Gabb – chimes in.

They're at the fence surrounding the athletics grounds, leaning over casually. With how small the grounds are, their voices carry easily. The girls look despondent but they will have to bear with it. I have been waiting for an opportunity to instruct them in dancing – an essential skill.

"Come, now, take heart. And one, two, three, one, two, three." I clap my hands in time with their steps – at least I would, were they doing them properly.

Miss Wendell and Miss Ruth are not doing too poorly. I can see that Miss Hawkeye is doing her best but she lacks imagination. She would have run into the poor boy leading her by now, although there is not much hope of that coming true.

Berthold Hawkeye has last been seen about three months ago, or so they say. I'm not sure I have seen him since his wife's funeral nine years ago. He never attends any funerals, nor his daughter's school events. I doubt he will be very interested in finding her a suitable husband. The poor thing doesn't even seem to realise how neglected she is, ever kind and polite.

"Mrs Wright, might we take a break, please?" Pippa Maynard, Harper's younger sister, asks.

I shake my head when she stops dancing and promptly infecting the others. "Class ends in ten minutes, Miss Maynard." I tell her. She holds my gaze for a moment. I pretend I don't notice.

"Aww, little wannabe bridesmaid is tired," one of the boys taunts from the side. Their gym teacher is ill, having sent them home early. It would appear that not all of them left.

"Don't say that," Augustus slaps his fellow's chest, "she's a Maynard. She's got the stamina to cheat on her husband three times a week. Bet she can't wait to get it on with her sister's fiancé."

"I thought she was panting after your dad." They laugh a filthy laughter.

"Guys, she's fifteen," Augustus cuts in again, "one at a time." He guffaws. The others join, howling mockingly as they bend over the fence.

"One last time, all together now." I resume clapping in an effort to drown out the boys. There is no reasoning with them; they obviously don't respect women, even if said woman is a teacher. I'm ashamed to admit that I ceased trying. They will only trample on my demands, further dampening my authority. And so the sole thing I can do is ignore and endure.

Not a bad virtue either, seeing as these girls will have to master it for their own marriages.

"Miss Priest, do try to keep your hands high."

The boys sneer before I can so much as pronounce a second sentence. "Agatha wants a taste of what's below too, it seems."

"I'll let her suck yours any day."

They laugh when Miss Hawkeye trips. "See that? She'd rather eat dirt than eat you." They holler with laughter.

Melvin Mathew sounds attacked by the last comment, scoffing, "Oh, yeah? All the girl eats is dirt with that zombie of a father."

"Miss Wilson," I start another attempt to raise my voice over theirs, "do remember that it's back and forth. One, two, three – and forward – one, two, three – backwards – one, two, three."

"She's on the ruuun," Pete Delaney sings.

"With a face like that? You could disfigure her and still find her – not much difference!" They cackle.

Briefly, I close my eyes. Five more minutes. The girls are unnerved. Miss Maynard appears close to crying, oh dear. I do wish we could have terminated class by pairing up, but I am aware that it would only trigger more brazen comments. Dancing is vital, even for them, yet there is no reasoning with these troublemakers.

Refusing to end on such a negative note, I keep on clapping the rhythm for the girls to follow. Four more minutes. I cannot put these boys into their place, so the least I can do is ensure that the girls learn to carry on regardless – or listen to me regardless of my not chastising the boys.

Speaking of which, they are being uncharacteristically quiet. I raise my eyes from more or less graceful feet to where they stand. They did not leave. Augustus is still leaning over the fence, but staring vacantly rather than preying on a girl to pick on. Pete and Melvin have retreated slightly, crowding under the nearby tree as if having done so all this time. My gaze wanders.

Strolling along the outside of the fence is Roy Mustang. The boy from Central. Of means, though not as much as Delbert McGrath. Younger, but very polite too. I can hardly believe my eyes. He is in no way giving off aggression or displeasure. In fact, he has his hands stuffed into his pockets, watching the class rather than the boys.

And yet, his path leads directly past them. He could have chosen the other way. It seems he has come to pick up Miss Hawkeye – a recently established habit – for which he could have just as well rounded the grounds counter-clockwise.

I forget to clap when he reaches the remarkably mute pesterers. None of them so much as look at him.

"Augustus," Roy Mustang greets. The cold seeping into his tone has a shiver run down the length of my spine. His attitude remains nonchalant though, hands still residing inside his pockets. Augustus nods. Roy conserves the slight tension for another moment, folding his arms over the fence not half a metre away from Augustus. "Looks like fun, doesn't it?"

Yes, I nearly answer is Augustus' stead. There is an absorbing authority in Roy's words. The entire situation is hard to grasp, but I can see the girls are just as affected. Even the other boys feel the shift of power, a strange pull urging each and everyone of us to answer positively; relieve the tenseness in the air.

"For a wussy," Augustus finally grumbles. I flinch on his behalf when Roy pats his back with a tad of force.

"You should join in sometime." Roy uses that tone again – a tone so cavalier yet sharp enough to slit a throat. "So many ungainly steps – yours wouldn't even stand out that much," he calls him out on his bullying.

"I guess." Augustus is no longer looking at the girls, not even their general direction. I'm speechless.

"See you then," Roy says. No, he doesn't say it, he commands. My hands are hovering, motionless, when Augustus Gabb leaves. Truly leaves. He grunts something dismissive but does not repeat it when Roy arches a single brow. The other two are on his heels. It takes me until Augustus has passed the tree to notice his light limp.

The ungainly steps have attained an entirely new meaning.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Wright," Roy greets cheerily and without a trace of the previous ire. He is standing next to me, making me aware of how I must have been staring after Augustus for a minute.

I clear my throat. "Good afternoon."

"Don't let me rush you. Please do carry on," he smiles. It's not an order this time, yet I feel compelled to follow. I was the one who wanted to stick to the very last minute, I tell myself, I decided before he arrived, yes.

I want to raise my hands – they're still in the air – and stop.

"Mr Mustang," I dodge using his first name like I would have with the boys from school last second, "would you care to confer the honour of a little demonstration on us?" He might be the only one who could inspire these girls that there is hope. I fear for anyone married off to one of those hooligans one day.

He smiles complacently. "Of course."

I don't see the spark of triumph in his eyes. I don't know why that might be there at all until I'm standing with my arms up, ready to show the girls a proper waltz, grasping thin air.

I blink, dumbfounded.

"But only if I have the honour of asking this young lady for a dance." He has entered the grounds. The first row of girls parts for him as, in two confident strides, he crosses over to Miss Hawkeye. She is all he ever focuses on.

He came here to study under Berthold Hawkeye, and while I can imagine he fares decently – seeing as he is still around – it is hard to picture him diligently concentrating on his studies. Outside of the Hawkeye estate at least, there is only one point of interest to him.

Riza has a knowing twinkle in her eyes. "You're impossible," she softly chides. Contradicting her words though, and with the hint of a blush, she lays a delicate hand in his outstretched one.

"So," Roy's chest puffs out, his stance superb, "how did this go again?"

The girls giggle. Esther and Betty whisper to one another. They're good girls, those two, they won't be slandering like the boys did. Or like I can see Annabel prepare to do.

"I'm sure each of the girls will be delighted to tell you," I delegate to the class. They have to know; they were trying so hard to blank out the boys earlier, they will be hearing my counting in their dreams.

"Great. Miss Crogan," Roy slashes right through Annabel's imminent taunt with a charming smile. She freezes. Riza keeps her chin held high, not looking at Annabel.

"Uh," Annabel stutters. It makes the others giggle again.

"My arm's getting tired…" Roy quietly complains to Riza. She shoots him another look, one that could have been ten times more effective had she been serious. I cannot hold it against her – she is the most common victim of Annabel's derision. It's her chance to enjoy having the upper hand.

As if on cue, their hands rise. Roy doesn't even scoff or make a sneery remark on Annabel's lack of a coherent response. His complete uninterest seems to vex her even more than the perfection he pours into the task, obviously never having needed any instructions.

Their waltz is a beautiful one. Elegantly, like clockwork, they seem to flow with each other's movements, gliding across the cinder pitch, whirling up dust when he twirls her around. That isn't something I taught them yet. Riza handles it well, unpractised but not unprepared, it seems. It must be his leading skills in dance.

I knew a man once – Ruben Brown – who could lead you into your very first dance and it would look as if you had done nothing else your entire life. Roy reminds me a lot of him.

"Which one?" Riza is whispering.

"Gwen. She can outrun you on twelve-inch heels but when she dances…" Roy laughs sheepishly. "Let's just say she taught me how to avoid broken toes."

"Painful." Riza cringes on his behalf.

They don't stop dancing while they chat though. Neither when I initiate a small round of applause from the girls. I want to tell them that class is dismissed, that I will let them go home without cleaning the classroom if they come back tomorrow dancing as gracefully as these two.

I let them go without saying any of it. I contemplate leaving too, I really do, only…

A small sigh escapes me as I watch, unable to tear my eyes off their feet, off the fond shine in her eyes and the enamoured smile playing on his lips.

Harper Maynard may be marrying into money, but Riza Hawkeye has found herself a man with a heart of gold.