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“Sir?”
Jon turns from the Smartboard, one arm still raised from where he’d been writing over his powerpoint presentation. He uses his other hand to poke his glasses further up the bridge of his nose as he finds the source of the voice.
“Yes, er, Madeleine.”
Madeleine puts her hand down. “Are yous Catholic?”
“No.”
Jon waits.
Madeleine puts her hand up again.
“Yes, Madeleine?”
“Are yous religious?”
Jon is not quite so quick to respond this time. The real answer is no, not anymore. No, because of a combination of terrible family dynamics, a lack of time to invest in his family’s religion and because, at some point while fighting off the Apocalypse, it all got a little too much and it often seemed a little cliche to shoot Allah a question re: the nature of God in humanity’s suffering.
Martin had been the one to fill out Jon’s application forms and for the most part Jon had told Martin to tick the ‘Other’ box on the Equality Monitoring forms, not really wanting to commit to either Atheism or Islam; especially on a piece of paper.
But this school, this was the one that had offered both the highest pay and the sketchiest get-out clauses for when he and Martin needed to bounce — if they ever needed to bounce, his inner-Martin mentally corrected.
Saint Augustine’s is a Catholic high school. It is a private school, which Jon has experience with, and an all-girl’s school, which he doesn’t. The head teacher of Saint Augustine had interviewed him, and while interviewing him had asked Jon whether he was a Catholic.
“No,” Jon had said, back straight and not looking away from the woman who, Jon thought with quite a bit of trepidation, reminded him a lot of Gertrude. A stiff upper lip, a broad build, dark black skin set in a frosty expression and relaxed hair pulled into a severe bun. “Will that be a problem?” he asked, half a genuine question, half curious to see how she would react to being talked back to.
He had noticed girls in hijabs as he had walked through the school, knew from the website that the school did ‘accept’ a small number of students of every religion despite the Catholic branding.
“Saint Augustine’s,” Mrs. Okuboye had said, “Is a community founded by, and with the charism of, The Daughters of the Cross. It has Christ as its foundation. His teaching and example are the basis of our daily life, relationships and future hopes. We encourage all to engage as fully as possibly with every aspect of school life, including collective worship.”
“You would like me to attend daily prayer,” Jon had translated.
“Saint Augustine’s is a multi-cultural and multi-ethnic community,” Mrs Okuboye had said, expression not shifting. “Students and staff from other faith traditions are encouraged to participate in, support and uphold the Catholic ethos. While you have the legal right to withdraw your attendance, since you will be choosing to subscribe to a Catholic school with our ethos and values, it is reasonable to assume that all staff will respect and engage with these central aspects of the school’s life.”
“I see.” Something had begun clicking inside Jon, something he’d not engaged with since escaping the Institute. Something that loved a puzzle, something that secretly delighted in slowly winding up Holier Than Thou employers with God-complexes. “So there’s no multi-faith prayer room?”
“There is,” Mrs Okuboye had said, her voice not letting any wayward emotion into it. “We currently have several Muslim students who have requested the use of a room for prayer. We have granted it. I am certain the students would welcome a member of staff to join them. Several of our Sikh and Jewish students also use the room to congregate.”
“Right. ...What would you say the make-up of the staff body was, in terms of religion?”
“An interesting query,” Mrs Okuboye said, sounding very much like it was not an interesting query. “I would put the number at perhaps sixty percent Catholic. Twenty percent from other Christian denominations. Atheist or from a different faith tradition make up the last twenty.” She gave brief smile that barely affected her lips, let alone her eyes. “I am sure you will find many friends among our staff, no matter your own background.”
“Does the canteen serve halal meals?”
“I am afraid we do not,” Mrs Okuboye said. “Due to the lack of demand we do not yet serve halal or kosher certified meals.”
“Yet.”
“Yet,” Mrs. Okuboye repeated. “My apologies.”
“That’s alright,” Jon had said, warming his face a little. “I’d actually been thinking about getting into eating a packed lunch again. Can’t imagine school without a packed lunch.”
“Yes,” Mrs Okuboye said, an echo of what one might call a polite smile on her face now. “Do you have children, mister Sims?”
“Is that—” relevant, Jon had wanted to ask, but had finished with a “No,” instead.
“Do you have plans to start a family?”
“Not, er. We only just.” Jon had felt himself begin to flush, but fought it, not wanting to give this woman an inch. “We’re recently married. We haven’t had a conversation about children yet.”
“And what is your partner’s job?”
“Husband,” Jon corrected. “My husband is also a teacher.”
“I see.”
“He’s also looking for a job,” Jon had said, reaching within him to scratch at the memory of Tim, trying some of the man’s confidence for himself. “I’m fairly certain my husband’s family are Catholic, if you’re looking for an English teacher.”
“I would have to check with the English department,” Mrs Okuboye had said. “But for now, we must return to you.”
“Of course.”
“Why did you decide to pursue a career as a history teacher, mister Sims?”
“War.” Jon allowed himself a quick break from meeting the woman’s eyes in order to collect himself, eyes landing on his hands, deep brown skin pock-marked from burrowed worms and mottled with scar-tissue from his burns. Nicks and scratches and knife wounds and blisters: a history of mistakes and consequences from not-knowing-soon-enough. “The more we know about our past, the less doomed we are to repeat it. I would like to encourage as many of the next generation to heed that warning.”
He had looked up to find Mrs Okuboye watching him with the same clear eyes; though with a touch less cold in them. “I see. Well, mister Sims. You lack secondary experience and we have yet to reach your reference at the Magnus Institute, but your job there is reference enough for many of our board, who are, as you might know, patrons of the Institute.”
Jon had blinked, fighting a rising dread bubbling within him… but kicked it down with an adamant foot. He had read enough letters from rich, oblivious fools to know that not everyone who funded Jonah Magnus had known what exactly the man was doing with their cash. “So?” Jon had asked.
“The job is yours, if you would like it.”
Jon had talked it over with Martin, the pair of them staring at the ceiling as they lay in bed that evening. “Well,” they had concluded, “Might as well bleed the place dry with a decent salary while we look into alternatives.”
And so Jon is standing at the front of a class of S2s, powerpoint about the Magna Carta open on the smart screen, a twelve year old Catholic schoolgirl asking him about his religion.
Jon looks around the class and he knows Madeleine has effectively pressed the equivalent of a pause button inside each of her class members’ heads. The Magna Carta doesn’t exist for them anymore, their confident leader having decided that today’s lesson will be on their teacher instead.
“That is a very complicated question,” Jon says.
“Do you think God exists?”
“I believe that’s a question for your RE teacher.”
“But do you think God exists?”
Jon meets Madeleine’s eye and tries to psych her out. Why does she need to know? Why does she want to know now? Who will this information reach? What effect will it have on his and Martin’s careers, their lives in this town?
Jon purposefully unclenches his jaw. “I believe in the power of the Gods.”
“Yous from London?”
“Yes.”
“Why are yous in Scotland?”
“Circumstances.”
“Why is your surname Sims?”
“Colonialism, immigration, racism.”
“Did yous do a crime?”
“Have I, in my entire life, committed a crime?”
“As the reason why you’re here.”
“No.”
“Did yous know lying was a sin in the Bible?”
“I have read the Bible.”
“Are yous Christian?”
“No.”
“Are yous Muslim?”
“Technically. Sometimes.” Jon ran a hand through his hair. “I lean towards yes more recently.”
“Are yous in protective custody?”
“If I was, do you think I could answer that question?”
“Hm,” Madeleine says. “Yeah, that one’s fair cop.”
“May I teach you about the Magna Carta now?”
“Yeah, alright.”
-
“Sir?”
Jon doesn’t sigh, because he’s a teacher now and he doesn’t want to be the kind of teacher that sighs and puts kids off of learning. “Yes, Madeleine?”
“Do yous know French?”
“Who?”
“The language. French.”
“Oh. No.”
“Do yous know Latin?”
“Passingly.”
“Do yous know Chinese?”
“I understand some Mandarin, sometimes.”
“Do yous know Welsh?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Okay. Thanks, Sir.”
Jon nods and goes back to his powerpoint.
-
“Sir?”
“Yes, Madeleine.”
“Do you smoke, Sir?”
“No.”
“Do you know what vegan means?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know any vegans?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a vegan?”
“Yes.”
“Is your husband a vegan?”
“Nice try.”
-
“Sir?”
“Yes, Madeleine,” Jon begins to say, before realising the voice is not the one he is expecting to hear. “Sorry, Femi?”
“Do you know what the trolley problem is?”
“Yes.”
“If an evil villain made you pick between saving your husband or saving all of us, who would you pick?”
“The trolley problem is an inherently flawed…” Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. “You.”
“Do you hate your husband, Sir?”
“No.”
“Then why would you save us over him, Sir?”
“Because it’s my job.”
“Does it say that in your contract, Sir? If an evil villain kidnaps us you have to kill your husband so that you can protect us?”
“Not in this one, no.”
“Have you killed someone before, Sir?”
“Again, if I had, do you think I would say so to a classful of potential narks?”
“Yeah that’s fair, Sir.”
-
“Sir?”
“Yes, er…”
“You can call me Jason, Sir.”
“Yes, Jason?”
“If a tree falls—”
“Does this have anything to do with King John or the Crusades, Jason?”
“It might do, Sir.”
“Right.”
“If a tree falls in a forest and there’s nobody there to hear it, does it really make a sound?”
“Yes.”
“But how do you know, Sir?”
“Do you believe in God, Jason?”
“Er, yes, Sir.”
“Then the same way you know God exists.”
“Sir?”
“Yes, Madeleine?”
“I don’t believe in God.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, Madeleine.”
“So how do I know that trees make sound if I can’t hear them?”
“How does this relate to King John and the Crusades, Madeleine?”
“Uh. If the King’s an English bastard who wants to make us pay taxes, is he really our king?”
“Please don’t swear, Madeleine, or I’ll have to give you detention.”
“It’s not a swear if it’s true.”
“Was King John an illegitimate child, Madeleine?”
“Dunno.”
“He wasn’t.”
“Okay, but he was still an English bastard.”
“All right,” Jon says over the general Scottish din the other kids raise in support. “And why do we think that?”
“‘Cos he exerted his power over the Church to extort money from us and the Irish but then lost a war with those French guys anyway.”
“And?”
“So them baron guys got him to sign the ‘Carta so the English bastard couldn’t have unrestricted power over us’all.”
“And?”
“Within a century we started doing parliament things, Sir.”
“It won’t get you full marks, but you’re on the right track.”
“Sir?”
“Yes, Femi?”
“Do you think the Magna Carta was good, Sir?”
“History is a lot more complicated than ‘good or bad’.”
“But like. The Magna Carta. Good or bad.”
“It’s too simple to say whether it was good or bad.”
“But like… if you had to choose, sir. Between good or bad.”
“Why would I need to?”
“Like if it came up on a test.”
“Doubtful.” Jon took a couple of measured breaths. “On a spectrum, closer to good because of the precedent it set.”
“So you think the fact that foreign knights had to be deported was good, Sir?”
“Ah, I see.”
“Sounds a bit racist, Sir.”
“More than a bit, I would say.”
“Sir,” Madeleine said, hand in the air but not waiting for Jon to pick on her. “So you think the fact that none of the barons could be arrested on the accusation of a woman is on the spectrum of good, Sir? Bit misogynistic, wouldn’t you say, Sir?”
“Okay, very well played. Anyone else?”
A handful of arms went up. “Yes, Nnedimma?”
“So you think that a limit on taxing the rich is good, Sir?”
-
Jon saved up all of his sighs at school so he could let them all out at home in one huge gust. He’d unlock the cottage door, step out of his shoes, hang up his coat and his scarf, put the keys in the little bowl Martin had made at a pottery class in the community centre, then he’d sigh.
He let it all out in the hallway, a daily ablution of his stress, leaving it at the doorway and not allowing himself to bring it into the house.
“2 Pankhurst again?”
“Mm,” Jon says, draping his arms over Martin’s shoulders. With Martin’s arms around his waist to hold him up he goes spineless, pecking a kiss on Martin’s waiting lips. “They’re a bunch of budding socialists.”
“That’s good!”
“Was trying not to make a fuss,” Jon says into Martin’s neck, rubbing his nose and moustache into Martin’s skin. “‘Queer Muslim Arab terrorises Scottish All-Girl’s’ Catholic School with socialist agenda’ is the Daily Mail’s wet dream.”
“Mm,” Martin agrees, resting his chin on the top of Jon’s head. “Do you think any of them would…”
“Tell someone? I don’t know. I hope not. They all seem like good kids. And there’s one… they haven’t come to me personally, but today they told me their name was Jason.”
“And their classmates all knew.”
“Seemed like it.”
“Hm.” Martin squeezes a little tighter. “Seems like they trust you.”
Jon shrugs. “They asked if I’d kill you to save them the other day.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.” Jon snorts. “Can’t quite work out if they’re Elias’s minions, tormenting me with trolley problems and questions of faith.” Jon feels Martin go stiffer, his grip tightening to the point where it starts to get uncomfortable.
“Please don’t joke about him.”
“... Yeah. Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Martin raises one of his hands to run his fingers through Jon’s short, bristly hair. “Sounds like your kids are pulling at your pigtails.”
“What?”
“They like you, so they’re calling you mean names and beating the shit out of you to get your attention.”
“I’d rather they didn’t.”
Martin is quiet for a moment, then lets out a guilty little laugh.
“What?” Jon asks, tilting his head up a little so he can pin Martin with a suspicious look.
“Nothing,” Martin says, injecting false cheer into his tone. “Let’s get tea on shall we? I made a stew with all the vegetables Mrs. Wen left for us the other day.”
Jon scrunches his features together, locking his arms around Martin’s shoulders. “Tell me.”
“Don’t wanna.”
“Tell me.”
“Don’t wanna!”
“Martin,” Jon whines, “You’re not supposed to keep secrets from your husband.”
“You’re supposed to respect your husband’s boundaries, Jon.”
Jon immediately loosens his grip, going to pull away, but Martin catches him, pulling him back. “No, sorry, I didn’t mean it. Fine, I’ll tell you but you have to promise not to get upset.”
“No promises, I’m constantly upset.”
“And don’t I know it.” Martin returns to alternately patting down and re-ruffling Jon’s hair. “There was a bit, maybe six months when we first met, where I thought maybe you were being mean to me because you liked me.”
Jon groans, letting the familiar guilt wrap its tendrils around his heart. “Turns out I was just being a dick.”
“Turns out you were just being a dick,” Martin echoes, though with a good-humoured laugh to it. “I’m glad you were just being a dick to be honest. Don’t particularly think it’d have been healthy if you were doing it as a grand show of your affection.”
“No, probably not. Not if it’s how thirteen year olds choose to profess their love for their teachers.”
“Any apples on your desk yet?”
“No apples, thankfully.” Apples had joined meat on their household taboo list, Jon never quite comfortable biting into one without first checking for teeth.
“Good,” Martin says, giving Jon one last squeeze before moving out of his grip. “Because I can and will fight some tweens over your affection, Jon.”
“Oh will you now?”
“Damn right I will. I’ll have you know that I’m very big and thirty kids don’t scare me one bit.”
“That is a categorical lie and you know it.”
-
“Sir?”
Jon turned around and put the smartboard pen in its rest. “I’d rather you called me Sims, or Jon, rather than Sir, Madeleine.”
“Oh. Uh, sorry.”
“No worries, it’s not like I’d said it before. How can I help you, Madeleine?”
“Uh, it’s okay.”
Jon tilted his head slightly, then nodded at Jason as Jason raised a hand. “Yes, Jason?”
“Can you say ‘trans rights’?”
“I can and do indeed say ‘trans rights’.”
“Yes Femi?”
“Do you think King John would have said trans rights?”
“I rather doubt that.”
“Yes Madeleine?”
“Can we call you King Jon?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“What about Queen Jon?”
“Absolutely not.”
-
Martin is grinning at his phone when Jon comes home. This is not an unusual occurrence, but Jon can sense that the particularly smug smile being levelled at him means that whatever is entertaining the man has something to do with Jon.
“Yes?” he asks once he has dumped the day at the door. “What have I done now?”
“Nothing,” Martin sings, absolutely delighted. He allows Jon a kiss but keeps the phone pressed firmly against his chest so Jon can’t swipe it. “I got the job.”
“Oh! Congratulations. At Saint Augustine’s?”
“Yep. We are officially the hottest new workplace romance.”
“Please don’t. 2 Pankhurst doesn’t need another thing to talk about.” The way Martin’s face scrunches belies that fact that he’s trying very hard not to grin. “Oh God, what now?”
“Maybe I went to the teacher’s room after my interview and maybe I got added to the teacher’s whatsapp group.”
“...I haven’t been added to a whatsapp group,” Jon says, a touch hurt.
“You don’t have whatsapp,” Martin says, only a little bit sympathetic. “You didn’t tell them that we’re married.”
“I uh,”
“Like your privacy, I know. It’s fine, and I won’t unless you’re comfortable with it. I’m glad you didn’t, because now I get to see what they say about you.”
Martin must see the lance of fear that goes through Jon, because he’s already got a hand on Jon’s forearm, pulling Jon on top of him on the sofa. Jon lets himself be manhandled until he’s a human blanket over Martin, who then uses the top of Jon’s head to rest his phone on.
“Apparently a kid called Madeleine was causing some ruckus in Biology.”
“Unsurprising.”
“2 Pankhurst?”
“2 Pankhurst.”
“She was passing a note that Jenny caught.”
“Jenny?”
“Mrs. Fujioka. Would you like to see a photo?”
“Probably not,” Jon says, but tilts his head to the side so he can be shown anyway. It’s a scrap of Madeleine’s homework diary, ripped out to be doodled on. In the centre of the page is a rather romanticised drawing of himself: a cartoon-style character wearing a crown, medieval kings’ garb and a regal expression. ‘Regent Jon’ is written over his head.
Jon groans, choosing to turn back and press his face into Martin’s soft chest and let himself drown in embarrassment.
He can feel his pillow begin to vibrate with unconstrained laughter. “Sven, the tech teacher, has written an essay about Madeleine’s assumed anime history based on her artistic choices. Apparently she’s got a nice range of classic inspiration with a smattering of entirely age-appropriate newer shows.”
Jon continues to groan.
“Ben, who’s a maths teacher I think, says ‘Femi and Maddy were planning something at break’. Oh I think he’s their form tutor. Do you have them tomorrow?”
“No,” Jon says, muffling the word so it comes out sounding like a groan anyway. “Friday.” Jon listens to Martin typing and get a half-dozen replies.
“Ben says he’ll do some recon on the situation so you don’t go to Friday’s class without knowing what they’re up to.”
“MMMmmmmghh,” Jon says. “Tell him thanks.”
“If I do, they’ll know we know each other. Probably guess we live together.”
“Mmm,” Jon agrees, snuggling himself even further into Martin, as if he can join them together forever just by doing so. “Don’t want to hide it.”
“Only if you’re sure.”
“‘M sure.”
Jon hears Martin type again and get a flurry of replies, and he knows Martin is smiling because he hasn’t tensed up.
“Mrs. Lingam asks if you’re going to frame the drawing. She says you can print it off in the IT suite.”
“Tell Mrs. Lingam to bugger off,” Jon says, knowing Martin absolutely will not do that. “I thought I was old enough not to get bullied.”
“Aw, did little lanky Jon get bullied at school?”
“Not even a question,” Jon says. “Like you weren’t.”
“I was not, actually,” Martin says, vague pride in his voice. “Not cool enough to have a lot of friends, not openly nerdy enough to get picked on. Just your run of the mill chubby kid. No horrific bullying, no big parties, just Martin.”
“Hm,” Jon says, slightly disappointed. “Would have said you were the horse kid.”
“Scared of horses.”
“Not a horse kid horse kid, more the… idea of it. The poetry kid. Walking through school corridors waxing lyrical about whatever had caught your eye that week.”
“God no, Jon. I know I’m hardly the height of social etiquette but I did have some self-preservation skills.”
Jon smiles, propping himself up so his bony elbows dig into Martin’s chest. “‘Alas, what hast mine eyes fallen upon this fine afternoon? The soft eggshell paint of the school corridors, hung with paintings by my fellow artists!’”
“Is that what you think poetry sounds like, Jon?”
“Yes. Am I wrong?”
“I will grant you that it was not an inaccurate recreation of what my poetry sounded like aged 14.”
“There, see?” Jon says, smug, collapsing again so his elbows aren’t stabbing Martin into submitting so easily to his very well made points.
“I hope I get put with 2 Pankhurst,” Martin says, wistfully.
“So you can spread terrible rumours about me?”
“So I can request the original to hang above our bed.”
“I would rather you just set fire to me now.”
“It’s a very flattering drawing.”
Jon grumbles, half-heartedly reaching for Martin’s phone so he can scroll back up to the picture. He takes a longer look at it. It is flattering. Too flattering. He isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to be worried that it’s so flattering or whether he’s supposed to just laugh it off.
“It’s sweet,” Martin continues. “That they like you so much, so soon after joining. I think it’s nice. I hope they like me.”
“Of course they’ll like you, you’re you. Plus, you’re an English teacher. Everyone likes their English teacher. Tell me one history teacher you ever liked.”
“Hmm,” Martin says. “Jonathan Sims.”
“Gah,” Jon says. “See? This is why they’ll like you.”
“My stirling wit and soppy humour?”
“Yes.”
“I was trying to be sarcastic.”
“I know. I wasn’t. Kids like that stuff. They’ll love you.”
“Maybe I should introduce myself as your husband. See if some of their love for you rubs off on me.”
“So they can draw crude doodles of us holding hands on our whiteboards? Go on then. We’ll see who’s laughing when they upload the photo to their TikTok.”
“You’re an old man, Jon.”
“At least when I blush I don’t go bright red.”
“Hey. Asian flush is a medical condition.”
“No it’s not and it also doesn’t apply here, so bleh.”
“‘So bleh’?” Martin asks, one eyebrow up.
“Yeah. So bleh.” Jon does what any reasonable adult would do at that juncture in the conversation and sticks his tongue out. “Bleh.”
“Wow. Wow, okay, I see how it is. Very nice. Well you know what, Jonathan Sims?”
“What?”
“Bleh yourself.” Martin sticks his own tongue out and blows a raspberry.
The pair hold it together for less than three seconds before collapsing into a giggling fit of tangled limbs and warm laughter.
-
Jon finished Friday afternoons of week 2 with 2 Pankhurst. He would be the first to admit that it was nice ending on a livelier class, especially given some of the topics he was currently attempting to teach to irreverent S4s.
Today, though, he’d had to tough through being on the receiving end of his fellow teachers’ knowing looks, a couple of rough claps on the back following him through the hallways and extra wide smiles in the staff room.
Jon was familiar with the sensation of dread, knew exactly how much fear he could feel before coming down with physical symptoms of it, and knew that what he was feeling was not dread, per se, but… anticipation? Curiosity?
It was almost… nice. The not knowing. Not knowing, but having the not knowing not be a matter of life or death. Unless this was all an elaborate hazing that even his husband condoned (which he absolutely doubted,) the kids were not up to something bad or harmful, meaning he could wander towards the classroom with a delightful sense of puzzlement.
He did not enjoy surprises, not after returning to find Jurgen Leitner’s body, nor did he particularly care for jump scares what with… well, everything, but he did like a puzzle. He liked to find things out.
He let the class file in, did the register, then loaded up his powerpoint.
“Uhm, Jon?”
“Yes Jason?”
“I know you haven’t been here long but sometimes on Friday afternoons our old teacher Mrs. Hadley would let us do class on the field. When it was a nice day and we didn’t need to be at a desk. She said it was good to learn outside. In nature and stuff.”
“‘In nature and stuff’,” Jon repeated. “Her words exactly?”
“Yes?” Jason tried.
Jon took a brief inventory of the class. They all looked hopeful, none of the children exhibiting anything more malicious than ‘hopeful but devious’.
“Alright.”
“But Jon,” Madeleine was already saying, before stopping herself. “Oh. Yeah?”
“Yes, why not. Fresh air on a friday afternoon sounds nice.”
Jon watched the kids pack up their books and pencil cases into their backpacks, and he shrugged on his cardigan. When everyone was ready, he followed them out, through the humanities corridor and out the fire exit onto the field. They walked down a path past the tennis-cum-netball courts before arriving at the nature-garden: a purposefully overgrown area full of flowers and picnic benches intended for lunch-time studying.
The kids arranged themselves around the tables, Jon setting himself up at a bench he hoped meant everyone could see him at.
As soon as everyone had settled, Madeleine raised her hand. “Yes Madeleine?”
“Uhm,” Madeleine said, “We just wanted to say, uhm. Thanks, like. We like having you as a teacher.”
“Oh. Er.” Jon scratched at his beard, suddenly feeling very hot in his thin cardi. “Thanks. That means a lot to me.”
“We think you’re really, really cool,” Jason added, half-standing with visible excitement. “Like, the coolest teacher, probably ever.”
“That sounds incredibly unlikely, but again, thank you.”
The kids met eyes then reached under the table, bringing out an ominously-sized Marks and Sparks bag. Jon leant back on instinct, not entirely comfortable with … whatever this was.
Surprises, okay. Weird black and white plastic bags that were strangely flat and placed underneath picnic benches in the school garden? Jon knew he wasn’t blinking as the kids pulled a knife out of the bag.
Ah, so he was going to be stabbed, huh. Not quite the cosmic horror he’d assumed would be his end two years ago but certainly a classic -
“-birthday to you-”
Jon’s eyes made up for their not-blinking by blinking rapidly and in quick succession as sound began to filter back through his brain.
The children were singing.
After the knife came a huge tray-cake, every inch of it covered in chocolate. It had unlit candles stabbed in it, and ungraceful home-made icing read: ‘happy birthday regent jon!!!! best history teacher ever xoxoxo’.
“Happy birthday to you!” the kids finished, pushing the cake until it sat squarely before Jon on the table.
“It’s homemade and vegan!” Femi said. “And Martin said you don’t have any allergies-”
“Femi!”
Femi clapped a hand over her mouth. “I mean. Our form tutor. He said it. Not someone called Martin. Nope.”
“Er, Jon?”
There was a silence as uncertainty settled over the class.
“Oh my god Jon’s crying.”
Jon’s hand shot to his cheek, feeling the tears, hot and wet on his cheek. Huh. He could feel a miserable lump forming in his throat. He raised the cuff of his sleeve up to his eyes, hastening to quell the tears. “Huh. Sorry, uh-” Jon swallowed, trying to get rid of the emotions threatening to choke him.
“Please say these are happy tears,” Nnedima was saying.
“Hah,” Jon could only reply with, not even wanting to begin to unwrap the source of these emotions. He could smell the specific concoction of age-old books and terrible dankness of the archive even now, the strange mix of cheap candles and a recently uncorked-wine. Could hear Tim’s laughter, could count the colours on the party hats his friends were wearing.
He’s not thought about that day for years, now. It was probably the last time anyone had celebrated his birthday with him, and was certainly one of the first since leaving school. It was… it was a little bit overwhelming.
Jon managed to get a grip on the tears, thankful that he’d not yet started to get snotty. “It’s good tears, yeah,” he managed to say. “Sorry. Thank you. I’m just a bit. This is very, very sweet, and I wasn’t expecting it.”
“Uhm,” Madeleine said, obviously having been silently voted as the class’s leader. “Do you still want to make a wish?”
“Yes.”
“Okay uhm so Martin— I mean, er, here’s a magic trick, I think you should look in your inner pocket in your bag.”
Jon did so, pulling out a cheap bic lighter, a small ‘:)’ written on it in sharpie. Jon made a cursory look around the garden for eyes (the last thing he wanted to do now was to get caught sneaking a lighter for the kids), then lit the candles.
“Okay,” Jason said once they were all done. “You can blow them out now. And don’t forget to make a wish.”
Jon smiled to himself as he closed his eyes. There was a nice quiet as he did so, the audible baited breaths of his kids, the light rustle of wind in the grass.
What to wish for.
The health and happiness of his friends and family, of course. The continued peace on earth. The safety of these children he would protect with his life (but hoped it would never have to come to). A couple more weeks to teach his seniors before their prelims.
Jon wracked his mind for anything else to tack on, but… But that was it.
A good, general amount of normal human worries and concerns.
Jon laughed to himself, took a deep breath, and blew out the candles.