The expletive rings into the quiet space of the atrium, hollowing out against the large wooden beams that stretch across the ceiling. Her heart skips, beating once, twice, against the strain of her ribcage, before settling back into its rhythmatic cadence. His shaken stupor, playing in time with her own, was an added incentive for her racked nerves. But she couldnât blame him, she had, after all, trespassed into the reserved confinement that the theater brought. Barely anyone came here during free periods. All opting to disperse outside, hiding around the corner of the school to roll cigarettes and swap Xanax, drinking a weird mixture of Redbull and Mountain Dew. Some of them would disappear deep into the bleachers on the football field, all giggles and smug smiles. The theater had become a sacred location, a calm place to find reprieve of the chaos that high school life provided.
Not that she minded said life so much. But there was something trivial about trying to sneak in a quick release underneath some metal benches, while the rest of the school could hear exactly what you were doing. She often wondered if there wasnât more to life, more to this provincial way of existence. More to trying to be remembered as âmost likely toâŠâ in a yearbook that no one would ever glance at again. Or maybe she was just sour that Mick had never dared to to drag her behind those stalls, but sheâd spotted him, distinct and clear, with some pretty little blonde that looked too perfect to be real. She shook her head, banishing the thoughts. Neither were at fault. He was free to do what he liked, or who, for that matter. If it chiseled away at her heart than that was her problem.
Glancing back at her substitute teacher, Lena regards him. He has an air of nonchalance about him, having recovered from his earlier shock like sheâd never even gotten to him in the first place. His whole disposition screams of a familiarity, an ease with which he heeds the space. Itâs jarring and intriguing at the same time. And sheâs reminded again, why heâs the hot topic among her friends and classmates alike. Her brow rises a little at the casual way he dismisses her, the end of his cigarette sizzling, a few stray shreds of ash dropping to the ground. He shouldnât be smoking in here, something about fire hazards and the safety measures put in place regarding expensive props and the red linen curtains of the stage, but she isnât about to tattle on him like a fifth grader. What good would that do? Beside get her an irate supervisor for the rest of the year. And itâs not like itâs in her interest to judge him. Sheâs sure her eight year old self would strongly disagree, but sheâd grown from that perspective. âDeal.â She accedes, easily, giving a small nod. âBit of an odd place to get away, though. Most teachers like to smoke in their car by the parking lot, or behind the locker rooms across the football field.â She figures thatâs still new information for him. She isnât supposed to know, either, but everyone in the school was aware that even the faculty liked to layoff sometimes.
She almost responds with another concession. It feels automatic, ingrained into her system, like taking another breath. But she clams her mouth shut when the implication of his words hit her. Heâs right, of course, and this wasnât the first time sheâd been told so either. Instinctively, she knew there was nothing to apologize for, she certainly didnât need to atone for her own presence, â something that she still has to tell herself, but it was a force of habit that was hard to break. âSo does not saying it enough.â Lena concedes. She could recall the few times sheâd wished for an explanation, a sign of remorse; When it had eventually come, way later, as more of a confused stutter, it had lost its significance. A bubble of laughter slips passed her lips when Matt speaks again. âUh, yeah. I-I know that. â I have played before. Iâm not as good as I am on an acoustic but I can âŠstrum a few tunes.â Trailing off, inwardly questioning her choice of words, and why sheâd even tried to come across as something akin to cool, Lena shifts on her stool. âWhy? Are you offering to teach me or something?â
The abrupt need to laugh overtook him so, Matthew almost choked on the smoke he sharply inhaled with. âDoes it say âkill me with a living deathâ on my forehead?â A Shakespearean mock. Or so Matt remembered from the drama syllabus he most definitely did abandon in his car. His Shakespearean days were far behind him, only to touch surface on those rainy nights the BBCâs feeling more murderous than usual or European girls in glasses hit the bar. He pitied the fool having to teach those chapters. Hell, he needed Aubs here by his side for a reason. Knowing how to entertain â and do it well â was not nearly the same as having any educational qualifications pertaining entertainment. This promising scholar infront him would find that out sooner than later. âLook, Iâm gonna be honest with you. Iâm not a teacher. Iâm just the temp. Iâm not planning on staying around long enough to protest the smoke regulations of this school or find out what the hellâs going on behind its locker rooms.â His nose scrunched up a little at the thought.
âAnd before you have any more helpful locations in mind, know that I donât harbour enough student gossips to keep up with any conversation in the teacherâs lounge and well, every other corridorâs riddled with your fellow peers who Iâve heard drop grossly inaccurate sex brags just in bypassing. Not even a one time thing. Itâs like... do you ever realize, sometimes, that... someone was given the blessing of speech and... they shouldnât have it?â He swore the internet made kids dumber. Matthew even had had many a millenial agree with him on this, accidentally igniting rants on the spread of misinformation via social media platforms, and what not. Though the world was not ready to hear his argument was really about writing the generation off as dumb for not availing themselves of online porn. It was freely accessible and they still get basic brags wrong? Somehow. He cleared his throat, âAnyways in here itâs quite nice, nicely quiet, so, thanks for letting me hog your space.â
As the girl threw his advice back at him, his hands raised in defense. An automatic reaction to triggered women (or girls on the verge of being riled up in this case). But before he could add salt to the wound or laugh it right off, being overly annoying with his âitâs no big deal, chill.â, her words made their landing. They made him think. Some sorries could change the course of life, fix past relationships and entire asshole personalities. He knew. Heâd been waiting a lifetime for one. Without a hint of his usual irony, Matt told her, âDamn, youâve got a point.â Feeling the weight of his upbringing threaten to bring him down, he was quick to join back in with the laughter and steer right away from the daddy issues lane. It was much easier to focus on otherâs problems than his own. Though being âonly slightly goodâ at playing a third musical instrument was definitely first-world shit. âOh, a multi-talent? Of course.â He shook his head with a lopsided smile. âNah, unless youâre looking to add drunk karaoke to your repertoire, I canât teach you much more. Youâll have to knock on Aubsâ door - I mean, miss Damiani - sheâs the musical wonder. I only dabble in words. Documenting the drama, maybe adding lyrics to your sheets, the useless skill of creating prime rhymes, that sorta stuff.â He wasnât embarrassed to say. It were only readers of his work, who all pretended to understand each vowelâs âdeeper meaningâ, who should be embarrassed. âMaybe also giving unsollicited advice to impressionable teenagers like yourself, Iâm sorry. Though to fall back on the topic one last time... a sorry thatâs owed will never lose its meaning. So save your sorries for those who demand them, theyâre the ones who need them the most.â