lucien
Lucien didn’t really want to be a teacher. He wanted to write books – interesting books. Which is why he wrote about his turbulent romance with his first love. Now there was a second story in the works. The Upper East Side has a killer on the loose. This unknown assailant promised everyone that he wasn’t finished. He wants the city to be thrown into chaos and so far it was working. People were scared. Half the staff at Victrola Academy cleared out their desks and left. With the shortage of employees, Mrs. Calloway enlisted her son for help. He was magnetic, influential, and a great reader and writer. He knew the language of these kids. It wasn’t that long ago when he graduated from Victrola. But teaching an English class was one thing – playing the role of a grief counselor? He didn’t know shit about counseling but the school needed it. His mother needed him to be whatever, whoever, she asks him to be. So he submitted to her authority again. A grown man and he’s still an obedient, sackless, child whenever she tells him to do something.
So here Lucien was again, out of his comfort zone; hunched into an office chair with a clipboard, and pen in his mouth. How the hell was he supposed to talk about everyone else’s five stages of grief when he has yet to sort through his own? Victor may have been the headmaster at Victrola and an ally to most, but he was his father. Shouldn’t he be the one on the couch? Alas, Calloways weren’t meant to agonize and so Lucien wasn’t afforded the same empathy as everyone else who knocked on the door before entering.
“Yes. Come in. Get comfortable. I know this is mandatory but it doesn’t have to suck.” He laughed. Was that wrong to laugh? Or to say things like ‘it doesn’t have to suck’? He probably looked like a psychopath. “What I mean is, I get it. We’re all scared. Everyone has seen the pictures, watched the news, read about it in the paper… And hell, I’m not even a real counselor. I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell you… But I’ve been told I’m a good listener… My father used to say that it was because I’m such a good listener that I’m such a successful writer. My entire family used to come to me with their…shit. I don’t know if they ever really took my advice but they kept coming back, so… Maybe I know how to help in some way. So I don’t know… How have you been processing all this? Do you feel …unsafe?”
The sound of heels echoed through the nearly empty halls of Victrola as Charlotte walked towards the office her brother currently called his own. Class was nearly ending for the day, and the blonde - for some reason - felt the urge to see Lucien. If anything, just to be around someone who shared her woes. She couldn’t stand to be around her mother right now, and they all knew Carter wasn’t exactly an option. Her friends, try as they might, couldn’t make her feel any better either. Who knew what to say to someone who’s father was so brutally murder out in the open? Especially when the killer had yet to be caught? It just led to awkward conversations. Hence the blonde not bringing anything even remotely depressing up when she was in the presence of others. So, in lieu of someone to talk to... it seemed Lucien would do.
Approaching the door, the youngest Calloway was about to open the door with a dramatic huff when she heard voices murmuring on the other side of it. Pausing for a second, she peered through the window and noticed her brother was sitting with someone. Brows furrowing, considering this looked much more serious than any after school tutoring one would get, she pressed her ear to the solid door and tried to listen. Mostly murmuring, but she could make out a few words. Pictures. Advice. Unsafe. A lump formed in her throat and she tried her hardest to push down any tears that even threatened to spill. Suddenly hearing the sound of shifting on the other side, the blonde stepped back as the door was thrown open and the student left moments later. Locking eyes with her brother, Charlotte walked into the room, her brows still crinkled. “Are you a guidance counselor now? Isn’t that something people need like... a degree in social work for?” Heading over to his desk, she plopped down on the edge of it and let her blue eyes wander around the room. Always a nosey Nancy. “I still can’t believe you’re teaching here. It’s weird as all hell.”
