Da mi basia mille (Give me a thousand kisses)
Chapter 1 - En algún lugar
Pairing: Ryland Grace x Reader
It's the day before school starts, and you're busy making your classroom presentable (for middle school standards) A few oddballs are introduced to you, and your attention is drawn to one of the 8th grade science teachers who's a bit too your-type.
A/N: I'm sorry if this chapter is a little boring! It's more of a prologue that sets up the rest of the story to come. Due to there being little mention of the actual school Grace works at, I had to take some liberties in creating some OCs. Such is life.
‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋
Moving from Seattle to San Francisco felt like trading your two-bedroom in for a studio.
Whereas you had room to breathe in Washington, your new apartment complex in San Francisco felt like a stack of broom closets one windstorm away from tumbling down.
You weren’t trying to be a debby downer, really - but the reason you’d moved so far in the first place wasn’t exactly a good one.
You had gotten the call one evening on the bus home from your last lecture of the day: BIO A 376 Hominin Crania in the Fossil Record. You loved your job, and you worked hard for it. Countless hours, days, months even - all throughout college and grad school memorizing type specimens and primate fossil records, taking the occasional odd general anthropology class, fighting tooth and nail for your spot in a museum internship.
Part of your degree requirement as an Anthropologist was at least one year of another language and finding it the most useful and prevalent in the United States, you chose Spanish.
It turns out that was the right choice, because your minor in Spanish and Portuguese studies had scored you the new job in San Francisco.
Working yourself to the bone paid off, and after countless field studies and papers released you had gained not only your doctorates in Anthropology (Human Evolutionary Biology specialization mind you), but you’d also smuggled your way into being a professor. Your lectures were fun, your fossil casts were expensive, and your… phone was ringing?
That’s right, you were on the bus when your phone rang. Usually you ignore any call and choose to answer it in the safety of your home, weary of eavesdroppers on public transit or God forbid the judgmental ogle of a fellow Seattleite. However, the caller ID read “Nana” and you feared not answering would lead to a lightning bolt come next rainstorm smiting you down.
“Is this ______ _______?”
Ok so totally not the warm and comforting voice of your Nana.
“Erh,” your eyes dart around the bus to see if anyone is staring at you. It was kind of rude to answer the phone on the bus next to all these people who were also probably tired after a long day’s work…
Ok cool, no one was staring at you yet. Your hand cups the phone speaker and hides your face as you confirm the caller's query. “Yeah, that’s me. Can I ask who you are and what you’re doing with my grandmother’s home phone?”
“I’m her caretaker, do you have a minute? It’s not... Detrimental or anything, but still quite serious.”
─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───
Nana sits comfortably on a wicker chair settled on the deck of your new apartment. The morning fog has come and gone, and the sun takes its place illuminating every wrinkle and freckle on her aged skin. A thin shawl is wrapped around her shoulders, and she seems to be enjoying the early September breeze.
“What a lovely view you have,” she remarks. You’re glad to see she’s in an exceedingly good mood. Her caretaker had spoken to you after dropping her off when you’d first arrived.
‘When it comes to dementia, we usually see our loved ones become obliviously delightful or confused and cranky’ the older woman had explained. You knew it wasn’t as cut and dry as that, and Nana’s memory wasn’t going to decline linearly - but the worries still crept in. Forgetting her short term memories was likely already distressing enough, you’d hate for your grandmother to become angry too, as selfish as that was.
You’ve just finished hauling the last of your boxes up the narrow stairs and into your living room/dining room. You did have a nice view, having scored a small yet expensive apartment near your Nana’s condo in the interest of being as close as possible without moving in with her. It only has one bedroom, and the dining room is the same room as the kitchen and the living room, but there’s only one you.
The majority of the boxes you spent the last hour towing are dedicated to your ever-growing wardrobe and eclectic house decorations, and there’s an entire storage bin labeled “CRAFTING!” that’s bulging the lid like it wants to jump out at you.
“Thanks to you,” you push a box out of your way with the sweep of your foot and approach the balcony to join her.
When your Nana’s husband passed the year before, he left quite the hefty sum of money to her in his will. Your parents were astonished that they didn’t get a single cent, but they should’ve known that Nana was his entire world. So much so, that he continued to support her (and you now) from beyond the grave.
“My salary as a professor spoiled me,” you hum, brushing a curly silver strand of hair behind her ear. “I have a feeling I’m going to have to adjust to this new one.”
Struggling for money wasn’t a new experience unfortunately. Financial aid had covered your bachelor's degree entirely, but graduate school and subsequent rent in Seattle was completely in your hands. You’d flipped and flopped between jobs and multiple roommates during that era of your life and certainly can’t say you miss it.
“Thanks for spotting me Nana, I don’t know how I could ever repay you.” While true, saying that was mostly a formality. You know she’s going to immediately deny any and all repayment.
Nana reaches to you and clasps your palm between her two hands; you can feel the rings on her hands warmed by the sun. Her hum is like music to your ears. “Just moving out here to be with little old me is payment enough!” She tuts.
“You can always start by selling that ludicrous wardrobe of yours if you’re so adamant on being independent,” she continues as her sandaled foot wiggles in the general direction of the boxes inside.
You groan and let go of her hand. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been curating my style? I’ve been to thrift stores no man would dare set foot in.” You’d seen horrors beyond belief at the Goodwill bins of downtown Seattle.
Deciding to busy yourself with unpacking the larger things first, you leave Nana to her sunbathing and focus your attention on ripping apart cardboard boxes with the vigor of someone who has about one and a half days to set up a classroom before the school year starts.
You have almost no experience teaching kids. Well, preteens.
College kids? Easy as pie. Just be a little funny, understanding (you were a college student too once after all), and lenient to an extent. Relationships with your students weren’t personal in the slightest, besides the occasional career counseling and letter of recommendation.
But middle schoolers? Like 11 to 14 year olds? You can only imagine…. Well, you can’t only imagine it. You’re going to experience it in approximately one and half days. Right.
You shake your head and get to work putting your living space together.
“What a lovely view...” Nana repeats to herself, folding her hands in her lap.
─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───
Grover Cleveland Middle School is significantly smaller than the college campus you previously worked on, as to be expected. It’s nice, but a little underwhelming if you’re being honest with yourself. Learning to navigate around an actual classroom and not just a lecture hall is going to need some getting used to.
On the bright side, you get to decorate!
Usually you’d try and dress “fun” (or quirky like Nana claims), but today was an arts and crafts set-up-the-class-last-minute kind of day and you were more worried about practicality. Still, bits of your usual bubbly attire crept in. Denim shorts of a sensible length, a very thin sweater in a funky pattern of varying colors, and huge sunglasses on top of your head.
Your sunglasses aren’t much use to you inside, so they push your hair away from your face instead. The hallways inside of the school are bright, with squeaky clean freshly waxed floors and vibrant walls. Your classroom is at the end of the hallway right next to a door that leads outside, where there’s a covered outdoor walkway to the auditorium and cafeteria building.
There seems to be somewhat of a rhyme and reason to the organization of the school, with 8th grade classes as well as electives like art and band in one building, 6th and 7th grade classes in another, and finally the physical education building out near a decently sized grass field that you’re sure the school pays extra money to keep watered year-round.
You surmise that language is certainly considered an elective, as the classroom you’ve been given is within that 8th grade slash electives building. The room you step into is more spacious than anticipated, delighted to see tall windows that let the sunlight in.
Colorful carpets are unrolled, paper garlands are strewn, desks are reorganized to form a huge circle (where you’ll stand in the center to call on random students - oh the horror!), and your classroom is starting to look like somewhere you wouldn’t mind spending 5 days a week in.
You’re balanced precariously on a ladder and trying to pin some fake plants up near the ceiling above a map of the world when someone knocks on your open doorway.
You shriek and drop the stapling gun, gripping on to your ladder for dear life. “Jesus Christ!” The exclamation escapes as you whip your head around to face the intruders. You had assumed other teachers would be here before school crept up tomorrow, but you weren’t expecting to be ambushed so soon.
Two women are standing just outside of your door, one of them grinning ear to ear while the second one looks horrified to have almost killed you. (The fall wasn’t far at all, you would have been perfectly fine.) The more smiley of the two makes the first move and marches over.
“You!” She points a finger in your direction. Oh no, what did you do wrong?
“Me?” Your eyebrows shoot up, throwing your hands up in defense once you’ve made it safely to the ground.
“You must be Alma’s replacement,” the accusing finger turns into an outreached hand that you gladly shake. Wow, her grip is really strong. “My name is Avery,” she continues with that bright smile.
Avery is a very small woman with a very big personality. Her curly brown hair is pulled up in the back with a clip and her eyes are dark, yet warm. She shakes your hand enthusiastically and motions for her shadow to enter the room behind her.
“I teach 8th grade social studies,” Avery drops your hand. “Are you excited? You’re so lucky you get to start at the beginning of the school year.” She rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet eagerly.
Her presence immediately lights up the room you notice. You can’t help but think that she must be a fantastic teacher.
“I’m a little nervous,” you admit. “I don’t know what you guys have heard but I’ve never actually taught this age before. Or this subject… God I sound unprepared.” A self-deprecating chuckle escapes your lips.
You weren’t inexperienced in teaching, but it would certainly be a change in material, and your audience would be much more demanding. No redirecting students to TA’s and answering emails. No, you’d be hands on from here on out.
Indiana is the woman behind Avery who steps towards you and immediately pulls you into a short hug rather than a handshake after introducing herself. She’s soft spoken, but not shy as she looks you directly in the eyes. Wow, her brown eyes are intense.
“You’ll do great.” She smiles. She’s taller than Avery, though you don’t think that’s hard to accomplish, and sports a messy ginger shag cut.
“Guess what she teaches?” Avery interrupts. From the way Indiana ignores the interruption, you have a feeling this behavior is normal for her.
“Er… Art?” You throw out a guess, just based on Indiana’s appearance. Her brown eyes are hidden behind a pair of thin wired glasses, and she’s wearing a black t-shirt with a colorful laurel birch cat on it.
“Wrong!” Avery hops up to sit on your desk and make herself at home. Luckily you haven’t put anything on it yet. That box is still sitting on the windowsill waiting to be opened. You were thinking of stopping by the thrift store this weekend to find some gaudy decorations for your desk. Are you allowed to have candles in school?
“I don’t know why she always does this,” Indiana rolls her eyes fondly. Apparently this wasn’t the first time Avery had pulled someone into a guessing game. You wondered how many new teachers this school went through if this had already happened multiple times.
“I teach Algebra 1 by the way. Pretty exhilarating stuff.”
“Awesomeness.” You weren’t great at math, so you respected that. Like, really respected that. One man’s trash was another man’s treasure. Or rather one teacher’s nightmare was another one’s dream. If anyone dreamed of being a middle school teacher at all.
You really had to stop the negative nancy behavior. All teachers were worthy of respect (this was obvious enough), and just because you didn’t dream of being in this situation didn’t mean it wasn’t someone else’s pride and joy.
You aren’t sure what to make of these two yet, but they seem friendly enough to introduce themselves to an unfamiliar face almost immediately. And you take a little bit of pride in the way they poke around your room, oohing and ahhing at your decorations.
The air is amiable but awkward while Indiana tinkers around a bookshelf that’s looking particularly sparse without the notebooks you intend to have your students store there.
“What did you teach before?” The ginger inquires once she’s done investigating your choice in interior design. She doesn’t have any complaints apparently.
“Anthropology,” you say proudly. “Biological anthropology, actually.” God you’re going to miss teaching people who were old enough to vote and drive. No more fossil casts and 2-hour long powerpoints. Now your life would revolve around teaching people how to introduce themselves in Spanish.
Indiana whistles. “Quite the change then, huh?”
“Eugh, don’t remind me,” you groan. “I moved here for personal reasons and believe it or not, it was easier getting a job here than at SFSU.” Guess they already had enough Anth professors.
“No offense, but what does that have to do with Spanish?” Avery swings her feet back and forth and leans further back on your desk. Any further and she’d fall backwards. You think back to elementary school when your teachers would scare you with tales of kids leaning too far back in their chairs and cracking their heads open.
“I minored in Spanish and Portuguese studies when I was still at uni,” you laugh. “I suppose I’m sufficiently fluent enough to teach junior high.” The teaching experience in general probably helped too.
The two women look at each other and then at you, before shrugging in perfect unison. It draws a laugh from you and the three of you leave the building and make way to the school’s joint cafeteria-auditorium. As they corral you in the right direction, it's explained to you that the teachers usually meet for lunch before the first day of school to catch up. That’s really cute actually.
The building you enter is essentially one huge room with a stage (the heavy blue curtains are open), a ton of tables with connected stools, and a small section cornered off where empty bins and counters are located. You assume that’s where the kids who get their food here will line up.
There’s a serving counter that leads to a separate room that has to be the kitchen. People are skittering back and forth in there, stacking bulk cans and organizing trays. A symphony of pots and pans can be heard, as well as laughter and the sound of a radio faintly playing from somewhere inside.
“Soooo, this is where the feasting happens,” Avery motions towards the middle of the room with jazz hands. She points to the large expanse of windows that show that there’s more seating outside. “The kids have lunch kinda early all things considered, but if it’s not too foggy they get to eat outside.”
You’re led to a table right in front of the stage where a few people are sitting down already. You can’t help the giggle that escapes you at the sight of grown men sitting in such small seats. They turn to look at the source of the laughter, and your eyes are immediately drawn to one of them.
He’s really fucking cute, you blink.
“Hi Grace, Hi Patil!” Avery waves and shoves herself into one of the seats. You notice she makes herself comfortable no matter where she goes. There’s something endearing about that.
Your eyes just brush over the lanyard worn by the taller of the two men. ‘Grace, Ryland’ it reads. You notice none of the other teachers are wearing theirs, presumably tucked into their bags or left in their classrooms today.
That’s kind of dorky of him. Not in a mean way. In a hot dorky way.
You need to get a hold of yourself instantly.
You shake your head and then remember that everyone can actually see you shaking it. Thank God they can’t hear your thoughts.
“Sorry, I had a hair on my face.” You lie, making a point to brush your hair behind your ears, almost knocking the sunglasses off your head. You forgot those were still there. This is going very well for you.
Indiana hides a laugh behind a cough into her hand before ushering you to one of the seats. You notice there isn’t any food on the table, but there are two thermoses. One of them has a sick octopus design on it, the other one is bare and whispering steam.
If the blonde guy is Grace (as Avery had referred to him), then you assume the man next to him is Patil. He’s a lanky fellow with thick, dark hair and golden skin.
You’re kind of confused now if you should be referring to people by their first or last names.
Grace is what you’d imagine if someone told you to envision a nerd from California. Sandy blonde hair, glasses, jewel-toned blue eyes - you could go on. He’s wearing a t-shirt that fits him nicely, and if you weren’t worried about someone secretly hearing your thoughts you’d even admit to yourself that his arms look quite biteable.
You seriously need to be put down. Appreciating someone’s appearance is fine. Avery and Indiana are gorgeous. Patil is kind of handsome too in his own way. You just need to keep all of your thoughts to yourself and focus on the important part here: being professional and making a good first impression.
Besides, you’re sure you won’t have any time for hallway crushes and tomfoolery with all the homework you’ll be grading.
“Hi, I’m Dr. _____” you blurt out before you realize your mistake.
Ok so referring to yourself as Dr. isn’t necessarily a mistake, it’s a true statement - but it doesn’t feel quite right in this setting considering your doctorate is in Anthropology and you’re teaching middle school Spanish.
You really don’t want these people to think you’re some sort of snob from Seattle, and you don’t need people here referring to you as Dr. You’d rather the kids and your coworkers just call you by your first name.
Grace’s eyebrows raise and he peers at you from behind his glasses. “I didn’t think I’d meet another Dr. working here,” he smiles. “Slim pickings, huh?”
Ok so literally no one cared that you called yourself that. You really need to stop worrying about every little thing.
“Uh, yeah,” you lean against the side of the table rather than sit down just yet. Testing the waters. “You too?”
He huffs to himself and offers you a grin. “Molecular biology.” Oh, so he was like, super freaking smart. That’s cool. Cool cool cool.
“Can’t say Grover Cleveland is where I thought I’d end up, but I love it here,” he keeps speaking and your eyes flit over his face. “I’m way happier now teaching here than I was having to prove myself to academics.” The way he trails off makes you think there’s a bitter story there, but it’s not your business.
“You’re only saying that because you’re one of the ‘cool teachers’” Patil pipes up. Every school had the cool teachers and the meh teachers. You had a feeling you were sitting with the ‘cool’ ones already.
“You all seem pretty cool to me,” you muse from your spot looking over them.
“Yeah, you’ll think that until you see Indiana in action,” Avery teases the ginger. “I know algebra isn’t exactly riveting stuff, but I could sleep like a baby listening to her talk about quadratic functions to her kids.”
A small ruckus from the kitchen draws your attention and before you know it, a handful of people emerge from inside with something that smells mouthwatering. You had no idea these kids were eating so good. Definitely some of the nicer food you’ve been exposed to in a school cafeteria.
Turns out the annual day-before-school feast involves not only the teachers that bother to show, but the office faculty and the hard-working chefs and lunch ladies too. The cafeteria fills up the smallest bit, but still nothing like how busy you imagine it being tomorrow with all of the children here.
The food is a mixed bag of cute triangle-cut sandwiches, roasted meat and waldorf salad, even some delicious tacos with handmade tortillas, and an array of work pot-luck type food that you make sure to try a bite of. None of it really matches at all, but it’s all very delicious.
This probably isn’t how the kids eat, having portions and food pyramids to follow or whatever. Does elementary school still stress the food pyramid? You guess you’ll find out.
You finally sit down at the ‘cool’ table after conversing with some faculty, reintroducing yourself to Principal Garcia, and thanking the kitchen profusely for making food. Avery and Patil are talking animatedly about something - dungeons and dragons you think?
Grace catches your attention as you’re bringing a bite of salad and apple to your mouth, leading to you making awkward eye contact while you chew. “Sorry, we got distracted before you could properly introduce yourself.” He apologizes, as if it’s his fault the entire group got carried away talking to each other.
You nod enthusiastically and put your fork down. “No worries, I totally forgot we were talking about that!” You exclaim, eager to talk about your work prior to this job.
“Anthropology,” you explain, assuming he’s referring to your doctorate. “Human evolutionary biology. Like primatology and stuff. Human fossils.” You wave your hand around. Most people got the gist of it, and you’d hate to be stuck gushing about Australopithecus afarensis to someone who wasn’t interested.
Grace perks up at the mention of biology. Molecular biology and evolutionary biology were…not the same. Sure, they went hand in hand. In order to understand evolution, you had to understand DNA in general. Mutation and heredity were huge factors in evolution - and you’d taken enough biology labs in college to cement that.
“Small world,” he hums. Before he can keep speaking, you two are interrupted once again. You hope that doesn’t become a recurring theme. Patil is turning to face you with an expectant look, and you realize he’s asked you a question.
“Can you say that again?” You ask earnestly.
He grins and repeats his question. “Feel free to say no,” (Avery really looks like she doesn’t want you to say no), “-but Indiana and I have been talking about starting a new D&D campaign once this year kicks into gear.”
You think he expects you to know anything about that. Sure, you’ve heard of it - but you’d never taken part in it. Not enough time during college, and by the time you were a professor yourself, you didn’t really have enough friends to even consider it.
“I’m going to be honest here and say that I have no idea what that entails,” you admit truthfully. “But I could probably do with making some friends.”
Avery cheers and pumps her fist in the air. The rest of the table just smiles, and Grace puffs out a laugh, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Does he join them? You’ll ask more about it later.
You make a promise to yourself that you’re going to invest in purely platonic, wholesome, normal relationships with these people. No funny business allowed. Though you do hope you get a chance to corner Dr. Ryland Grace and ask him about his work. Maybe you’ll stop by his classroom after school ends this week.
You look over the table and find yourself grinning. Ok, maybe even if the students give you trouble you’ll still have something to look forward to every day.
─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───
Later that night, Nana has been tucked into her bed back in the comfort of her house. You’d had dinner over at her house, gossiping about your new coworkers (all good things) over a meal that your grandmother insisted on cooking herself and a glass of white wine.
Nana’s house is only about a block away from your neighborhood, easily within walking distance. It’s nice to stretch your legs on the walk home and take in the sights of San Francisco at night. A part of you is already homesick for Seattle, but there’s no use ruminating on it when you’re already here.
Up on a hill you can barely see the golden gate bridge in the distance - your house has a nice view but not that nice. You didn’t have that kind of money and definitely wouldn’t be making it any time soon.
A cold breeze drifts across your skin and you stop in front of your apartment complex, leaning against the fence that leads to your staircase. Your phone buzzes excitedly in your pocket.
‘Avery, Work’ the contact says.
You had been convinced (you didn’t need much convincing to be honest) to give the two women your phone number after lunch today. A group chat had been made about two seconds later with the name “Real Housewives of GCMS” to your amusement.
‘Good luck tomorrow!!!!!!’ reads the message from Avery, followed by a barrage of enthusiastic emojis and a gif of a cat wearing glasses. You snort and tuck your phone back into your pocket before heading upstairs to your apartment where your bed awaits.
You’re tucked cozy in bed following a hot shower, but your new place has yet to feel like home. You snuggle deeper into your pillow and stare out the window where your blinds are cracked, letting silver slips of moonlight slip over the sheets. Your mind starts drifting towards all the people you’d met today. Exhaustion was imminent.
You really need to get your beauty sleep tonight before wrangling a bunch of middle schoolers into only speaking Spanish tomorrow morning.
“Please be good to me San Francisco,” you whisper to yourself. You’re feeling hopeful.
