Carter's Vanguard - 17. Chapter 17

Will was sitting quietly in his classroom; it was his lunch hour, he was supposed to be out of there, done teaching his students for the day. But the high emotions of having to explain to a class of young teenagers that their teacher was dead; a woman that they had all known, sitting in the back of the class keeping an eye on them... it had been stressful for him.

He blew out a sigh, sitting in the swivel chair behind his desk, two fingers lightly resting on his temple as he propped his head up with his hand watching the rain streak down the window. Aptly fitting the mood of the moment, he mused to himself.

"Mister Carter?" Will turned to see Mister Greenwood standing in the doorway of the classroom. The aging former hippy, with his craggy face, full beard and wickedly cunning eyes, had an expression of sympathy for Will as he came into the classroom.

"Mister Greenwood," Will returned, uncurling himself and making to stand up.

Greenwood waved him back down into his chair, "Sit, this is your classroom." He glanced about, taking in with surprise the notes for Richard the Third scrawled across the blackboard. "Is that...?"

"Some of the students are reading it in their spare time," Will explained. "We discuss it a little at the end of every class if they behave themselves."

Greenwood nodded as he sat down on the edge of one of the students desks, "I see; don't you think it a little much for students their age?"

Will held up a volume of the Canadianna book he had been forced to teach the students, "Megan was cold, so she went inside to get warm. The dog yawned loudly from the hearth. Mother was again making supper. She offered to help but Mother said not today, maybe tomorrow..." Will looked up, "Not exactly captivating the children's imagination."

Greenwood arched an eyebrow as he reached out to take the book flipping through the pages till he found a random page which he scanned. "This is.... dry," he admitted, closing it after a few minutes. "How are they taking to the Bard?"

Will tapped a pile of short book reports on the edge of his desk, "I asked them on Friday to write a book report on their favorite book. I was expecting comic books and adventure stories."

Greenwood smiled, "They're all on Richard the Third?"

"About ninety percent of them," Will smiled tightly. "Though I did get one on Where's Waldo."

"Yet another classic," Greenwood intoned soberly.

Will nodded, "I especially appreciated the bit where the student said his favourite part of the book was the end."

"If I recall you said the same thing about Conrad's Heart of Darkness on the Christmas exams," Greenwood chuckled. "But seriously, Will, the school administration wanted me to talk to you."

Will's smile faded; he'd been expecting this conversation. He sat back in the chair hearing its pins squeak as he did so. "Go ahead."

Greenwood took a heavy breath, "By provincial law, the students have to be taught by a teacher who is certified by the provincial board of teachers. We've managed to circumvent that with you because Mrs. Casey was supervising you. As you can probably guess, that is no longer a possibility."

Will nodded. "I understand," he said tiredly, reaching out to pick up his cold mug of coffee and staring into it before setting it aside again. "So I take it I'm fired."

Greenwood took a deep breath, "We're in a teacher shortage right now. Replacing Mrs. Casey is going to be tough enough; finding someone to supervise your morning classes, that's going to be nearly impossible."

Will nodded in understanding, getting up and flipping open his satchel, stuffing his papers into it. He was already feeling the loss--first Mrs. Casey and now his students. It was a cold day, one that made him just want to leave. He couldn't face school that afternoon, not feeling like he was about to break down. It had taken all of his composure to deal with the first loss.

"I can understand that you're upset," Mister Greenwood said placing a compassionate hand on Will's shoulder. "We all go through it. It's part of being a teacher; you grow attached to students over the course of a year, and then when it's over you realize how much you miss them."

Will nodded, "Yeah, I guess so."

"If it counts, I miss your Andrew from my classes," he sighed. "But then you never know what the next batch of students will bring. Sometimes they might bring you a Todd Gadreau, an Andrew Highmore, or if you're really lucky, a Will Carter."

Will smiled, trying to blink back the emotion as he closed his satchel, "Thanks."

"I'm serious," Greenwood said. "You're an exceptional student." He looked up at the board, "And an exceptional teacher if you can teach Shakespeare to Grade Seven students and make it interesting."

Will shrugged again. "What's going to happen to them?" he asked in concern, glancing out of the window of the classroom door to the students in the halls. His mind was drifting over their familiar faces, and wondering how much he would miss seeing them, and talking to them.

"I don't know," Mister Greenwood said honestly. "Right now we are thinking about splitting them up, sending them off to the other classes. But we're already seriously overcrowded. " He extended his hands helplessly, "We're stuck and there's nothing we can do about it."

Will's face fell as he scanned over the seats lined up in rows in front of his desk. So many students, his class had been full as it was. Squashing them into another classroom would be nearly impossible.

Will thought awhile and glanced up at Mister Greenwood, "Nobody can spare the time to supervise me?"

"We have no English teachers," Greenwood replied, reading over one of the book reports.

"You have no English teachers," Will replied. "What about other teachers? The important thing is that you get a teacher, right?" Will said, setting his satchel down. "Someone to sit at the back of the room and make sure I'm not teaching the kids the wonders of the church."

Greenwood winced and nodded, "Well, there are a couple of other teachers with spare periods. Miss Knightly, the home economics teacher, she has first period free." He stopped and glanced at Will, "The other is Coach Thorburn. You'd have him when you normally teach history."

Will swallowed, Thorburn... of all the people who hated his guts...

"They wouldn't be able to help you with course plans," Greenwood said. "But I'm only up the hall, I can prepare them for you every evening."

Will nodded, "I can live with that--you get a teacher and I don't have to give up teaching."

"It's not going to be easy," Greenwood warned. "Thorburn isn't going to sit at the back of the class and let you have free rein over the class."

"Yes," Will replied, "but Coach Thorburn thinks the Americans fought the British in World War Two," Will replied. "I can live with this arrangement."

Greenwood nodded, "I am going to have to run it past the principal, and talk to Miss Knightly and Coach. But for the time being I think that is a working solution to our problem of what to do with thirty seventh-graders."

* * *

Will was getting ready to go to his next class; the lunch break was almost over and so far he hadn't even seen a sandwich let alone had anything to eat. He yawned loudly as he rubbed his eyes rounding a corner to the teachers' lounge.

Little Peter McCormick was curled into a ball, back up against a locker and his knees pulled up under his chin, his shoulders shaking with small sobs. There was a cut above his left eye, not deep but enough to bleed. Will took one look, and his mind was no longer thinking about a sandwich.

He crouched beside the sniveling student, touching him lightly on the shoulder. "Peter?" he asked in concern.

Peter looked up in surprise, desperately trying to wipe his tear-streaked face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, trying to hide his crying. He tried the oldest trick in the book to fool Will--he tried to smile. "I'm fine, sir."

Will wasn't buying what he was selling, "Come on Peter, get up." He helped the boy to his feet, "Let's go into the computer lab." He fished out his keys, and the two were quietly away from prying ears as Will sat Peter down in one of the comfortable chairs while he crouched down in front of the thirteen-year-old and asking him what was going on.

Peter fought hard against the tears, but the second flood couldn't hold back, and flowed in loud sobs as he gave in to his abject misery. Will had never been good at dealing with tears; in the Major's home tears were seen as a sign of weakness, something to be punished. It made him feel helpless crouched there in front of Peter watching him cry his heart out.

"Hey," he said, sounding compassionate as he fished through his satchel for something to dry Peter's eyes with, finally producing the paper napkins that had become squashed from being in his satchel too long. "It's okay, you can talk to me about it."

Peter gibbered a moment longer, accepting the napkin before he lunged off of his chair and buried his head into Will's chest. Still crying, the little guy held on for dear life. Will was feeling uncomfortable--physical contact between students and a teacher was a strict taboo--but he couldn't pull Peter away. Right now Will was all the kid had, as he teetered on the edge of an impossible depth of misery and total isolation. Will knew those feelings all too well.

"Hey," he managed again, patting Peter's back, "it's okay; why don't you tell me what happened, I might be able to help you."

Peter pulled back a little, his small features looking up at Will with obvious pain. Not from the cut on his forehead, but something that had cut him a lot deeper. And Will felt his forehead furrow in concern as he stared back at those tear-filled eyes.

"Who did this to you?" he asked with a soft growl, as he examined the cut on the forehead.

"N-no one," Peter sniveled.

Will cocked his head to the side. "Pull the other one," he said with a serious look. Peter blinked at him and he sighed, "It means I'm not buying the bullshit act."

Peter gasped at the swear word, and Will smiled and waggled his eyebrows, "Betcha didn't expect me to say that, now did ya kid?"

Peter couldn't help it, a smile flickered across his eyes; it was there for a second before it fled again. There was life underneath that cold veneer of shyness.

"Well," Will said stretching, "I could stand here and list off the usual bullying suspects and see if you react to them, or you could just tell me, save us both some time and I go give them detention..."

Peter's face suddenly became very fearful. Obviously he had been threatened with more harm if anyone found out who had been picking on him. That just annoyed Will even further. Whoever these snot-nosed brats were that were picking on this kid, they'd get a piece of his mind. He had enough detention slips to last them until they graduated.

Yeah if they graduated in twenty years, he thought darkly.

Peter still wasn't talking; he only stared at Will with wide-eyed panic at the thought of what would happen to him if he told. Tattletales were the lowest form of life out in the halls. It was worse than prison; at least in prison you could buy your way out with smokes.

Will gave out a heavy sigh as he pulled up a plastic chair that was two sizes too small for him and he perched on it. "So you're not going to tell me, huh?" he said with a shrug. "Okay, but you know that mild-mannered teacher is only my secret identity, you should see what I do with my afternoons."

That got the kid's attention.

"Yeah, it's true," Will said with a smile. "I used to be picked on... quite a lot," he dropped his voice as if conveying a deep secret, "till one day I realized I was a superhero."

Now Peter was looking at him suspiciously.

"I'm serious," Will said still grinning. "I had this one bully, Todd Gadreau; now he was a grade-A..." Will looked about him and dropped his voice, "asshole." They both giggled at the naughty word, "So one day he and his mates decide they are going to pick on this here mild-mannered teacher." Will smiled broadly, "Boy did he pick the wrong day to mess with me. Let's just say he never bothered me again after that."

"But there are three of them," Peter suddenly blurted out.

Will glanced up, knowing exactly which three Peter was talking about. There were only three boys that worked together in a trio to terrorize other kids in the seventh grade. "Only three of them?" Will scoffed, "Betcha you could take 'em."

"No," Peter said, his voice in quiet awe at the thought, "they'd beat me up!"

"Like they did this afternoon?" Will said, pointing to Peter's fresh cut.

Peter fell silent, and Will shrugged, "Well, if you're going to get beaten up anyway, what's wrong with taking a swing back at them?"

"But the other teachers say it's wrong to fight," Peter said, sounding sullen.

"Yeah, I'm not other teachers," Will said, folding his arms, "I'm your teacher. Now, I'm not saying it's okay to fight, that would get me into trouble. All I'm saying is, if you're going to get beaten up, just make sure you're not the only one getting punched. Might make them think twice about hitting you again."

He sighed; he was teaching a thirteen-year-old that violence was the solution to his problems. That didn't sit well with Will, but right now all the "just ignore it" bullshit just didn't help. His father had taught him one very important life lesson: bullies didn't give up because you ignored them. The only thing a bully respected was a split lip. Given a choice between picking on a kid that threw punches back and a kid that tried to ignore being kicked in the head, guaranteed the bullies would choose the latter over the former.

Peter sniffed again, and thanked Will. Will smiled as he stood up and picked up his satchel. So much for his lunch hour, that was now completely gone, but it was a worthwhile trade.

He touseled Peter's hair and nodded to the door, "Get going, before you're late for your next class."

"Thanks, Mister Carter!" Peter said with a shy smile as he vanished.