| [ For Ms. Caulignont's literature class, Mr. Haillenarte is a novelty.
Arriving to replace his predecessor after his students have endured a string of hit-and-miss substitutes, the young teacher's appearance immediately sets him apart — predicted was a bespectacled, balding scholar, but Francel de Haillenarte looks youthful enough to be fresh out of his teens, if even that. Some see an inexperienced pushover sure to let them coast through the year, while others doubt their newly appointed teacher's ability to teach the class at all. Others again already feel sorry for the man.
Zephirin finds Mr. Haillenarte promising.
He's noticed a few things by now, a couple of days into these new developments, and he's certain that they're not the product of his imagination. Mr. Haillenarte blushes easily — the consensus is that it's cute. More specifically, all Zephirin needs to do is to make eye contact perhaps slightly too long when the man takes attendance or calls on him to read aloud and answer questions in class. Mr. Haillenarte, the boy thinks, enjoys the sound of his voice.
It's turned into something of a private game, nothing that would fuel gossip and cost his teacher not only his position at Ishgard High, but his entire reputation. Maybe a private game is all it should stay, but Mr. Haillenarte seems the sort to perceive it as bullying, and so Zephirin takes it upon himself to set the record straight.
After class at the end of the day, when his classmates rush out into the halls towards the evening's freedom soon cut short by homework, he declines walking with his friends to linger in the classroom, leisurely gathering up his books. His bag slung over his shoulder, he stops beside the teacher's desk at the front of the room. ]
Mr. Haillenarte? Do you have a moment?
[ Casually, Zephirin's fingers adjust his open collar, toying with his shirt's uppermost button — the air conditioning hasn't done much against the classroom's stuffy heat. ] |