Post by Constance on Sept 11, 2016 10:17:14 GMT -6
The sun had yet to fully rise, casting a faint orange glow through the otherwise dark sky. It was the brief moment in a day when things were quiet even on the normally bustling parts of the country. Those who were unfortunate enough to work late nights were on their way back to their homes and beds while those who had morning appointments - be they to the gym, to the office, or even just to the Starbucks - were slowly coming out of their previous night’s coma. A sense of tranquility was shared between those who were out and about and those who were content merely to observe from the comforts of their own domicile.
Normally, Constance Chapin would never be caught dead outside before dawn, even when her schedule used to demand early morning routines she still had the good sense to wait until it was actually ‘morning’, making sure to note the difference in ‘morning’ and ‘dawn’ to the lone few who bothered asking why she didn’t just wake up earlier in order not to rush things. But as with many things that were happening in her life these days, ‘normally’ no longer seemed to apply.
The oft-surly woman stood outside, down in the parking lot, attired not in her pajamas but an outfit that suggested she had a very important meeting to run. Such is the effect one in a pant suit gives off; though she only had the one (it was navy in color, naturally) it wasn’t worn nearly as often as she liked. Constance liked the illusion it gave off, that she was in control, in power, with some manner of authority. It was easy to pretend when you looked the part of someone in control. And they said costumes were for Halloween only.
A look of contemplation rested on Constance’s face as she leaned against a lamppost and gazed out towards the orange-speckled skyline, faint breezes blowing strands of her hair to the side. This feeling was rather nostalgic - though to complete the trip down memory lane would require Constance to be holding a cigarette. There was a time when that wouldn’t be such an odd thing to see. Youth was a period of time to make mistakes like that - leaning on walls and smoking like she was Justine Frischmann or something - and sometimes Constance missed that. When her actions didn’t have consequences. Or at least none that she could see. Back when she was irresponsible and aloof and spontaneous rather than overly responsible and utterly predictable. When did she became so routine?
When did she become so Murakami-esque?
A question that both made her chuckle and gave her pause. No wonder she was so attracted to those novels - their main characters were so often creatures of habit being exposed to stimuli outside their normal bubble and thus their world expanded considerably. She felt that she wasn’t supposed to relate to Tsukuru Tazaki who was “Fated to be always be alone” and yet she did. How utterly perfect; the author who loves making things Kafkaesque giving some manner of relatability to Constance. It was fitting.
Though all things considered, she was entering the ending chapters of any normal sort of novel - most coming of age tales tend to end with the protagonist ‘coming of age’ and in Constance’s case that might as well have been ‘finally doing an adult thing’. But what made her Murakami-esque was that while she was entering the resolution phase of any given story, like a good Murakami novel the real story was starting.
Granted she doubted her story would involve sexual discovery, mysterious cats, sheep, alternate realities, and jazz music but the principles were there.
It started with the craving for a cigarette. She couldn’t explain it, it had been so long since she even indulged, but that early pre-dawn morning air...something about it just made her want that bitter taste of nicotine. Even years removed from it, the taste is never forgotten. Just the cravings. She wouldn’t, of course, she couldn’t go back to that particular vice, but the thought flashed through her mind. A niggling voice singing about how calming it would be, how relaxed it would make her, how prepared for the days ahead a simple drag could make her.
Constance learned long ago to just let those bad voices in her head tire themselves out with the sales pitch.
The cigarette wasn’t the only thing running through her mind - just the only thing she was brushing aside after a moment of reflection. But the other thoughts were not worth dwelling on, not in her eyes. If she allowed herself to get hung up on every thought, every voice that was steering her towards different ideas she’d never get anything accomplished in her life. There came a time when just doing what you said you were going to do is all that mattered, and that time had long since passed Constance. But it wasn’t too late to catch up, which partially explained why she was awake and outside and dressed for success and yet still couldn’t pull the trigger and commit to her course.
She knew where she had to go, where she WANTED to go, and yet as the clock was ticking closer and closer towards ‘too late’ she just stood in the parking lot gazing skyward like some drugged up young adult at Coachella. Or was it Lollapalooza. Either one.
The first step was supposedly the hardest. That wasn’t true at all. It was the hundredth or the thousandth, whatever step it was. The first step was leaving the home. The whatever-number step was arriving at her destination and that was the one proving to be the most difficult.
But unlike so many of her past crossroads moment in life, her hesitation to make those last few steps wasn’t because of crippling insecurities or self doubt. There was a far better, more obvious reason as to why Constance was standing alone in a parking lot, lost in thought and arms crossed under her chest. The journey over hadn’t been one fraught with thought and confliction - it hadn’t even been rocky or difficult. In fact she had been somewhat smile-y about it, or at least not dreading. Which was certainly a welcome change; don’t call it positivity but it was something worth mentioning anyway.
The first sign really should’ve been the empty parking lot - even back when she had to make early appointments she always seemed to arrive when the parking lots were at their emptiest, but there had still been a handful of cars in any given lot at those early hours. But there were just two here, and she could account for just one. Empty in almost every sense of the word.
The sun continued its ascent and the breeze increased in its soothing current as Constance’s eyes trailed across the empty lot towards the nearby street, watching as cars drove past; they paid no attention to anything other than the road before them. There was probably something poetic in that, but Constance’s mind didn’t work before noon on a good day. Plus it was sure to sound cliche anyway. As if that had stopped her before.
Had she been wearing a watch, Constance would’ve checked it at least twice by now. This waiting was proving to be more problematic than she anticipated. What if someone got the wrong idea? Strange woman alone in a parking lot in the morning? Surely part of some sinister plot. That was the problem with Constance’s mind. Left to her own devices long enough she eventually reached the conclusion that simply standing in a place would draw negative attention.
From behind her, the sound of metallic clicking drew her out of her thoughts, and her head turned in time to see the previously locked door swing open, held by a bearded man in worker’s jeans.
“Sorry, Miss Chapin, the systems took longer to start,” the man announced with a trace of genuine apology to his tone.
”It’s fine, I needed the air anyway,” Constance replied as she kicked away from the street light and approached the now-open door, ”Thank you, Raffi.”
Offering the janitor a friendly tap on the shoulder as she passed, Constance Chapin stepped inside the pristine hallways of Malibu High School for a little trip down bad memory lane.
~
”Well it was bound to happen sooner or later; though I’d hazard a guess that most assumed it would certainly be in the realm of sooner. I’m one of those sorts, but then I always assume the worst. Not that the worst has transpired or anything, just in general I maintain what some might call a pessimistic outlook and I call a realistic one. I’m not upset. I’m not even all that mad. Surprised might be a more accurate word but I just have to remember that this isn’t the first time this has happened to me. It’s not even the first time it’s happened to me RECENTLY. But like Frost wrote: ‘So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes to day.’”
“The final line of that poem is up to you to finish, lest I give the wrong impression. Because I haven’t been speaking about my loss at Breakthrough and thus the loss of the Xcel Championship - which, hey, I had a good run and it was certainly an unexpected reign on my end; no, I’m speaking of course about me, the perennial loner, once again being thrust into the position of a tag team partnership.”
“Except this one I didn’t opt into which means I can shift the blame around like a good scapegoater.”
“I suppose the idea is that Practical Magic wound up working so well that surely another instance of ‘former opponents teaming up’ was bound to be successful. But again, Practical Magic was born due to personal intervention. This? Judging by what went down at the end of Breakthrough and given the thankfully brief interactions and...let’s call them ‘conversations’ that we’ve had...I’m almost positive this idea didn’t come from the men and women behind the curtain.”
“Which only raises questions in my mind as to why you would want to still bother dealing with me, Gwen? You’ve done it. Congratulations. Go forth and do whatever it is you do - surf the internet for moving images or whatever. Never the twain shall meet again.”
“Then again, this hardly seems your style. I can’t imagine you rubbing your hands together and having a chuckle over a plan such as this...which is why I’m just not going to bother going down this road once again. Honestly it doesn’t matter WHY this is happening; it only matters that it IS happening and I have little choice but to accept and deal with it.”
“Fortunately for you, Gwen, I’m not some petty child who would just as soon throw a tantrum and jeopardize things because mummy dearest took away my shiny toy. So if that was nibbling away at the back of your mind, behind the snickering and the mischief, don’t worry. I bare you almost no ill will. Almost.”
“I’ve never really been one for team playing, apart from that strange period of my life when I played on a team, but exceptions are made on a near-daily basis. I might not fully trust you - that much is probably apparent - but I trust you enough to believe that I won’t be left by myself once the bell rings. Funny how that was assumed when I volunteered my time with Zahara, but that’s practically ancient history at this point.”
“My character is on the table, so you’re well aware that I will have your back for the duration of the match, even if, heaven forbid, wires get crossed and whatever teamwork we have collapses. I don’t think we’ll have some kind of cutsey little name but when has that ever been a priority for teams anyway? I hesitate to say that this will be no big deal because on some level it is quite a big deal even if our opponents are fifty percent inexperienced.”
“It’s a big deal because I’m sure neither of us wants to come off as slacking. You’re a new champion and it surely wouldn’t do well for you to come off as, well, let’s call it ‘lacking’. And I surely don’t want to be petty and petulent which is exactly why I’ll be in that corner when all is said and done.”
“Like it or not we’re stuck together in this, Gwen, and the beautiful thing about a momentary partnership is that they needn’t be overly friendly to be effective. And if there’s one word that I could describe you as it wouldn’t be effective...but effective would be on the list. Probably near the middle of the pack. We don’t have to be best friends or even associates to do what we’re increasingly sufficient at. That’s probably why we’ll work well enough together.”
“Just promise me one thing, Gwen. Don’t get any funny ideas. I know that might be difficult since most, if not all, of your ideas seem funny to you. I said at the top that I have no ill will towards you and I obviously can’t speak for you but unless you’re planning on leaving me at the altar - timely phrase that is - then it’s obvious you have similar sentiments. Because imagine if you WERE planning that how embarrassed you would be if it backfired on you.”
“But that won’t happen. What WILL happen is that we’ll work like a semi-oiled machine. Sure we might have our issues, but when something is on the line...you and I both know there’s only one thing to do.”
“I doubt this is what people expected when they heard the former champion and the current champion would be in the ring again; ah, the expectations and disappointments. I say why not show that not everything is personal, that I don’t have to be upset with you, plotting your downfall because you took away the precious like a Hobbit.”
“I’ll be your tag team partner, Gwen, as strange as it is. But going forward one thing I wont be is your challenger for the title. It’s yours now. This match? Consider it a passing of the torch.”
“This might well be the only time we’re standing on the same side, Gwen. Let’s not fuck it up, yeah?”
~
It was rare that a hallway was so devoid of activity - in a few hours’ time the halls would be packed with students brushing and walking along, eyes dead to the world outside of their phone or schedules, but presently the only sound was the echoing of footsteps as they approached a door at the far end of the hall. There was a sense of nostalgia though not in the positive sense of the term. There were memories to be had, yes, but it was difficult to say they had been overly good. The experience was certainly eye-opening, at the very least. It proved to Constance beyond a doubt that having knowledge of a topic didn’t immediately qualify one for passing that knowledge on.
And it was yet another slap in the face by reality, that bitter mistress again taking pride in ruining the idea of dreams.
Constance stood in front of a door and looked through the window into the classroom on the other side. If she was experiencing a wave of remembrance, it would’ve crashed as her eyes saw into the darkened room. When she was moonlighting there, in that classroom, the desks had been arranged in a ‘U’ shape so that everyone would be visible and contributing to the discussion; now the desks were arranged in a basic series of rows. There were cheesy inspirational posters on the walls where before there was nothing; posters of landscapes offered nothing to the learning experience. She couldn’t tell from the darkness on the other side, but even the chalkboard looked different; surely the teacher who called the room homeroom had their own method, but it just spoke of genericism to Constance.
She might not have been the best educator that ever taught a semester, but at least she gave her students a learning experience to remember and retain knowledge. Or so she told herself to make the dashing of the final dream more palatable.
Hers was not a class where tests were given encouraging notes when a student received a ‘C’. Hers was not a class where people could get away with writing reports with font size shenanigans and cliffs notes summaries - she wanted to ensure those twenty six students were treated as capable intellectual thinkers for a change. In Constance’s mind, no one learned, no one retained knowledge, by simply being told “you did your best”. ‘Your best’ was something the losing team’s coach told the players while the winners were celebrating and heading out for pizza and ice cream.
The students she had all turned out okay in the end, in that they managed to graduate, and one of them even managed to live up to their own full potential by means of worming their way into Constance’s life. Constance wasn’t naive enough to believe that her class had anything to do with that, but if even one of them went on to secondary education knowing the meaning of ‘Kafkaesque’ then that was a job well done in her eyes. Less so the school board, but when had they been concerned with anything other than what makes the most money in the easiest way possible?
Had she not come to the high school this morning with an agenda, she might’ve attempted to go inside the classroom, stand in the doorway like someone with wistful memories, and listen for the inspirational score in the background. But a little detour to the stomping grounds was all that it was. A detour. A stop on the way to her true destination.
”How did you get in here?” A voice brought Constance back to the current situation and her head spun towards the source of the voice. A vaguely familiar face stared back at Constance; a face of a man who had more stress in his life than relief, judging by the bags under his eyes and the thinning hair atop his greying head. Middle age was not hitting him gracefully and his voice was not as strong as he no doubt would’ve liked.
Perhaps that’s why he was just a vice principal.
”A door and some stairs, the same as you, Nick.” Constance replied, recognizing the face before the voice - though in her defense she hadn’t had many dealings with Nick Cwiok, barely seeing the man at the teacher’s lounge and never attending staff meetings had that side effect.
”Is that the famed English wit?” Nick was generally not a humorous sort, he was a man who took his job as educator super seriously. Which would’ve been great had he been a teacher and not stuck behind a desk all day, resenting his position on the staff.
”Only if that’s the famed American boorishness.”
”If you’re here about your old job, I’m not sorry to say -”
”Yeah, there it is. Boorishness.” Constance interrupted, giving the vice principal her full attention now by facing him properly, arms crossed against her chest. ”Believe it or not I did miss this place. A little.”
”I’ll go with not if it’s all the same,” Nick responded with a rather audible scoff and a shaking of his head that rather blatantly showed his dislike of the woman standing opposite him - Constance being given a ‘gig’ such as it was by his superior was taken as a slight against formally trained educators and his grudge continued even after Constance’s leaving. ”You know we had parents asking why their students were filmed for...whatever it was you turned that classroom into.”
”It was voluntary. They got extra credit just for being there.” A simple defense of her actions with a simple explanation. ”But you’re not wrong. What I did had no place in the classroom.”
”A little late on that revelation, Ms. Chaplin.”
Constance gently winced at the mispronunciation of her last name. With Nick it was a deliberate choice, having been told the proper pronunciation no fewer than ten times in the past. That it got under her skin was probably why he continued to do it even now.
”Well I was always a bit slow at revelations. Blame it on getting hit in the face professionally.”
”Why are you here?” Nick Cwiok was not interested in anything resembling banter with a failed educator, and his impatience was clear from his tone of voice and his expression. To him, Constance was a simple trespasser and trespassing was a crime.
”Funnily enough I came to see Nora.” If Nick wasn’t going to engage in barbs and jabs then Constance saw little reason to continue to poke and prod; if not even self deprecation was picked up on then the only remaining option was just boring business as usual.
”Miss Ephron?” Nick repeated with an appropriate amount of surprise.
Nora Ephron (“No relation” as she introduced herself) was an older woman whom Constance met at the public library of all places. A simple trip to return the book ‘Nightwood’ after COnstance’s original copy had been ruined had resulted in Constance meeting Nora and participating just once in Nora’s book club. It was there that two things happened that altered the course of Constance’s life. The first was Constance learning that Nora was the principal of a high school who had a rather bold idea; the second was meeting one Heath Darcy - her now brother-in-law-to-be.
Constance owed more to Nora than she would readily admit and she still felt more than a little bad that she never returned to the book club after her first trip; she just couldn’t stand a book club that had people who couldn’t understand metafictional themes in late 1930s literature.
”Why do you want to see her?”
In truth it was none of his business, but in the interest of playing nice and neat, Constance would simply tell him straight out.
”I came to ask if she had any interest in being part of my bridal party.” It sounded a bit sad to Constance’s ears, but that was just because she was more aware than ever of her startling lack of friends near her own age bracket. FUnny how years of isolation and glaring cynicsm won no favors.
”Oh, well, congratulations,” It didn’t seem the most sincere well wishing but the thought was there, ”But unfortunately Nora no longer works here. She retired at the end of last semester.”
”Oh. Well...I’m sorry to hear that. Does that make you-”
”No. The district brought in someone from another school to fill the position. It’s not like the Presidency.” A pang of anger flashed in Nick’s voice.
”What? Even with such a perfect candidate already in place?” Both knew that Constance’s response was not the most sincere but again it was the thought behind it that truly mattered.
”No accounting for taste.”
An uncomfortable pause followed, neither one knowing how to follow up, or end, the conversation.
”I probably should’ve just gone with a phone call, right?”
”It would’ve saved you gas money, at least.”
More silence. More awkward non-interactions.
”Well. Suppose I’ve no reason to be here anymore. Good catching up, Nick.” With nothing more to say, Constance figured the best option was to simply leave. There was nothing here for her anymore.
”When’s the wedding?”
”November the fourth.”
”That’s close.” An obvious statement, and one Constance responded to with a simple noise of vague approval. She had already turned around and was heading towards the stairwell back out to the parking lot. ”Do you remember their names, Chaplin?” Nick called out, causing Constance to pause a moment. ”Your students?”
”Every one. From Amber Beasley to Zach Wilkinson.”
”Well, try not to get hit in the head too hard then. You don’t want to lose that memory.”
Constance agreed with the sentiment, even going so far as to snicker to herself, the brief twitching of her lip upwards fading away by the time she had begun to descend the stairwell and stepped back out into the early morning air.
There was nothing there for her anymore. Nothing but memories that for once she hoped she wouldn’t lose. Despite everything...in the end they had been some of the happiest months of her life.
~
”Of course I haven’t forgotten about the opponent's my partner and I will be facing, though truth be told I’m not quite sure what to make of them. Well...of half of them. I’m not quite sure if this Arthur Kinglsey lad is quite sure what he’s about to be introduced to - but I suppose if one wanted a trial by fire then it’s hard to imagine another team that will leave the guy burned. Burned, but better for it, perhaps. We all have to start somewhere. Were it me I wouldn’t be asking a rather unproven, unknown rookie to stand in my corner even if they came highly recommended.”
“That’s the thing with rookies, no one’s quite sure what to make of them in any profession. Because all too often the new, young upcomers think they are the hottest of hot and that they can do things better than the ones who have more experience, knowledge, and ability in whatever field it may be. Athletics, the culinary field, business, hell, even education - the hotblooded ones always need the rudest awakening.”
“And you’re certainly going to be getting that, Kingsley.”
“But of course, I’m assuming things about you. Because I have to. Because that’s what I know about you other than that your lot’s been thrown in with Tristan Ambrose who I’ve been...well...let’s say ‘fortunate’ to be polite, fortunate enough to avoid. And honestly if the company you keep says anything about you as a person, than I’m correct in assuming that under the youth and exuberance is someone with a bit of an over-inflated sense of ability. It’s common in the younger sorts, they think they can coast on youth, doing things that will shorten their careers because it’s ‘cool’.”
“You’ll learn, Art. One way or another, you’ll learn. Shame that your first lesson will be at the hands of Gwendolyn Massey and myself. But I’ll leave it up to your partner to tell you why that’s a tough draw for you, lest I come off as arrogant and cocky and set myself up for embarrassment.”
“Your partner and I assume friend, Tristan Ambrose, is not having a good couple of weeks. I’m sure it hurts that he lost a quest for some case and I’m sure it stings even more that he lost his bid at the Zero Gravity Championship at the last Breakthrough. A man with such bravado and ability and an acceptable track record doesn’t seem, to me, the type to take such hard losses well.”
“Which I hope is the case, because an angry Tristan with a rookie in his corner is a Tristan I wish to face. Angry men make mistakes. Angry men playing babysitter make even more.”
“To me, what this match really boils down to is two shaky teams - albeit shaky for vastly different reasons - having a contest to see who crumbles first. And signs are pointing to you two being the unfortunate crumblers. On the one hand you have two people who, despite their recent...clashes and events are able to put aside any potential animosity and come together as allies. On the other there’s someone who has taken losses very personally in the past, a noted anger problem when it comes to important losses, and he’s paired up with someone no one has really any clue about. And I highly doubt this is a situation where there’s a ringer in the other corner.”
“I have a feeling, because I brought it up in so many words, that there’s a bit of expectation that Gwen or I will betray the other and leave. I think we’re both too proud to do that, and we have a mutual understanding of each other - I have confidence that any foul play by me would only work in her favour and vice versa. But I’m not sure the same can be said of Ambrose and Kingsley. The rookie looking to impress. The….Tristan looking to lash out...both rocky foundations for their arrangement.”
“Of course that’s just one possibility in the realm of possibilities. But no matter how many potentials there are, all of them spin in our favour. I wouldn’t wish this team on my enemies, let alone people I have no real thoughts on other than perhaps to seek out a stress ball. A former champion and the current champion is a bad draw even for the veterans in VoW.”
“You could well be fearless, Kings, so many others of your make are. But a healthy dose of apprehension will do you well. It might even help your performance in the long run.”
“I’m not expecting a cakewalk, I never do. And though I speak with confidence and assuredness I’m trying not to be arrogant or boastful, because I know full well that anything can happen - and a team like myself and Massey sounds like a solid foundation...but even the sturdiest structure can become rubble in a matter of seconds. I’ve no doubt that Massey and I will work well together, we have when opposed so it stands to reason the same holds true with the flip of a coin, but the question is can you two say the same?”
“Will your friendship or whatever it is survive the trials of a match like this? Will your ego take it, Tristan? There’s a saying that you shouldn’t go into business with your friends and that’s exactly what you’re doing now.”
“Tristan, you’ve got a decent track record, so try not to take things so personally if they don’t go your way, this match included. I’ve no interest in anything other than securing the victory. You’ll be a much happier person that way. And Arthur? I’m sorry your introduction to this place had to be this way. Except it’ll be good for you in the grand scheme of things; it’ll give you just a taste of what it’s like at the top of a class. Try to keep up. Try not to be intimidated.”
“And Gwen, I know it goes against whatever it is you stand for...but let’s do them a favour, yeah? Let’s make it quick. They haven’t done anything wrong.”
“See you in Maryland.”
Normally, Constance Chapin would never be caught dead outside before dawn, even when her schedule used to demand early morning routines she still had the good sense to wait until it was actually ‘morning’, making sure to note the difference in ‘morning’ and ‘dawn’ to the lone few who bothered asking why she didn’t just wake up earlier in order not to rush things. But as with many things that were happening in her life these days, ‘normally’ no longer seemed to apply.
The oft-surly woman stood outside, down in the parking lot, attired not in her pajamas but an outfit that suggested she had a very important meeting to run. Such is the effect one in a pant suit gives off; though she only had the one (it was navy in color, naturally) it wasn’t worn nearly as often as she liked. Constance liked the illusion it gave off, that she was in control, in power, with some manner of authority. It was easy to pretend when you looked the part of someone in control. And they said costumes were for Halloween only.
A look of contemplation rested on Constance’s face as she leaned against a lamppost and gazed out towards the orange-speckled skyline, faint breezes blowing strands of her hair to the side. This feeling was rather nostalgic - though to complete the trip down memory lane would require Constance to be holding a cigarette. There was a time when that wouldn’t be such an odd thing to see. Youth was a period of time to make mistakes like that - leaning on walls and smoking like she was Justine Frischmann or something - and sometimes Constance missed that. When her actions didn’t have consequences. Or at least none that she could see. Back when she was irresponsible and aloof and spontaneous rather than overly responsible and utterly predictable. When did she became so routine?
When did she become so Murakami-esque?
A question that both made her chuckle and gave her pause. No wonder she was so attracted to those novels - their main characters were so often creatures of habit being exposed to stimuli outside their normal bubble and thus their world expanded considerably. She felt that she wasn’t supposed to relate to Tsukuru Tazaki who was “Fated to be always be alone” and yet she did. How utterly perfect; the author who loves making things Kafkaesque giving some manner of relatability to Constance. It was fitting.
Though all things considered, she was entering the ending chapters of any normal sort of novel - most coming of age tales tend to end with the protagonist ‘coming of age’ and in Constance’s case that might as well have been ‘finally doing an adult thing’. But what made her Murakami-esque was that while she was entering the resolution phase of any given story, like a good Murakami novel the real story was starting.
Granted she doubted her story would involve sexual discovery, mysterious cats, sheep, alternate realities, and jazz music but the principles were there.
It started with the craving for a cigarette. She couldn’t explain it, it had been so long since she even indulged, but that early pre-dawn morning air...something about it just made her want that bitter taste of nicotine. Even years removed from it, the taste is never forgotten. Just the cravings. She wouldn’t, of course, she couldn’t go back to that particular vice, but the thought flashed through her mind. A niggling voice singing about how calming it would be, how relaxed it would make her, how prepared for the days ahead a simple drag could make her.
Constance learned long ago to just let those bad voices in her head tire themselves out with the sales pitch.
The cigarette wasn’t the only thing running through her mind - just the only thing she was brushing aside after a moment of reflection. But the other thoughts were not worth dwelling on, not in her eyes. If she allowed herself to get hung up on every thought, every voice that was steering her towards different ideas she’d never get anything accomplished in her life. There came a time when just doing what you said you were going to do is all that mattered, and that time had long since passed Constance. But it wasn’t too late to catch up, which partially explained why she was awake and outside and dressed for success and yet still couldn’t pull the trigger and commit to her course.
She knew where she had to go, where she WANTED to go, and yet as the clock was ticking closer and closer towards ‘too late’ she just stood in the parking lot gazing skyward like some drugged up young adult at Coachella. Or was it Lollapalooza. Either one.
The first step was supposedly the hardest. That wasn’t true at all. It was the hundredth or the thousandth, whatever step it was. The first step was leaving the home. The whatever-number step was arriving at her destination and that was the one proving to be the most difficult.
But unlike so many of her past crossroads moment in life, her hesitation to make those last few steps wasn’t because of crippling insecurities or self doubt. There was a far better, more obvious reason as to why Constance was standing alone in a parking lot, lost in thought and arms crossed under her chest. The journey over hadn’t been one fraught with thought and confliction - it hadn’t even been rocky or difficult. In fact she had been somewhat smile-y about it, or at least not dreading. Which was certainly a welcome change; don’t call it positivity but it was something worth mentioning anyway.
The first sign really should’ve been the empty parking lot - even back when she had to make early appointments she always seemed to arrive when the parking lots were at their emptiest, but there had still been a handful of cars in any given lot at those early hours. But there were just two here, and she could account for just one. Empty in almost every sense of the word.
The sun continued its ascent and the breeze increased in its soothing current as Constance’s eyes trailed across the empty lot towards the nearby street, watching as cars drove past; they paid no attention to anything other than the road before them. There was probably something poetic in that, but Constance’s mind didn’t work before noon on a good day. Plus it was sure to sound cliche anyway. As if that had stopped her before.
Had she been wearing a watch, Constance would’ve checked it at least twice by now. This waiting was proving to be more problematic than she anticipated. What if someone got the wrong idea? Strange woman alone in a parking lot in the morning? Surely part of some sinister plot. That was the problem with Constance’s mind. Left to her own devices long enough she eventually reached the conclusion that simply standing in a place would draw negative attention.
From behind her, the sound of metallic clicking drew her out of her thoughts, and her head turned in time to see the previously locked door swing open, held by a bearded man in worker’s jeans.
“Sorry, Miss Chapin, the systems took longer to start,” the man announced with a trace of genuine apology to his tone.
”It’s fine, I needed the air anyway,” Constance replied as she kicked away from the street light and approached the now-open door, ”Thank you, Raffi.”
Offering the janitor a friendly tap on the shoulder as she passed, Constance Chapin stepped inside the pristine hallways of Malibu High School for a little trip down bad memory lane.
~
”Well it was bound to happen sooner or later; though I’d hazard a guess that most assumed it would certainly be in the realm of sooner. I’m one of those sorts, but then I always assume the worst. Not that the worst has transpired or anything, just in general I maintain what some might call a pessimistic outlook and I call a realistic one. I’m not upset. I’m not even all that mad. Surprised might be a more accurate word but I just have to remember that this isn’t the first time this has happened to me. It’s not even the first time it’s happened to me RECENTLY. But like Frost wrote: ‘So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes to day.’”
“The final line of that poem is up to you to finish, lest I give the wrong impression. Because I haven’t been speaking about my loss at Breakthrough and thus the loss of the Xcel Championship - which, hey, I had a good run and it was certainly an unexpected reign on my end; no, I’m speaking of course about me, the perennial loner, once again being thrust into the position of a tag team partnership.”
“Except this one I didn’t opt into which means I can shift the blame around like a good scapegoater.”
“I suppose the idea is that Practical Magic wound up working so well that surely another instance of ‘former opponents teaming up’ was bound to be successful. But again, Practical Magic was born due to personal intervention. This? Judging by what went down at the end of Breakthrough and given the thankfully brief interactions and...let’s call them ‘conversations’ that we’ve had...I’m almost positive this idea didn’t come from the men and women behind the curtain.”
“Which only raises questions in my mind as to why you would want to still bother dealing with me, Gwen? You’ve done it. Congratulations. Go forth and do whatever it is you do - surf the internet for moving images or whatever. Never the twain shall meet again.”
“Then again, this hardly seems your style. I can’t imagine you rubbing your hands together and having a chuckle over a plan such as this...which is why I’m just not going to bother going down this road once again. Honestly it doesn’t matter WHY this is happening; it only matters that it IS happening and I have little choice but to accept and deal with it.”
“Fortunately for you, Gwen, I’m not some petty child who would just as soon throw a tantrum and jeopardize things because mummy dearest took away my shiny toy. So if that was nibbling away at the back of your mind, behind the snickering and the mischief, don’t worry. I bare you almost no ill will. Almost.”
“I’ve never really been one for team playing, apart from that strange period of my life when I played on a team, but exceptions are made on a near-daily basis. I might not fully trust you - that much is probably apparent - but I trust you enough to believe that I won’t be left by myself once the bell rings. Funny how that was assumed when I volunteered my time with Zahara, but that’s practically ancient history at this point.”
“My character is on the table, so you’re well aware that I will have your back for the duration of the match, even if, heaven forbid, wires get crossed and whatever teamwork we have collapses. I don’t think we’ll have some kind of cutsey little name but when has that ever been a priority for teams anyway? I hesitate to say that this will be no big deal because on some level it is quite a big deal even if our opponents are fifty percent inexperienced.”
“It’s a big deal because I’m sure neither of us wants to come off as slacking. You’re a new champion and it surely wouldn’t do well for you to come off as, well, let’s call it ‘lacking’. And I surely don’t want to be petty and petulent which is exactly why I’ll be in that corner when all is said and done.”
“Like it or not we’re stuck together in this, Gwen, and the beautiful thing about a momentary partnership is that they needn’t be overly friendly to be effective. And if there’s one word that I could describe you as it wouldn’t be effective...but effective would be on the list. Probably near the middle of the pack. We don’t have to be best friends or even associates to do what we’re increasingly sufficient at. That’s probably why we’ll work well enough together.”
“Just promise me one thing, Gwen. Don’t get any funny ideas. I know that might be difficult since most, if not all, of your ideas seem funny to you. I said at the top that I have no ill will towards you and I obviously can’t speak for you but unless you’re planning on leaving me at the altar - timely phrase that is - then it’s obvious you have similar sentiments. Because imagine if you WERE planning that how embarrassed you would be if it backfired on you.”
“But that won’t happen. What WILL happen is that we’ll work like a semi-oiled machine. Sure we might have our issues, but when something is on the line...you and I both know there’s only one thing to do.”
“I doubt this is what people expected when they heard the former champion and the current champion would be in the ring again; ah, the expectations and disappointments. I say why not show that not everything is personal, that I don’t have to be upset with you, plotting your downfall because you took away the precious like a Hobbit.”
“I’ll be your tag team partner, Gwen, as strange as it is. But going forward one thing I wont be is your challenger for the title. It’s yours now. This match? Consider it a passing of the torch.”
“This might well be the only time we’re standing on the same side, Gwen. Let’s not fuck it up, yeah?”
~
It was rare that a hallway was so devoid of activity - in a few hours’ time the halls would be packed with students brushing and walking along, eyes dead to the world outside of their phone or schedules, but presently the only sound was the echoing of footsteps as they approached a door at the far end of the hall. There was a sense of nostalgia though not in the positive sense of the term. There were memories to be had, yes, but it was difficult to say they had been overly good. The experience was certainly eye-opening, at the very least. It proved to Constance beyond a doubt that having knowledge of a topic didn’t immediately qualify one for passing that knowledge on.
And it was yet another slap in the face by reality, that bitter mistress again taking pride in ruining the idea of dreams.
Constance stood in front of a door and looked through the window into the classroom on the other side. If she was experiencing a wave of remembrance, it would’ve crashed as her eyes saw into the darkened room. When she was moonlighting there, in that classroom, the desks had been arranged in a ‘U’ shape so that everyone would be visible and contributing to the discussion; now the desks were arranged in a basic series of rows. There were cheesy inspirational posters on the walls where before there was nothing; posters of landscapes offered nothing to the learning experience. She couldn’t tell from the darkness on the other side, but even the chalkboard looked different; surely the teacher who called the room homeroom had their own method, but it just spoke of genericism to Constance.
She might not have been the best educator that ever taught a semester, but at least she gave her students a learning experience to remember and retain knowledge. Or so she told herself to make the dashing of the final dream more palatable.
Hers was not a class where tests were given encouraging notes when a student received a ‘C’. Hers was not a class where people could get away with writing reports with font size shenanigans and cliffs notes summaries - she wanted to ensure those twenty six students were treated as capable intellectual thinkers for a change. In Constance’s mind, no one learned, no one retained knowledge, by simply being told “you did your best”. ‘Your best’ was something the losing team’s coach told the players while the winners were celebrating and heading out for pizza and ice cream.
The students she had all turned out okay in the end, in that they managed to graduate, and one of them even managed to live up to their own full potential by means of worming their way into Constance’s life. Constance wasn’t naive enough to believe that her class had anything to do with that, but if even one of them went on to secondary education knowing the meaning of ‘Kafkaesque’ then that was a job well done in her eyes. Less so the school board, but when had they been concerned with anything other than what makes the most money in the easiest way possible?
Had she not come to the high school this morning with an agenda, she might’ve attempted to go inside the classroom, stand in the doorway like someone with wistful memories, and listen for the inspirational score in the background. But a little detour to the stomping grounds was all that it was. A detour. A stop on the way to her true destination.
”How did you get in here?” A voice brought Constance back to the current situation and her head spun towards the source of the voice. A vaguely familiar face stared back at Constance; a face of a man who had more stress in his life than relief, judging by the bags under his eyes and the thinning hair atop his greying head. Middle age was not hitting him gracefully and his voice was not as strong as he no doubt would’ve liked.
Perhaps that’s why he was just a vice principal.
”A door and some stairs, the same as you, Nick.” Constance replied, recognizing the face before the voice - though in her defense she hadn’t had many dealings with Nick Cwiok, barely seeing the man at the teacher’s lounge and never attending staff meetings had that side effect.
”Is that the famed English wit?” Nick was generally not a humorous sort, he was a man who took his job as educator super seriously. Which would’ve been great had he been a teacher and not stuck behind a desk all day, resenting his position on the staff.
”Only if that’s the famed American boorishness.”
”If you’re here about your old job, I’m not sorry to say -”
”Yeah, there it is. Boorishness.” Constance interrupted, giving the vice principal her full attention now by facing him properly, arms crossed against her chest. ”Believe it or not I did miss this place. A little.”
”I’ll go with not if it’s all the same,” Nick responded with a rather audible scoff and a shaking of his head that rather blatantly showed his dislike of the woman standing opposite him - Constance being given a ‘gig’ such as it was by his superior was taken as a slight against formally trained educators and his grudge continued even after Constance’s leaving. ”You know we had parents asking why their students were filmed for...whatever it was you turned that classroom into.”
”It was voluntary. They got extra credit just for being there.” A simple defense of her actions with a simple explanation. ”But you’re not wrong. What I did had no place in the classroom.”
”A little late on that revelation, Ms. Chaplin.”
Constance gently winced at the mispronunciation of her last name. With Nick it was a deliberate choice, having been told the proper pronunciation no fewer than ten times in the past. That it got under her skin was probably why he continued to do it even now.
”Well I was always a bit slow at revelations. Blame it on getting hit in the face professionally.”
”Why are you here?” Nick Cwiok was not interested in anything resembling banter with a failed educator, and his impatience was clear from his tone of voice and his expression. To him, Constance was a simple trespasser and trespassing was a crime.
”Funnily enough I came to see Nora.” If Nick wasn’t going to engage in barbs and jabs then Constance saw little reason to continue to poke and prod; if not even self deprecation was picked up on then the only remaining option was just boring business as usual.
”Miss Ephron?” Nick repeated with an appropriate amount of surprise.
Nora Ephron (“No relation” as she introduced herself) was an older woman whom Constance met at the public library of all places. A simple trip to return the book ‘Nightwood’ after COnstance’s original copy had been ruined had resulted in Constance meeting Nora and participating just once in Nora’s book club. It was there that two things happened that altered the course of Constance’s life. The first was Constance learning that Nora was the principal of a high school who had a rather bold idea; the second was meeting one Heath Darcy - her now brother-in-law-to-be.
Constance owed more to Nora than she would readily admit and she still felt more than a little bad that she never returned to the book club after her first trip; she just couldn’t stand a book club that had people who couldn’t understand metafictional themes in late 1930s literature.
”Why do you want to see her?”
In truth it was none of his business, but in the interest of playing nice and neat, Constance would simply tell him straight out.
”I came to ask if she had any interest in being part of my bridal party.” It sounded a bit sad to Constance’s ears, but that was just because she was more aware than ever of her startling lack of friends near her own age bracket. FUnny how years of isolation and glaring cynicsm won no favors.
”Oh, well, congratulations,” It didn’t seem the most sincere well wishing but the thought was there, ”But unfortunately Nora no longer works here. She retired at the end of last semester.”
”Oh. Well...I’m sorry to hear that. Does that make you-”
”No. The district brought in someone from another school to fill the position. It’s not like the Presidency.” A pang of anger flashed in Nick’s voice.
”What? Even with such a perfect candidate already in place?” Both knew that Constance’s response was not the most sincere but again it was the thought behind it that truly mattered.
”No accounting for taste.”
An uncomfortable pause followed, neither one knowing how to follow up, or end, the conversation.
”I probably should’ve just gone with a phone call, right?”
”It would’ve saved you gas money, at least.”
More silence. More awkward non-interactions.
”Well. Suppose I’ve no reason to be here anymore. Good catching up, Nick.” With nothing more to say, Constance figured the best option was to simply leave. There was nothing here for her anymore.
”When’s the wedding?”
”November the fourth.”
”That’s close.” An obvious statement, and one Constance responded to with a simple noise of vague approval. She had already turned around and was heading towards the stairwell back out to the parking lot. ”Do you remember their names, Chaplin?” Nick called out, causing Constance to pause a moment. ”Your students?”
”Every one. From Amber Beasley to Zach Wilkinson.”
”Well, try not to get hit in the head too hard then. You don’t want to lose that memory.”
Constance agreed with the sentiment, even going so far as to snicker to herself, the brief twitching of her lip upwards fading away by the time she had begun to descend the stairwell and stepped back out into the early morning air.
There was nothing there for her anymore. Nothing but memories that for once she hoped she wouldn’t lose. Despite everything...in the end they had been some of the happiest months of her life.
~
”Of course I haven’t forgotten about the opponent's my partner and I will be facing, though truth be told I’m not quite sure what to make of them. Well...of half of them. I’m not quite sure if this Arthur Kinglsey lad is quite sure what he’s about to be introduced to - but I suppose if one wanted a trial by fire then it’s hard to imagine another team that will leave the guy burned. Burned, but better for it, perhaps. We all have to start somewhere. Were it me I wouldn’t be asking a rather unproven, unknown rookie to stand in my corner even if they came highly recommended.”
“That’s the thing with rookies, no one’s quite sure what to make of them in any profession. Because all too often the new, young upcomers think they are the hottest of hot and that they can do things better than the ones who have more experience, knowledge, and ability in whatever field it may be. Athletics, the culinary field, business, hell, even education - the hotblooded ones always need the rudest awakening.”
“And you’re certainly going to be getting that, Kingsley.”
“But of course, I’m assuming things about you. Because I have to. Because that’s what I know about you other than that your lot’s been thrown in with Tristan Ambrose who I’ve been...well...let’s say ‘fortunate’ to be polite, fortunate enough to avoid. And honestly if the company you keep says anything about you as a person, than I’m correct in assuming that under the youth and exuberance is someone with a bit of an over-inflated sense of ability. It’s common in the younger sorts, they think they can coast on youth, doing things that will shorten their careers because it’s ‘cool’.”
“You’ll learn, Art. One way or another, you’ll learn. Shame that your first lesson will be at the hands of Gwendolyn Massey and myself. But I’ll leave it up to your partner to tell you why that’s a tough draw for you, lest I come off as arrogant and cocky and set myself up for embarrassment.”
“Your partner and I assume friend, Tristan Ambrose, is not having a good couple of weeks. I’m sure it hurts that he lost a quest for some case and I’m sure it stings even more that he lost his bid at the Zero Gravity Championship at the last Breakthrough. A man with such bravado and ability and an acceptable track record doesn’t seem, to me, the type to take such hard losses well.”
“Which I hope is the case, because an angry Tristan with a rookie in his corner is a Tristan I wish to face. Angry men make mistakes. Angry men playing babysitter make even more.”
“To me, what this match really boils down to is two shaky teams - albeit shaky for vastly different reasons - having a contest to see who crumbles first. And signs are pointing to you two being the unfortunate crumblers. On the one hand you have two people who, despite their recent...clashes and events are able to put aside any potential animosity and come together as allies. On the other there’s someone who has taken losses very personally in the past, a noted anger problem when it comes to important losses, and he’s paired up with someone no one has really any clue about. And I highly doubt this is a situation where there’s a ringer in the other corner.”
“I have a feeling, because I brought it up in so many words, that there’s a bit of expectation that Gwen or I will betray the other and leave. I think we’re both too proud to do that, and we have a mutual understanding of each other - I have confidence that any foul play by me would only work in her favour and vice versa. But I’m not sure the same can be said of Ambrose and Kingsley. The rookie looking to impress. The….Tristan looking to lash out...both rocky foundations for their arrangement.”
“Of course that’s just one possibility in the realm of possibilities. But no matter how many potentials there are, all of them spin in our favour. I wouldn’t wish this team on my enemies, let alone people I have no real thoughts on other than perhaps to seek out a stress ball. A former champion and the current champion is a bad draw even for the veterans in VoW.”
“You could well be fearless, Kings, so many others of your make are. But a healthy dose of apprehension will do you well. It might even help your performance in the long run.”
“I’m not expecting a cakewalk, I never do. And though I speak with confidence and assuredness I’m trying not to be arrogant or boastful, because I know full well that anything can happen - and a team like myself and Massey sounds like a solid foundation...but even the sturdiest structure can become rubble in a matter of seconds. I’ve no doubt that Massey and I will work well together, we have when opposed so it stands to reason the same holds true with the flip of a coin, but the question is can you two say the same?”
“Will your friendship or whatever it is survive the trials of a match like this? Will your ego take it, Tristan? There’s a saying that you shouldn’t go into business with your friends and that’s exactly what you’re doing now.”
“Tristan, you’ve got a decent track record, so try not to take things so personally if they don’t go your way, this match included. I’ve no interest in anything other than securing the victory. You’ll be a much happier person that way. And Arthur? I’m sorry your introduction to this place had to be this way. Except it’ll be good for you in the grand scheme of things; it’ll give you just a taste of what it’s like at the top of a class. Try to keep up. Try not to be intimidated.”
“And Gwen, I know it goes against whatever it is you stand for...but let’s do them a favour, yeah? Let’s make it quick. They haven’t done anything wrong.”
“See you in Maryland.”
