QUARTER-LIFE | HS

TUESDAY/WEDNESDAY

Harry's made sure that his jumper's clean, the laces on his pink converse are tied, and that his beanie is safely tucked away in his briefcase. He runs a hand through his loose hair as he gnaws on his bottom lip and compulsively wiggles his toes inside his shoes; he's wrought with nerves.

The last time Monique asked to speak with him in her office, at the end of March, it was because she was adding European History classes to his schedule, and Harry left her office buzzing. This time, mid-October, he reckons he'll leave in tears. He's so tense that the buzzing of his phone startles him hard enough to nearly bite through his lip (again).

Nialler: Everything's going to be fine

Nialler: I love you !!!!

Harry's halfway through typing out a shaky 'I love you, too' when the next set of texts come in.

Nialler: Even tho you gave Layla my lunch

Nialler: And if you get fired and your reputation is gutted for all of eternity

Nialler: I'll still love you

He can't even find the energy to roll his eyes. So much for comfort.

"Harry?" Mrs. Tomkins calls his name with a neat smile. Harry does his best to return it although it undoubtedly makes him look like the world's saddest prick in the cold seats opposite her cluttered desk. "Monique's ready for you."

"Cheers," he breathes out, and motions to get going before Mrs. Tomkins calls his name again.

"Thank you for the flowers again, bug. You're very sweet," she tells him, and he struggles to churn out another smile before giving up.

Carrying himself down the carpeted corridor, and into the last office on the right, he already feels that smoker's panic one gets where they need a cigarette. The scent of Monique's tobacco candle is only making his desire worsen; he finds himself tracing the outline of the pack from outside his briefcase as he continues to chew on his lip.

Harry was never the troublemaking type as a student, just bad-tempered enough to get a lecture here and there, so the principal's office (when he was sent for the occasional comment-gone-awry) was never a big deal for him. Monique Douglas, however, is incredibly intimidating.

She may look like a tiny, pantsuit-wearing grandma with a weakness for giant floral brooches, but she's very much no-nonsense, and she takes her job-and her mantra-very seriously.

The last person who disrespected a student was torn several new assholes, and fired in front of the entire staff at a faculty meeting. Harry had never seen a bodybuilder cry before; the sight of massive Mr. Vega (a gym teacher who'd berated a fourteen-year-old boy for being "too fuckin' pussy" to play dodgeball), sobbing hysterically on the bathroom floor comes to mind every time he goes for a pee in building C.

The added weight of this mysterious funk amplifies with every passing second, and he's considering bolting out until Monique turns in her chair to face him with a sympathetic smile on her face. "Hi," he finally says, still lingering in the doorway.

"Take a seat, Harry."

He's never been more thankful for his manners than he is now. Maybe she'll think back to all the times he's held doors open for her, or volunteered himself for school events, or walked her to her car at night, and she won't fire him. His eyes dart from the pictures of her grandkids on the bookshelf, to the overwhelming number of diplomas and awards hung on the gray wall behind her, and the purple flowers on her fat desk.

"I want you to tell me what happened. I know I don't need to say so, but please be as honest as possible," Monique tells him, and tries to be slick as she inches a box of tissues next to the vase on her right. Harry swipes a sticky finger at his eye, but he can't tell if he's crying because he doesn't remember what life was like before perpetually-sweaty hands.