Chapter Text
Helen takes a big gulp of lukewarm coffee and runs a hand over her face. It’s been a long day, and third period has only just started.
Midterm season is fast approaching, and with a shocking amount of fourteen-year-olds who are barely even literate, she’s got her work cut out for her trying to teach them Shakespeare. She led each class with a reassuring but firm hand, supplying them with the same old rhetoric that she’s there to help as much as she can but not to do the work for them, and she won’t be there to hold their hands as they fight for their lives, trying to decipher Macbeth’s soliloquy at the beginning of Act 2.
Helen is a good teacher; she knows this, knows from the above-average exam results and the sheer number of students from her classes that have gone on to study literature at college, a fact that has her grinning like a fool whenever she thinks about it. But since the pandemic and online school, and the steady transition back into in-person teaching, something has shifted among the student body. It’s worrying, she thinks, as she types up her fourth virtual detention slip (whatever happened to good old-fashioned paper slips?!) of the day, this time for a sophomore boy who felt it was appropriate to start regurgitating what she’s heard the kids refer to as “Italian brainrot” during what she felt was a rather riveting deep-dive into the gender politics of the Scottish medieval court. Attention spans and respect for teachers are shrinking at an alarming rate, and it makes her feel like she’s floundering on an open sea.
She’s so preoccupied with her unnecessarily detailed recount of the offence that she doesn’t notice a shy hand snake upwards into the air on the third row. “Uh, Ms Sharp?”
“Yes? Sorry, Ava, didn’t see you there.”
Ava hesitates, blushing. A quiet, unassuming kid, she’s perhaps a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but she’s relatively harmless compared to some of her peers. “What’s a dagger?” A slow hum of solidarity arises across the room as others chime in with their own confusion.
Helen bites back the cruel response that forms on the tip of her tongue. How can these kids not know what a dagger is?! She sighs quietly to herself and picks up a marker to write a definition on the whiteboard. It’s not their fault, she supposes, that their parents couldn’t be bothered to engage their children in something more intellectually stimulating than Disney Channel and Cocomelon.
There’s a ripple of laughter as she turns her back to the class at the board. It almost yanks her back to her own school days, when she’d sit alone at lunch and the people around her would treat her with either total indifference or outright disdain - she wasn’t sure which was worse, really. They’d read out the title of whatever classic novel she’d had her nose buried in with mocking voices and cold laughter, and she’d shrink further into herself in response. Your high school days are long over, Helen, she reminds herself. But really, why are they laughing? She continues to face the board, breathing deeply until she’s semi-confident that her face isn’t bright red, then whips around, the laughter slowly dying down. “What’s so funny?”
Another girl, Ellie, pipes up. “Ms Sharp, you have a little… something… on your back.”
Helen reaches around and peels the offending item off the back of her sweater. It’s a pink Post-it note with the words HIT ME scrawled out crudely in darker pink Sharpie, the colours stark enough against the cream wool of her clothing that she knows anyone who’s walked behind her at any point today would’ve seen it. What the fuck? Is that why people have been laughing behind her back all day? She almost asks the class who’s responsible, but knows in her heart that there’s exactly one person in the building who could’ve done this.
Ms Madeline Ashton. Head of Drama and Theatre Studies, Helen’s former best friend turned mortal enemy, and the biggest bitch in the world. A title the well-versed feminist in her doesn’t like using, but she can’t think of anything more suitable.
Helen nearly shakes with rage. How could she have been so naïve, to think that the sly pat on the back Madeline had given her during that morning’s staff briefing had been one of encouragement after she’d shyly announced the launching of a new book club for students? “So nice of you to finally venture out of your shell,” she’d wheedled, “are you finally tired of the wounded wallflower act?” She almost kicks herself for her own stupidity, close to tears from the hot embarrassment with a side of betrayal that courses through her as she thinks about the number of people that probably noticed it but didn’t bother mentioning it to her.
No. She will not let Madeline get to her, especially through such a ridiculously childish prank. She’ll just have to plot her revenge move instead. When she has time to think about it, of course. She barely has time to go to the bathroom between classes these days.
The class finally settles back down, and Helen is able to get onto that definition, saying the words as she writes them out carefully in large, neat cursive. “Dagger: a short, pointed knife that was once used as a weapon.” It briefly crosses her mind that if the opportunity presented itself, she wouldn’t mind plunging a dagger deep into Madeline’s perfectly sculpted shoulder blade.
The rest of the period drags on and on, seemingly endless, but mercifully without further incident. Two minutes before the bell, she instructs the kids to start packing up their belongings - she’s never been a believer in “the bell is a signal for me and not you,” and frankly finds it irritating when other teachers, especially Madeline, whom she knows to be a firm proponent of it, ascribe to this rule - when there’s a polite knock at her door. “Come in!” she calls out.
It’s Mr Moustakas - Stefan - the flamboyant and permanently stressed music teacher who’s closer to Madeline than he is to Helen due to the adjacency of their departments, but still makes an effort to get to know each and every staff member regardless of the internal politics between them. It’s something she’s always respected about him, but she wonders if it contributes to his near-constant frazzlement. “Ms Sharp - a word, please?”
Helen nods, shuffling some paperwork on her desk that’s been knocked askew back into a neat pile. “You’re dismissed,” she addresses the class, and they all leave surprisingly quickly for a group that usually lacks a sense of urgency. She watches them go, feeling a glimmer of fear as she remembers just how little they know and just how close their first English midterm is (three weeks away), mentally preparing herself for the verbal dressing-down she’ll inevitably receive from Principal Van Horn when half the class fails and the other half barely scrapes a pass.
“Viola wants to see you in her office after school,” Stefan starts, as if reading her mind.
“Uh-oh. Am I in trouble?” she quips, but her insides are churning. What could she have done this time? Last time she’d been called to the principal’s office, it had been over a freshman taking her sarcasm to heart a little too hard and bursting into tears in the guidance counsellor’s office. She couldn’t recall any other incidents in this vein, but she’s uncomfortably aware that her sharp tongue can get away from her sometimes.
“Yeah. She saw your browsing history.” Stefan’s face is completely straight. Helen pales. What?! Then Stefan’s shrieking with laughter, and Helen smacks him on the arm a little harder than intended. “Ow! Oh my god, your face! I’m kidding - she wants your input on something.”
It’s suspiciously vague. “What do you mean by something? Oh god, I hope it’s not another revision of my recommended reading list. I already amended it to take out The Handmaid’s Tale and The Color Purple because of parental complaints . Ridiculous, by the way. God forbid children ever read anything that challenges them, right?”
Stefan laughs. “Tell me about it. They wouldn’t even let me teach the score from La Cages aux Folles because it’s ‘too risqué.’” He illustrates his point with air quotes. “No, it’s nothing like that. Just… wait for her to tell you. It’s important.”
Helen squirms uncomfortably. If there’s anything she hates besides Madeline, it’s being out of the loop. But there’s something in Stefan’s tone that suggests he’s not going to bend to her whims, no matter how many questions she asks, so she drops it. “Fine. But just know I’ll be clawing at the bars of my cage by the end of the day in anticipation.” She fashions her fingers into claws and mimes swiping at him. He jumps, squealing in a way that is just so Stefan, and they both cackle at the other’s antics. Then the bell goes, loud and obnoxious as ever, and they both jump, Helen actually letting out a little yelp that embarrasses her more than she’d care to admit. “Okay, I need to use the bathroom before my next class or I’m going to have a very unfortunate accident.”
She ponders telling him about the Post-it incident, but refrains, knowing that Stefan isn’t above gossip and that it would eventually make its way back to Madeline that it had bothered her. She doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction she knows she craves so badly. Instead, she just follows Stefan out into the hall, waving him goodbye and locking her door behind her because she doesn’t want to return to her room with the desks all upended and chewing gum pressed into the back of her favourite coat. Again.
Three o’clock finally arrives, and Helen’s at the end of her tether. She’d started Lord of the Flies with her fifth-period freshman class, and was close to crying with the sheer number of times she’d heard increasingly poor imitations of a British accent call out “nothing beats a Jet2 Holiday!” throughout the duration of the first chapter. Two impassioned rants and nine detentions later, she’s about as grateful for her free sixth period as she would be for an oasis in a desert.
She’s perched on the little bench outside Viola’s office, drumming her fingers erratically on her own knee, unable to quell the nervousness that being in close proximity to authority always draws out of her. That’s a part of her that will never go away, she thinks. Stefan is across the hall from her, getting increasingly frustrated at a picture frame that just will not sit straight, no matter how many times he adjusts it. “Just leave it, Stefan. Must be an issue with the wall fixture.”
He grumbles, but leaves it alone, dragging his feet as he comes over to sit beside her. “It’s disturbing how little care goes into the maintenance of aesthetically pleasing hallways in this place.”
“Well, this is high school, not the Louvre.”
Stefan opens his mouth to shoot back something clever, but Viola’s door swings open before he can form his reply. “Come in,” she says brusquely. Always a woman of few words and little patience, Viola seems extra agitated today, and Helen wonders what on Earth could have possibly happened to put her in such a mood.
The inside of her office smells unusual, like an odd mix of incense and Lysol - Helen wonders if she wipes down the surfaces every time someone gets up from her desk. She wouldn’t put it past her, to be honest. There are a couple of fold-out chairs set out at either side of the desk in addition to the two existing ones, and Helen quickly starts to worry about who else might be joining them. There’s another additional chair behind the desk, too, next to where Viola sits - that can’t be good. Usually, if someone else is next to her, it’s another higher-up or even worse, someone from the school board.
Helen starts mentally taking bets on just how fucked she is, when Stacey, or Miss Devlin as she’s known by the students, the dance teacher and newest addition to the staff cohort, enters. It should ease her nerves, for someone so new and, in the politest way possible, low-down in the pecking order to be there, but if anything, it only serves to confuse her even more. What could she and the dance teacher possibly have in common that requires such an urgent meeting?
Then… oh fuck. Oh shit.
Who should swan in but Madeline, looking absurdly put-together after what’s felt like the longest Tuesday in the world to Helen. The mild throbbing at her temples that started somewhere around fourth period is in danger of blossoming into a full-blown migraine. Why the fuck is she here? Stefan pulls the chair next to hers out, and Helen thinks he’s going to sit there as she grins up at him… except he was just pulling it out for Madeline to sit there, she realises, smile fading faster than it arrived. He fusses around her like she’s royalty - Helen’s half-surprised he doesn’t pull a fan out of his pocket to cool her down with. She’s sure if she rolled her eyes any harder, they’d fall out of her head. The snark erupts before she can stop it. “Ms Ashton… so gracious of you to join us, your majesty.”
Madeline sneers. “Don’t be jealous, Hel. Green would clash horribly with your hair.”
“Mind you, my eyes are famously green…”
“Yeah, well, I’ve never looked into them for long enough in case I turn to stone.”
They’re so absorbed in their bickering that they don’t even register that the room around them has gone silent, all eyes on them like they’re under a spotlight. Helen at least has the humility to blush and look apologetic, but Madeline simply tosses her hair over her shoulder like she’s the main event. Viola clears her throat.
“Anyway… let’s get started. Some of you already know what this is about,” she begins, looking first to Madeline, then to Stefan, who seem entirely distracted by each other (how rude, Helen thinks), “but for those not in the know, let me clue you in. Actually, Madeline - since it’s your project, why don’t you explain it to us?”
Madeline’s project? Helen thinks about doing a runner - there’s no way she’s letting Madeline boss her around for even a second. She folds her arms and sucks in her face like she’s tasting something sour. Madeline totally ignores her obviously ramped-up performance of displeasure and begins her little presentation, something Helen is sure she’s rehearsed at least twice in her bathroom mirror. The thought makes her stomach twist with something bitter.
“Okay, so! School production season is coming up after midterms, and I figured - why not switch things up this time? Existing musicals - fun as they might be - are a bit been there, done that. I mean, how many awkward, racially insensitive high school versions of West Side Story do we really need to see?” Viola gives her a look. “So, I’ve decided to go with… drum roll please!”
The only person who complies enthusiastically is Stefan. You little enabler, Helen thinks, then immediately feels bad because what should she expect? Madeline and Stefan are like two sides of the same bedazzled, too-loud coin. Stacey gives the desk a few light taps before ceasing, and Helen and Viola both keep their arms folded firmly. Madeline doesn’t let it faze her, ever the actress. “Shakespeare! More specifically, Romeo and Juliet.”
Oh hell no. If Helen weren’t already fuming, she’d be absolutely furious at the idea of Madeline butchering her beloved Elizabethan playwright. She’s not proud of the ugly, childish feelings that arise - if she had any less self-respect, she’d start whining about how Shakespeare is her thing, and how dare Madeline think she can recreate perfection with a group of high schoolers that can barely string a sentence together?
But something, though she’s not sure what, stops her. Is she really going to hear Madeline out on this one? She eyes everybody else in the room quickly, and they all look genuinely excited. Well, Viola’s lips are curved up very slightly in what might be considered a smile for her. Stefan is obviously over the moon, and Stacey looks rather intrigued. So she keeps quiet.
“So, Stacey, we’ll of course need your help with the choreography as we’d like to make it as period-accurate as possible - time to brush up on your sixteenth-century moves! Stefan, you’ll obviously lead the orchestra. And Helen -” Madeline looks, really looks at her properly for the first time since the meeting started, and Helen’s heart rate picks up “- as our resident Shakespeare expert, we’ll need all the help we can get with pronunciation and understanding the meaning of the script. Are you in?”
The whole room holds its breath, like the entire project rests on her answer alone. She sighs deeply. “What’s in it for me?”
The tension dissipates, but only mildly. Is that panic in Viola’s eyes? Maybe she expected Helen to just cave immediately, like she’d done so many times in the past when extra work had been thrust upon her. But Helen’s been working on herself lately, trying to stand her ground more in the face of adversity so that people no longer treat her like the pushover she’s been all her life. It’s actually working, somewhat.
“There’s something you’ve been wanting for some time now, Helen. We both know what it is. Agree to this, and I’ll consider your application much more strongly than I currently am.”
Is Viola even allowed to do that? Bribe her into it by dangling the head of department position in front of her nose, the position she’s had her heart set on since even before she found out the current head, Mrs Lipschitz, is retiring at the end of the academic year? Is that even legal? And who else could even possibly be in the running for it?
Helen sighs again, hard enough to turn the air blue. She’s not getting out of this one easily, moral dilemma included or not. “Fine, I’ll do it.”
Madeline claps her hands and squeals with glee. It makes Helen want to slap her, or even just go back on her offer entirely. That would wipe the perfect smile off her face in an instant. Instead, she just bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself from saying something unprofessional.
They’re all getting up to leave when Madeline suddenly gasps. “Oh! I almost forgot - I’d like to put a little twist on it.” She takes a deep breath like she’s steadying herself. “I’d like to cast two girls as the leads. To make a statement.”
The silence in the office is so loud that Helen can hear her own pulse in her ears. Viola is the first to break it. “Do you know how many parents will be up my ass if we do that?”
“So? Haven’t you already taken enough away from the queer kids by banning all those books? It’s the least we can do.”
Helen somehow feels responsible for this, too, the guilt swelling inside her. This is the first time she’s seen Viola flounder, too, struggling to find a response. “Look, I’ll… I’ll think about it, okay? I just don’t want to make things any harder for those kids.” Maybe there really is a big softie hiding under all those glossy layers, Helen thinks.
“I say do it.” The new, deeper voice has all heads in the room swivelling around to see Chagall, the assistant principal, magnificent as ever in the doorway. “Any backlash we get comes directly to us. High school theatre departments cast same-sex actors as couples all the time anyway.”
Stefan nods, sucking his teeth. “Plus, a lot of those little boys are too redpilled to even consider auditioning. We’ll struggle to find someone who actually wants to do it.”
Viola’s silent for an eternal moment, giving Helen time to wonder what Stefan means by ‘redpilled.’ Then Viola holds up her hands as if surrendering. “Okay. Okay. I’ll allow it.”
Madeline and Stefan cheer in unison, and Helen feels something come alive, swirling and warm in her chest. This could shape up to be very, very interesting indeed.