Chapter 289: Late-After Hours With Teacher Bloom

The door clicked shut behind him.

Ms. Bloom didn’t look up after she sat in her chair.

She was writing something—pen moving across paper in sharp, efficient strokes, her attention fixed on whatever document demanded it.

Not a performance or power play.

"Sit," she said, still writing. "I’ll be with you in a moment."

No "please." No softening. An instruction delivered with the expectation of

immediate compliance

.

Phei sat.

The chair was uncomfortable.

Deliberately so

, probably.

Hard plastic, slightly too low, positioned so that anyone sitting in it had to look

up

at the teacher behind the desk.

A psychological trick. Establish dominance before the conversation even began.

Clever.

He waited.

Thirty seconds. A minute. Ms. Bloom’s pen kept moving. She finished one document, set it aside, pulled another toward her, made two quick annotations, then finally—

finally

—set down her pen and looked at him.

Not warm. Not cold. Simply... assessing.

"Mr. Maxton," she said. "Do you know why you’re here?"

"I could guess."

"Then guess."

"My attendance. My grades. My general failure to meet the standards you’ve set for your class." He tilted his head slightly. "How am I doing so far?"

"Your attendance is a problem."

"What’s wrong with my attendance?"

She stared at him. "What’s

right

with it?"

"I show up sometimes. That has to count for something."

"It counts for a seventy-one percent." She folded her hands on the desk. Perfect posture. Perfect composure.

"You’ve missed my class

eight times

in the past three weeks. You’ve left early twice. You’ve arrived late four times. And on the occasions you do attend, your attention is—" She paused, choosing her word carefully. "

—elsewhere.

"

"I’ve had things on my mind."

"I’m sure you have."

Flat. Unimpressed. "So

has every other student

in this school. They still manage to show up."

"Most students don’t have my schedule."

"Most students at least

pretend

to care about their grades."

"I care deeply about my grades."

"You have a seventy-one percent."

"And I care deeply about that." He pressed a hand to his chest. "It keeps me up at night. I

weep.

I’ve considered

therapy.

Support groups. Perhaps a montage where I

dramatically

study while

inspirational

music plays."

Something flickered in her expression. Not quite amusement. But not

not

amusement either.

"

You’re deflecting with humour

," she said.

"Is it working?"

"No."

"Shame. It usually does."

She pulled a folder from the stack beside her. His name on the tab. She’d prepared for this.

"I’ve been teaching for years, Mr. Maxton. I’ve seen students struggle. I’ve seen them go through personal difficulties. I’ve seen every excuse and every genuine crisis this job has to offer." She opened the folder. "What I don’t see—

what I

never

see

—is a student drop twenty-two points without a reason."

"Maybe I’ve just gotten worse at chemistry."

"You haven’t." She said it like a fact. Because it was. "The assignments you

do

turn in are still excellent. Your test scores on the material you’ve actually studied remain high. You haven’t gotten worse at chemistry, Mr. Maxton. You’ve simply stopped prioritizing it."

"That’s very

insightful."

"It’s very

obvious

." She closed the folder. "The question is why."

"Would you believe a

series of increasingly unlikely coincidences?

"

"No."

"

Personal growth journey?"

"No."

"Alien abduction?"

"Mr. Maxton."

"Worth a shot."

She sighed. But it wasn’t an annoyed sigh. It was the sigh of someone fighting a smile and refusing to lose.

"Why do you keep missing my class

specifically?"

she asked. "You’re passing everything else. Your other teachers have no complaints. It’s just me."

"Honestly?"

"Please."

"Your class is right after lunch and I keep getting...

distracted."

"By what?"

"I plead the fifth."

"This isn’t a courtroom."

"Then I plead

teacher-student confidentiality

."

"That’s not a thing."

"It should be. I’m going to write a letter. Start a petition."

Ms. Bloom leaned back in her chair.

Really looked at him. Not the cursory glance of a teacher cataloging another problem student, but something deeper. Something that lingered.

"You’ve changed," she said.

"Have I?"

"You used to sit in the back corner. Never spoke unless called on. Turned in your work on time but never early, never with any flourish. Completely..." She searched for the word.

"Invisible?"

"I was going to say unremarkable." A pause. "But yes. Invisible works."

"And now?"

"Now you walk like you own the hallways. Now girls watch you and boys avoid you. Now you challenge basketball teams and make teachers stay late just to figure out what happened." A pause. Her voice dropped slightly. "Teachers notice you. I notice you."

The admission hung between them.

"Is that

inappropriate?"

she added, voice carefully neutral. "Noticing a student?"

"Depends on what you’re noticing."

"Your

behaviour

, Mr. Maxton.

Don’t be clever

."

"I’m always clever. It’s a

character flaw

."

"One of many, I’m sure."

"

Countless. Shall I list them?

"

"Please don’t."

"Too late.

Number one

:

excessive charm

.

Number two:

devastating good looks

. Number three—"

"Your ego is showing."

"That’s number three, actually."

She laughed despite herself—a real one, surprised out of her—and something in her expression cracked at the sound. Just a little. Just enough to see.

"You’re smarter than you act," she said.

"Low

bar."

"It wasn’t a compliment."

"Sounded like one."

"Then you need your hearing checked."

"Probably. All those late nights studying chemistry. Very loud subject. Lots of explosions."

"Chemistry isn’t—" She stopped. Shook her head. "You’re impossible."

"Thank you."

"That wasn’t a compliment either."

"And yet."

She almost smiled. "At least you’re

honest

about your

dishonesty."

"

Transparent opacity. It’s a gift

."

"It’s something."

Phei was being transparent with his intentions of teasing her to no end and anyone could tell what his

intentions

were. She could tell too, and he was making it entertaining that she didn’t get a chance to reprimand him or remind him what their roles here were.

The school had gone quiet around them—that particular emptiness that settled over buildings when most people had left, when only the dedicated and the detained remained.

"What would you recommend?" Phei asked. "For a student who’s...

lost his way

?"

"I’d recommend he start showing up."

"Beyond the obvious

."

"That

is

the obvious. The rest is

negotiable."

"Negotiable how?"

She studied him for a moment. Weighing something.

"There might be options," she said slowly. "Make-up labs. Extra credit. Alternative assignments. For students who demonstrate genuine commitment."

"What kind of commitment?"

"Consistent attendance. Perfect scores on remaining assignments. And—" She hesitated.

"And?"

"

Private tutoring sessions

. After school. To ensure you’ve mastered the material you missed."

The words and their meaning hung in the air.

Private tutoring sessions.

After school.

Just the two of us.

"That’s very generous," Phei said. "Staying late for a student who’s already disappointed you."

"I haven’t decided if I’m disappointed yet."

"No?"

"No." She held his gaze. "Disappointed implies I expected better. The truth is, Mr. Maxton, I didn’t have any expectations of you at all. You were just... there. Another face in the back row."

"And now?"

"Now you’re here. In my classroom. After hours. Asking for a second chance." Something shifted in her expression—curiosity, maybe. Or something she wouldn’t name. "That’s more than most students would do."

"I’m not most students."

"Maybe you’re not."

She stood up.

"I want to show you exactly where you’re losing points," she said, moving around the desk. All business. All professionalism. "Come here."