Monday
September 3, 2018
A nondescript envelope is waiting on the desk in his office when Dmitri gets home that afternoon. He should feel pumped up and energetic, ready to take over the world. Instead, he feels worn out and ready to fall into bed, but he can’t because he has over fifty tests to correct.
And now this.
Dropping his bag on the floor next to his leg, he picks up the envelope and opens it. Inside, there are the customary picture and mission details. The man looks vaguely familiar, probably from one of the functions he had to attend, but otherwise doesn’t strike Dmitri as someone who really should be on his hit list. Then again, pictures often lie. And if the man’s sins are just half as bad as the preliminary report says, he won’t be missed in the slightest. And at least this time he has a full week to finish the job, which will come pretty handy with the amount of work he has given himself.
“And the kids think their lives are hard,” he scoffs to himself.
He puts the picture and sheet of paper back into the envelope. He briefly wonders where Carmen or his grandmother is, but has learned not to stick his nose into businesses it had no reason to be in. It is really better for everyone involved. When they’re ready, someone will come blasting his door open anyway, so maybe he shouldn’t look the gift horse in the mouth and use the next however long to be productive and start on the tests.
They can’t be that bad, right?
Wrong.
Maybe he shouldn’t have started with his own class, but he wanted to prove himself that his kids aren’t as bad as they tried their worst to show, but after the fifth test that has barely anything more than illegible gibberish and threats against his life, Dmitri is ready to flip the desk and then hunt down each and every little cretin and wring their necks. Unfortunately, he can’t do that. Which leaves working his way through the travesty his class thought was a funny prank. Well, they will be able to enjoy all the failing marks the next day that’s for sure.
His first promising test feels like a drop of much-needed water in a desert. He can recall the name Ryley easily. He’s the boy Mark Goodman had a fight with. Well, Ryley Johnson obviously has more brains than Mark Goodman has shown in his answers. It’s not perfect, but certainly enough for a ‘B’ and Dmitri almost wants to frame it to remember what being taken seriously looks like. Then his hope plummets deeper and deeper with the tests that follow Ryley’s. The cartoonish drawings that decorate the questions instead of words would be funny in any other situation, but this is Dmitri’s job. It’s something he slaved for six years, and these idiots treat his hard work like it means nothing.
He nearly carves another zero on the paper in front of him, taking vindictive joy from the knowledge that he will get to announce everyone’s grades in front of the entire class the next day. And also tell the probably smugly laughing douchepools that everyone with a zero will have to retake the test next week and if they get another zero, they will fail winter term for sure. To think that he originally didn’t want to grade the tests. Maybe he will also tell the little dickwads this as well, so just they know what they brought on their own heads.
Grinning viciously, he pulls the last test of the stack before him, ready to draw a giant zero in the right upper corner of it when he realizes that it’s actually filled out with actual, elaborate answers. He skims the answers Rhys Martinez gave to his questions, and within a minute, he is enraptured by the intelligent, thought-inspiring sentences laid out before him. He cannot find a fault in Martinez’s reasoning. His theoretical knowledge is amazing and makes Dmitri want to engage the boy, whoever he is, in hours upon hours of conversation about composition theory and the social background of the early 19th century America. Hell, the boy even answered the extra credit question. It’s really a dream come true, except based on the boy’s level of knowledge, he should be in AP English Composition, instead of rotting his brain in regular English class with the other morons.
But then he would be away from Dmitri. Because the principal didn’t trust him with Advanced Placement classes beyond 19th Century English Literature. Composition is taught by one of the old stuffy guys who couldn’t be assed to talk to Dmitri beyond telling him not to get mixed up in the brats’ business. And okay, 19th Century English Lit is is his baby, but to be stuck with the underclassmen and his group of Juniors instead of delving into the exciting depths of the English language with the upperclassmen is frustrating. It hurts his pride because he knows just as much as Dr. Whatshisface. Yes, he doesn’t have fancy titles behind his name. Or even a PhD. Yet. But he put all of himself into learning as much as possible about English and it feels like a slight against him to be seen as undereducated… as incapable in a field he’s seen as his hiding place ever since he was a child. It might have been Russian fairytales that managed to lull him into sleep after his parents died, but English, the language and its tales, was the only thing that was left to him by his father. His completely ordinary and unwanted father, who was a mere English teacher and who robbed the Yuriev family of its heiress.
Dmitri knows that this sentimentality is ridiculous. He cannot even remember his father anymore, yet twenty years later, he still clings to the idea of being just a little bit closer to a painfully faded ghost with the same desperation he did when he was a toddler, freshly thrust into the world of crime and rigid rules. He still uses masterfully or haphazardly composed words to take a step back from the darkness that threatens to devour him after each completed mission. He escapes down to Wonderland, or back in time to watch Tzars fall and rise, to wipe away the red that seeped too deep into his pores to be scrubbed off anymore. He solves mysteries and falls in love with beauty and love itself through the sonnets of old masters to forget the days… weeks when he feels too jaded and burnt out to care if the world goes up in flames and takes him with it.
His eyes slide over to the envelope lying innocently on the far corner of the desk. His lives were never supposed to mix, but that was too much to ask for. Giving up his legacy is not an option because it would mean abandoning his family, like his mother, no matter what his grandmother says. But he refuses to give up on his dream, to make the next generation a better one even in the smallest way. That’s why he studied so much. That’s why he became a teacher. There is no way to be the heir of the Yuriev family or Dmitri Armand, English teacher, so he has to accept that he will have to lead a double life.
He’s used to living in the shadows while showing the world a face split by an empty smile and innocently shining eyes. He’s used to feeling the touch of warm leather against his back and the familiar press of a trigger under his index finger. He’s used to the thrill of suffocating in another person’s last breaths. He’s used to death, to pain, to grief. He’s used to the life of a vor. But it doesn’t mean he will ever enjoy the gruesomeness this life involves.
He is nothing like his cousin, Anastas.
He refocuses on the task at hand, trying to shut out everything that involves his family’s business. There is an admirable piece of writing sitting in front of him, and after rereading each answer, he starts taking notes on the margin, hoping that whoever his student is will find him after class tomorrow and they can discuss Rhys’ responses and Dmitri’s own theories. He takes his time, savoring the treat of working with a like-minded person’s ideas as long as he can because he doesn’t have much hope left for the other classes’ tests still waiting for him in his bag.
Eventually, however, he has to finish scribbling little scraps of ideas on whatever empty surface he can find on the paper and grade the test, happily circling the A+ next to the 110% Rhys Martinez scored. He puts the test on top of the others, already looking forward to finding out who the mysterious boy is in his class. Maybe he will find a silent ally in him? Or maybe Rhys is too shy to go against Mark Goodman, Ryley Johanson, Thommy Prescott, and that green-eyed rascal who dared to openly threaten him after class. He will have to wait and see.
He almost falls out of his chair because he is too lazy to stand up to grab the next batch of tests when someone knocks on the office door then enters with the familiar staccato of high heels on the hardwood floor. Dmitri straightens up, then smiles at Carmen who is wearing skin-tight leather pants and a slightly transparent white shirt. It suits her perfectly, especially with the dark red lipstick coating her full lips.
“Ah, you’re hiding here, Young Master,” she purrs, perching herself on the edge of his desk, her neatly painted but tightly clipped nails brushing over the coarse brown paper of that quietly mocking envelope. “Good first day?”
“Just the best,” Dmitri replies, grimacing at the heavy sarcasm lacing his tone. “Being a teacher isn’t all rainbows and unicorns as it turns out.”
“But you expected that.”
“I expected teenagers who are eager to learn. I expected pranks and mischief. Not a horde of arrogant, self-absorbed little shits who expect perfect grades for no work. Seriously, just look at this crap.” He waves his hand at the already graded pile of tests. “Maybe I was expecting too much.”
Carmen reaches out for the pile, raising an eyebrow at Rhys Martinez’s tests, and Dmitri feels his cheeks heat under her close scrutiny. She is careful not to give anything away while she reads his comments, her face impassive, then puts the sheet of paper on top of the envelope next to her and promptly bursts out laughing.
“Jesus, this is gold,” she cackles, her throaty voice sharp with humor, making Dmitri’s fingers twitch. “Don’t even think about it, Pup,” she warns, her attention still on the vulgar but admittedly talented drawing William Lansburgh decided to present him with instead of real content. “Bree and the others might take your sulking, but you know better than that with me.”
Feeling like a scolded child, Dmitri grits his teeth and mutters a quiet apology, placing both of his hands on top of the desk where they are clearly visible. He could take Carmen, after all the woman made sure the student surpassed his teacher in every area possible, not to mention Dmitri had the advantage of learning not only from her but also his grandmother and great-grandmother as well. It doesn’t mean he would ever raise a hand against her. He respects her too much to do so out of a fair match situation. Also, she would shoot him like a dog before he could touch her, he has no doubt about that.
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