First days are always my favorite. Groupies buzzing with news of their summer romances or heartbreaks. Newbies shyly blushing when they see the class hunk for the first time. Deskmates introducing themselves in hopes of finding a new friend. So many new connections, strings to untangle and decipher. 

Right now, they are points on a scattered plot, jumbled together in my mind map, but by the end of the first week, I’ll understand where the lines of best fit exist. And by the end of the semester? Well, hopefully I’ll have connected a few dots. I smile happily at the prospect. I love my job. 

During my morning classes, I keep careful mental notes as I present the syllabus to my new students. A glance there gets marked in pink highlighter on my roster between periods. A note past here gets a yellow mark. PDA: a green line. 

I am pleasantly surprised to see the jock and his “beard” from this morning in my second period. They should be an interesting pair to follow. As I watch them sit together holding hands, I idly wonder if I should assign seats for my afternoon classes. I generally like to allow them to form clicks naturally, as it gives me clues about their lives. However, if I need to separate or recombine groups later, it is more difficult if I do not assign seats from the beginning. 

During my preparation hour, I debate staying in my classroom to formulate seating charts or seeking out Ms. Perez in the teacher’s lounge. Well, it’s not like Ms. Perez is going anywhere fast with her relationship. She can wait. 

I pull out my afternoon rosters and empty seating charts from my desk, placing them to my left, and then my biàndāng and chopsticks from my side bag. I unwrap the box, setting aside my ice pack and popping open the lid on my leftovers from last night. My mouth waters at the aroma of braised pork and marinated egg. 

“That looks tasty,” a vaguely British accent says from my doorway just as I raise the succulent meat to my mouth. 

I smile as tall, dark, and handsome steps into my classroom. 

“Mr. Wright, please come in. Would you like some?”

“Yes,” he grins as he pulls a chair up to my desk and sits on it backwards facing me. “But how many times do I have to tell you, Mei? Call me Thaddeus.” 

“As many times as I need to remind you to call me Ms. Huang,” I say as I pull out a spare pair of chopsticks and pass them to him. 

“I’m hurt,” he mocks with his hand to his chest. “I really thought this year we would finally be able to drop the formalities.”

“One can forgive murder, but not impoliteness,” I quote before stuffing a bit of lunch into my mouth. 

“Who are you planning to kill, Mei?” he says, leaning in close to pluck a piece of meat from my biàndāng. 

“You, if you don’t stop saying ridiculous things.”

“God, I missed your cooking!” he moans around his first bite. “This is delicious.” 

“Then show your gratitude by earning your keep,” I roll my eyes. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he giggles childishly. “What are we working on today?” He flips my rosters and seating charts around until they are facing him. “Assigned seating? That’s new.” 

I shake my head, swallowing. “It’s not. I used it two years ago with moderate success. This year, I think I will try a side by side comparison with open seating in my morning classes.”

“How very systematic of you,” he deadpans. 

“Exactly,” I ignore his sarcasm. “Now help me decide who to partner up.” 

I slide the sheets until they are turned ninety degrees between us so we can both read. Continuing picking at my food with my right, I begin filling out the chart with my left, following my instincts as I pencil in names. 

“You would have made such a good musician,” Mr. Wright sighs dreamily. 

I pause both writing and eating to quirk a single slim eyebrow at him. “That’s a tad racist. Don’t you think?” 

“Ah, no,” he flushes, “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just, I would kill to be ambidextrous.” 

“Less murder talk, more romance talk.”

“As you wish,” he purrs. 

He is really earning these eye rolls today. With how unconsciously flirtatious Mr. Wright is, I’m surprised some clever woman hasn’t trapped him in a relationship yet. “Focus, please.” I tap the assignment before us. 

“Ulg, fine,” he sighs. “But, I honestly don’t know how you can possibly decide who would be a good match by just their names.” He crinkles his eyebrows as he continues eating my food instead of helping. 

“Intuition.” 

“Like this?” He closes his eyes and stabs my roster with both his chopsticks, one in each hand. I grimace at the rude gesture as he peeks his eyes open and looks at the names he stabbed. “Alastair and…” He lifts one utensil slightly to look at the name beneath. “...Cameron. They would have a super cool couple’s abbreviation.”

I quirk an eyebrow instead of entertaining his antics with a “what?”. 

“Get it? Cool: like AC?”

I roll my eyes, but do scribble their names down when his attention drifts back to the food. 

I flip from my seventh period list to my sixth period, but pause when I get about halfway down the roster, noticing a familiar name: Sirena Lynx. Is this the same Sirena? Now that I think about it, the girl I helped this morning appears to be the correct age to be in my class. A junior, sixteen at least, considering the tattoos. 

A couple of the kids get them every year when they turn sixteen. Some of the teachers think they all belong to a Satanic cult, but I’m fairly certain the iconography would be more demonic if that were the case. What was so wicked about the snowflake under her left eye? 

“Do you know a student named Barrett?” I ask my lunch companion. “I don’t know his last name, but he has vine tattoos.” I tap on the side of my neck for emphasis. 

Mr. Wright pauses with a chunk of rice halfway to his mouth, frowning. “He’s not in orchestra,” he shrugs in a noncommittal way that makes me suspect he does know the kid. 

“You’re wearing embroidered clothes at night,” I mumble. 

“Ah, sorry,” he shrugs cheekily. “I’m afraid I don’t understand that one.” 

“It means you’re hiding something,” I point an accusing finger at him. 

“Can I purchase your level of intuition somewhere? Do they sell that kind of thing at the supermarket?” 

“Maybe in your next life. Now out with it. What do you know?”

“About his love life? Honestly nothing. I just know he’s part of that c- cult.”

Is he superstitious? I didn’t know that. I make a mental note, filing it away for later. 

“Does that mean you also know a Sirena Lynx? She’s in my sixth period this year.”

“I think she plays the flute,” he lifts the inflection on the last part of his sentence, giving it a hopeful cadence, as if to appease me with the proffered information. 

“Interesting,” I write down a note next to her name so I don’t forget. 

We continue through the afternoon rosters together, with the orchestra teacher providing me with insights about students in the music program. Once I’m reasonably satisfied with my preliminary seating assignments, I ask him if he knows any of the students from my morning classes. 

Apparently the “beard”, Lucy Roads, is his first chair violinist in concert orchestra. Unfortunately, her gay boyfriend, Jason Mayer, is not. That will be a complex equation to simplify. I can’t exactly tell her she’s being used, as that could entail inadvertently outing the poor kid. Of course, there is a possibility she already knows, but I doubt it, based on the way she looked at him longingly. I will need to tread very carefully here. I wish I knew the name of the kid who has a crush on Jason. I need a reliable way of assessing whether they would be a good match. 

My chopsticks hit an empty bottom. I look down, surprised to find my lunch completely devoured. I frown. My frown deepens when I notice a chunk of meat held dangerously close to my face. Mr. Wright grins at me as he offers me the morsel on the end of his chopsticks. 

“Nah, I’m good,” I shake my head. “You finish it.”

His grin slips away as he gives me the hurt puppy act with his large brown eyes. I roll my own dramatically and his silly act drops as he pops the last bite into his mouth. 

“Thanks for lunch, Mei—excuse me, Ms. Huang,” he says in a teasing tone. “Delicious as always. Same time, same place tomorrow?”

“Don’t you have your own planning to do during preparation hour? I thought music teachers have more work than the rest of us, considering you teach—what—five different classes?”

“Well, that’s true,” he rubs his chin as if genuinely thinking about all the set lists he has to plan, but he quickly abandons the ruse. “Good thing I can just repeat the curriculum I used two years ago. It’s not like the classics are getting any older and no one needs to know I taught this music at my previous school.” 

“How extremely convenient,” I deadpan. 

“Hey, don’t look at me like that! You get to repeat your curriculum every year!” he huffs. “But a music teacher repeats one song four years later and some parent comes to me complaining they remember their older daughter playing that one.”  He raises his arms in defeat and I laugh despite myself. 

“Point taken,” I grin. “Parents really are the worst.”

“You only think that because you think they interfere in your kids’ love lives too much. Ironic coming from you, now that I think about it.””

“Ah, you know me too well,” I sigh. “While I know next to nothing about you. Tell me, Mr. Wright, are you trying to tell me you get along with your parents?”

“Well now, Ms. Huang, that’s a bit of a personal question, don’t you think?” Dodgy as always. 

Mr. Wright had never been forthcoming about his personal life, avoiding questions about his family, his life before coming to Grandville, and his beliefs and worldviews. I don’t even know his nationality or age, although he appears in his early thirties and the accent strikes me as something between Welsh and Irish.

I collect in my mind everything else I know about the new orchestra teacher, who I wasn’t even sure would return for a second year of teaching at Grandville. He is a talented musician and teacher. His favorite class to teach is music theory. He enjoys eating, particularly biàndāng, but I’ve never seen him turn down any food. He has an impeccable memory, which often aids me in my matchmaking endeavors. He may or may not be superstitious. And finally, and most importantly, he is single.

That’s it.

He, unlike my students, is a scatter plot unto himself, a mess of dots I can hardly hope to understand even after a year of knowing him. But I am determined to know him. Determined to collect as much data as I can about him and plot it until I can calculate a very clear picture of the man before me. 

Until I know his likes and dislikes, his religion, his political views, his sexuality, his plans for the future, his hopes and dreams for relationships, marriage, and children, I will tolerate his presence. 

“I apologize, Mr. Wright, for overstepping. Of course, I would not wish to be deprived of your company by making you uncomfortable.”

I will keep him even closer than last year, until I crack this code. For Mr. Wright is the ultimate challenge. 

“Don’t worry, Mei,” he smirks. “You never make me feel uncomfortable. Quite the opposite in fact.”

And he’s flirtatious to boot. He doesn’t even know it, but Mr. Wright is the perfect candidate, and I’m determined to make him my next conquest. 

“Same place, same time tomorrow then?”

“Same place, same time,” he agrees with a grin.

This year, I promise silently, I will find him the perfect match.