Damn! His voice was so freaking hot. It should be considered illegal. It was not too old or too young but instead had a timeless quality to it. And let me not forget about the erotic British accent — it just added to the charm.
In the back of my mind, I pondered with concern about Mrs. Harries' noticeable absence and wished that someone else would be considerate enough to inquire about her well-being.
"Your wonderful accent reminds me of Harry Potter," these words came out of a girl's mouth.
I rolled my eyes. How refreshingly unique her observation was, I thought ironically.
“Thank you,” remarked Mr. Cross in a lacklustre tone, seemingly accustomed to receiving such praise.
The same girl asked, "Have I mentioned how incredibly attractive his voice is?"
The girls in the classroom all laughed.
I feel like a total shmuck for even admitting this, but I could not help but agree with the girl who spoke up about Mr. Cross's accent.
Let's face it, my readers! There was something undeniably captivating about a British accent. The way their words effortlessly roll off their tongue. It was almost as if their voices were specially crafted to be the epitome of charm and sophistication. But at the same time, there was a subtle hint of sultry and seductiveness.
“Excuse me. Is Mrs. Harries already taking a break?" a girl whose name escaped me inquired.
I was grateful that someone spoke up, as I was also curious about Mrs. Harries' sudden absence
“Based on the information I have received; it appears that she is not feeling well.” The substitute teacher shed light on our teacher's absence.
The same student inquired, "What is the matter with her?"
“Unfortunately, she experienced an accident and is currently receiving treatment in the hospital,” Mr. Cross replied.
"I swear Mrs. Harries birth was an accident?" exclaimed a boy, to the amusement of the class.
"State your name," barked Mr. Cross with a stern tone.
"The name is Nick Johnson," the student boasted with confidence.
Of course, Nick Johnson. Known as the school's ultimate jerk and lead football player. It had been some time since I last caught a glimpse of his face. His father held the prestigious position of sheriff in Brownsville, granting Nick a sense of entitlement to do as he pleased without consequences. And even if that was not the case, Nick Johnson made sure to give that impression to everyone.
"Mr. Johnson, imagine if I were to inform you that your birth was an unexpected occurrence," the substitute teacher said with a serious tone.
Nick chuckled, a hint of bitterness lacing his voice. "I still remember my dear mother repeating that line to me day after day. But you know what? She is gone now. Maybe that is the punishment parents receive for feeding their children such lies."
Nick's voice was laced with resentment and fury, and as I contemplated my mother's obsession with Chump, I could not help but wonder what Nick's mother might have put him through.
While I have always held a deep love for my mother, there were instances where my new circumstances proved to be too much for me to handle. In those moments, I could not help but harbour strong resentment toward her. The fury within me would often intensify to the point where I feared I would suffer a heart attack. It felt as though my heart might explode.
“Is it permissible to speak of another person in that manner, merely because your mother did?” Mr. Cross asked.
Whenever he spoke, his tone of voice added a touch of refinement to everything he said.
"If my mother could tell me that... I do not see any reason why I cannot tell others."
I would do anything to witness the reaction on the substitute teacher's face, but I am hesitant to look. Not because I am afraid of what I might see, but because I am worried about the awful sight that he would see.
It was astonishing to think that, for months, I had not even taken a glance at my reflection. My daily routine was effortless and lacked any consideration for my appearance. I would simply roll out of bed, take a quick shower, brush my teeth, and put on a pair of jeans before throwing my hair up in a ponytail and covering it with a hood. In fact, I could not even remember the colour of my own eyes. They might have been blue or just plain brown. But in retrospect, does it truly matter? After all, no one ever saw them.
“Can you tell me how long Mrs. Harries will remain in the hospital?" inquired another student.
"I am uncertain," replied Mr. Cross, then he added. "To recognise all of you, I require your hands to be raised whenever I call your names. Understand?"
Everyone was quiet.
"Henry Allen," Mr. Cross called out. "If you are unable to speak, simply raise your hand as I had previously directed." It seemed that multiple students followed the instruction too well, as Mr. Cross remarked, "I suppose with so many of you unable to speak, it will be even quieter in here."
The only sound that reached my ears was the loud thud of books hitting the ground and the forceful slamming of desks. There was no doubt that the source of this chaos was the rowdy boys. Meanwhile, the girls seemed to be behaving themselves, most likely because they were still under the control of their hot substitute teacher.
"Guys! Shut the fuck up and let the teacher get on with his class!”
I recognised the voice that spoke the curse. It was one I knew well. It belonged to a student named Sam, whose strong and confident demeanor embodied her masculine-sounding name. She always stood up for Mrs. Harries and it was no shock to hear her rallying in defense of Mr. Cross.
“Thank you for that, Miss. . . .” Mr. Cross trailed off
"I am Sam Brooks, sir," Sam declared with pride, and I smiled under my hoodie.
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