Mr. Sweet Meets the Chosen One

Chapter 2

Chapter 2Mr. Achilles

Children are worse than pixies. I’m not being judgemental or anything, but by Mab, they’re full of mischief! And yet so adorable at the same time, it’s impossible to get mad at them.

One of them breaks the window to the headmaster’s office today. Kicks the football right through the glass. Lucky for young Mark the headmaster left earlier. I’ll fix it before Mr. Patel comes back to school on Monday.

One of the tiny ones (first year? Preschool? I swear, I can’t tell them apart) throws up in the girls’ loo, and because children are like pixies, the two girls who accompanied her to the toilet throw up too; in sympathy, I suppose.

I’m never cross with them. They’re children; it’s in their nature.

So I clean up the mess in the loo while the children stand around me, sobbing and apologizing. I roll up my sleeve, and they catch a glimpse of the ink on my skin. It makes them start giggling, all woes and sorrows about puking forgotten. Yup. Pixies.

Then I fix a broken desk in one of the classrooms, and Ms. Devereaux, who teaches year six, catches me off guard in the hallway, berating me again to hurry up with renovating the new computer lab, which is still a storage room at the moment. Has been for the last umpteen years.

“I’m on it, Ms. Devereaux, promise,” I tell her gently.

Ms. Devereaux is tall and impatient. She doesn’t like promises. She likes action. And she wants that computer lab yesterday not the day after tomorrow (her words not mine). Maybe she should do it herself, I think, but I don’t say that. Humans are easy to offend, and I don’t want to risk my position here.

“I have to get all the old equipment and things out of the storage room first and keep it somewhere else,” I explain patiently. There’s broken furniture, two shelves crammed full of old textbooks nobody uses anymore, gadgets that make no sense to me, but which are, I’m sure, vital school supplies (or at least they have been up until the 1950s). And in addition to that, three entire closets stuffed to the brim with what somebody explained to me was costumes and props for school plays. I’m not allowed to toss out any of this as per the headmaster’s instructions. Personally, I think it’s borderline hoarding, but I’m trying not to judge.

I’m in no position to judge anyone.

“Well, do it, then!” Ms. Devereaux replies shrilly. “I’ve ordered twenty-seven tablets for the students, and I need somewhere to set them up and a room to store them that I can lock up. Which reminds me, the door needs a new security lock. You can maybe get to that while you’re doing the renovations.”

The storage-room-s***h-computer-lab is small, and the renovations won’t take long, even if I do it without using any magic. Installing a new security lock? Easy as pie.

“And where shall I put it all, Ms. Devereaux? The only room that isn’t in use every day is the cellar, and that’s crammed full of stuff too.”

I can see she’s about to get angry, so I shrug and add, “I’ll figure it out, no problem. Just not today.”

Then I push past her, because this conversation will go on and on if I don’t remove myself from it. I’ve learned that lesson early on in this job.

“When, Mr. Achilles?” she calls after me.

I don’t look back. She’s like Medusa, and she’ll drag you back into the conversation if you make eye contact, which is a worse fate than becoming a stone statue, in my humble opinion.

“Soon,” I call back vaguely. And because I need a laugh today, I add, “I’m a caretaker not a wizard.”

I do laugh at that, but only on the inside.

I also cry a little bit. On the inside as well.

* * * *

The one good thing about today is that it’s Friday.

I have a routine on Fridays.

I’ve worked it out specifically, and, so far, it hasn’t failed me.

There’s this teacher. Sweetums. The kids call him Mr. Sweet, which is what he is, at least to me (and to them, I suppose). He’s sweetness, and sunshine, and moonlight all wrapped into one.

I’m in love with him.

I can’t say why, because I don’t really know him that well. Yet. But he’s so bleeding adorable, I want to kiss that perpetual confusion from his face and replace it with smiles. Because that’s what should be on his face all the livelong day: a big happy smile. He deserves it.

My special Friday routine started a few months ago by accident, when I had to fix a broken chair in his classroom. I wanted to do it after the children had gone home, after everyone had gone home. But when I stepped into the year two classroom, he was still at his desk, reading through some paperwork, nibbling on a choc bar.

I startled him, and he flushed. He stumbled over his words and eventually managed to say hello.

Mumbling an apology, I was about to head out again.

“I can do it later, no problem,” I assured him. “You finish your work, Mr. Sweetums. I’ll come back.”

“No. Please.” I swear his voice is made of velvet. “Don’t let me keep you. Thank you for repairing it so quickly.”

I scratched my beard awkwardly.

“Can’t let the little ones sit on a broken chair,” I mumbled. We both kind of smiled at each other, but his smile looked terrified, and mine probably looked defeated.

The chair was fixed in a manner of minutes: some wood glue and a handheld vice.

I turned my head to look at him and found him staring at me.

When he noticed me looking, he flushed again and cleared his throat nervously. I suppose that’s what I always do: make people nervous to be around me. Even humans, who don’t even know who I used to be. They don’t even know what I’ve done.

“Let it dry overnight,” I told him, all business. “I’ll take the vice off first thing Monday morning.”

Then I left.

But for some reason I came back next Friday, under the pretence of fixing something else. And there he was again. Doing paperwork and eating chocolate.

We said hello and I busied myself in awkward silence for a few moments before I left again.

I do feel sorry for making him nervous. I’m a selfish bastard, I guess. And since I know he usually stays longer on Fridays, I find ways to do work in his classroom just to be near him. Just for a few minutes.

We never talk about anything.

I hate myself for invading his sanctuary. I mean, there he is, wanting to do his work in peace, and I interrupt him, and fluster him, and make him uncomfortable.

I just want to be near him.

For a few moments, I can pretend we’re co-workers, maybe even friends one day, doing normal, human, normal stuff. I said normal twice, because that’s how important it is. We could grab a cuppa on our way to the bus stop (yeah, I know which bus he always takes, because I’m creepy as Puck), have a hot pastry or an ice cream cone with a flake. He tells me about his day, and I tell him about mine. We laugh, and when it’s time for him to hop on his bus, our eyes linger on each other just a moment too long to pretend we’re just co-workers.

Pathetic, that’s what I am. Proper pathetic.

And today, as I always do on Fridays, I knock on his classroom door and then let myself in.

He’s gorgeous. I’m not short, but he’s taller than me by a good five centimetres. He keeps his hair neat, but I bet it would look fantastic all grown out and in a messy ponytail. That would suit him. His eyes are the colour of conkers when they’re fresh off the tree, all shiny and you can see a pattern on them in different hues of brown. His hands and fingers are long, so are his legs. He fidgets all the time, like he can’t stand still, and because of that he stumbles over his legs sometimes. There’s an intoxicating softness to his body that speaks of his love for sweet things.

We exchange yet another awkward greeting.

I hold up a can of WD-40 by way of an excuse for my intrusion. Then I point to the cupboard doors.

“Can’t have the cupboard doors creaking,” I say like the lamest person that ever walked this earth.

Mr. Sweetums nods. “Yes. No. We…” he licks his lips as he’s lost for words, and I know I’m staring now, “…certainly can’t have that.”

I want to ask him about his day. About what he’s doing here so late. But it’s not my place.

I’m just the caretaker.