─── ･ ｡ʚɞ ･
❛ 𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔. Warm and close,
as fresh laundry and here we are, Tuesday.
Of course you love me ━ you are wearing
one of my socks. ❜
To prevent marmalade from crystallizin...
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HONEY LIKES TO THINK OF HERSELF AS A TEACHER WITH THE APTITUDE OF A TIGHTROPE WALKER BALANCING ON A THREAD OF COTTON-CANDY LICORICE—steady and sure in her lessons, but full of spun sugar and just enough excitement to keep her students engaged.
This is due to her children, of course; they are typically well-behaved, never the sort to stir up any classroom commotion or auditorium shenanigans the way Mr. Williamson's class across the hall always seems to do. Even the little ones with impulsive tendencies like Sylvester, who had recently received an ADHD diagnosis, are able to thrive under her tutelage. To Honey, it was all about discovering each student's unique learning style—some needed the careful delicatessen of an acrobat, while others thrived on the sweet, spun sugar of a liquorice treat.
Today, however, nothing seemed to work.
Monty was giggling behind the textbook he was supposed to be reading, curly brown hair falling into his eyes as he tried to stifle his mirth. On the table across from him, Chester wiggled in his chair with such boundless energy that it looked as though he might launch himself into the stratosphere at any moment and never come back. Even Petunia, the quintessence of a perfect student, couldn't stay composed enough to talk about verbs and adverbs without sneaking peeks at Sylvester and bursting into laughter herself.
Ordinarily, a few soft-spoken chides and pitched accommodations would propel them back to focus, but today, nothing Honey tried seemed to have any effect.
If nothing else, Honey had a glimmering notion as to why their antics had taken such a wild turn. She didn't need a magnifying glass or a detective's hat to solve the mystery of the ruckus in her classroom.
All Honey had to do was tune in to the name that danced through the air like a parade of confetti, twirling through every whisper and giggle: Max.
Max—no surname needed to know which, of course—won the Bahrain Grand Prix, and her children, utterly convinced that they were the best of friends with him after a single encounter, celebrated his achievement as though he'd always been a part of their classroom. Exercise sheets were abandoned for cheering scribbles celebrating 'Max the Champion,' lunches uneaten as crayon masterpieces took center stage, and recess became a grand finale of the race, complete with over-the-top sound effects and victory laps around the playground.
And though Honey would never begrudge anything that made worry-prone Anwen beam from ear to ear in such a way, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of concern. Her students seemed to be getting a tad too drawn in by the dazzling world of Formula 1, when their focus should be on the very thing that had made meeting the Red Bull drivers possible in the first place—their education.
It wasn't until the fifth period, when Honey opened Nikolaas' workbook to find all of Max's laptimes meticulously recorded and analyzed where equations should have been, that she realized she'd better wrangle their wandering minds back to their studies before they completely veered off course.
