Between the Lines

Chapter 2: The Quirt classroom

The morning sunlight filtered through the dusty windows of Room 203, casting a warm glow across the desks, each still stacked with books from the previous school year. Zayn Malik stood at the front of the room, arms folded across his chest, staring at the half-empty seats. It was the first day of the new school year, and while most of the students were still getting used to the routine of sitting still and pretending to care about anything other than their phones, Zayn was already calculating how long it would take for him to get them engaged—or, at the very least, quiet.

At 24, Zayn was younger than most of the staff, and it showed. He was barely older than some of his students, which only made him even more intimidating. His thick Bradford accent laced every word, giving him an almost musical tone when he spoke, but also a kind of rawness that was hard to ignore. When he dropped a sarcastic comment or a dry joke, it had a sting to it that made the students sit up, even if they didn't want to. He wasn't here to be liked. He wasn't here to be their friend. He was here to teach. The rest could go to hell.

"Alright, settle down, yeah?" Zayn's voice cut through the chatter, low and commanding, the kind of voice that instantly silenced the room. The students froze, some still staring at their phones, others caught mid-laugh, but no one dared continue. His presence in the room was enough to make them pause—something about his quiet authority that spoke louder than any shout. He had a way of making silence feel more powerful than noise.

Zayn let them stew in the silence for a few more seconds, just long enough to make them squirm a little. He enjoyed that part. The moment when they realized he wasn't messing around. A few heads turned, and the room shifted into something closer to attention, though he could see a few students still squirming in their seats, glancing at the clock.

"Listen up," Zayn said, tapping the top of the desk with his finger. "This year, we're gonna be reading some great stuff. Some classics. Some modern. But mostly, I'm here to teach you how to shut the hell up when it's time to listen."

A few chuckles rippled through the room, but it wasn't a joke. Zayn had a way of mixing humor with authority, just enough to make his students respect him but also remind them that he was in charge. He picked up a copy of Of Mice and Men, waving it around. "If any of you jokers think this is gonna be a nap-time class, you're in the wrong place. We'll be reading, analyzing, and yes, talking about all the deep stuff—like why the hell George puts up with Lennie. But no, this isn't a free pass to drift off. I will throw this book at your head faster than you can say 'McFly'."

The class went silent again, eyes widening. A few students stifled laughs, trying to figure out whether he was serious or just being his usual sarcastic self. Zayn wasn't sure either. He didn't always know where the line between humor and truth ended, but it was part of his charm. He wasn't the 'sweet teacher' who'd hand out candy and smiles. He was the teacher who told you like it was, and you respected him for it.

One of the braver girls in the back of the class raised her hand, a half-smile on her face. "Uh, Mr. Malik, I don't think Of Mice and Men has anything to do with 'McFly'."

Zayn raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the desk. "You're right. It doesn't. But if you want a lesson in pop culture history, I can give you a crash course after class." He paused, letting the slight tension in the room break, then smirked. "But for now, let's stick to literature. If you're still interested after that, we can talk about the real lessons in the book—like the ones that teach us how to survive in a world that doesn't give a damn about your feelings."

Zayn wasn't looking for laughs; he was looking for respect. The kind of respect that came from knowing you couldn't pull the wool over his eyes. He wasn't some soft teacher who'd coddle them. He was a teacher who'd force them to think, force them to face the harsh realities of the world—and maybe, just maybe, make them care.

As the students began to settle down, a few of them exchanged glances. Zayn could tell they were trying to gauge just how far they could push him. He caught one of the girls, a blonde with bright eyes who was clearly sizing him up, smirking as she whispered to her friend.

"God, he's kind of hot for a teacher, don't you think?" she said, but Zayn heard every word. He didn't react. He didn't even let it faze him. But he knew that look, the way they all looked at him like he was just another mystery to crack. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.

"Alright, we're starting with some introductions. But don't think for a second this is gonna be one of those boring 'tell me your favorite color' icebreakers," Zayn said, dropping the book back onto his desk with a soft thud. "I'm not that kind of teacher. But if you're going to talk, make it interesting. Impress me. I've seen all kinds of bullshit in my time, so don't even try me."

A few students smirked, but Zayn wasn't fazed. He pulled up the syllabus on the projector, the list of books and assignments appearing on the screen. "You'll notice, the books are challenging, so if you think reading a couple pages is too much work, you're in the wrong place. And if anyone thinks I'm handing out participation points for just showing up, you've got another thing coming."

Zayn watched as a few students shifted in their seats, uncomfortable, unsure how to navigate this new territory. He didn't give a damn. He wasn't here to babysit anyone. He wasn't here to make anyone like him. And for all the quiet arrogance he projected, he knew exactly how to bring them to heel.

The bell rang to signal the start of the period. "Alright," Zayn said, his voice cutting through the hum of the class, "Let's see if any of you can come up with something worth listening to. If you can't, well... guess you'll have to figure that out the hard way."

The students got to work, some of them still trying to shake off the weird energy Zayn had thrown at them. It wasn't a traditional start to a first-day class. And that was the point. Zayn wasn't here for the usual pleasantries. He was here to get results.

As he looked around at the students, his thoughts drifted briefly to his other job, the one that still haunted him every night. The bar, the drinks, the masks he wore for the crowd. But right now, Zayn was the teacher. He was here, and he was damn good at it.

And nothing—not even the look of admiration in the eyes of these kids—was going to make him change.