Teach Me

"Settle down." Troye heaved a sigh, "Class, please quiet." The front of the classroom stilled their rustling and useless chatter, and Troye turned to the board to begin his lesson.

Twenty-three years old, Troye Mellet had been teaching at Crestwater High School for a year and a half, and still had yet to figure out how to hold his students' attention. Troye was sick of the rowdy, slutty juniors that took Intro to Photography to get out of a musical elective and exhausted of the untalented freshman who only took his Drawing 1 and 2 classes to avoid lunch with the intimidating sea of upperclassman.

Hence when Troye was offered a promotion to teach AP Art Studio to seniors, he gratefully accepted what seemed to be a chance to work with experienced and interested students. No one told the new teacher that the seniors enrolled in art are more likely set on relaxing and partying than studying Monet's watercolors.

So here he stood with his thirty seven slide, carefully crafted powerpoint, unabashedly ignored by twenty seniors. After the usual ritual of fruitlessly asking for attention and failing to reprimand the distracted, Troye opted to talk over his students. Just as he launched into his lecture, five boys walked in laughing loudly. Ten minutes late into a forty minute class.

"I hope you have a pass." Troye tried to sound stern as the boys ignored him, making as much noise as possible as they sat down at the table farthest from Troye. "Boys. Your late pass?"

"Pshh. Come on, teach. Don't be a drag." Kian Lawley leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the desk.

Bleach blond hair, untucked graphic tee shirt, ever present varsity jacket, and biceps as big as his ego, Kian was by far Troye's least favorite student. A leader of sorts of this gang of soccer boys, Kian had suspiciously fantastic tales in everything from partying to girls to soccer. His right hand man, J.C. Caylen, was not much better as he called across the room, "Yeah teach, loosen up."

Troye hesitated; he really didn't need the conflict. It was last period and he wanted to go home as much as his students did. If he dared wield his authority, he'd wind up the one punished whilst he babysat the five boys in detention.

"Just give him the pass, guys, who has it?" Ricky spoke up.

In the back of the group, a shorter boy was rustling through his backpack. He seemed frazzled, embarrassed even, as he mumbled to himself. "It's somewhere I swear... Oh! Here it is." He reached the front of the class in a few strides and pressed the small yellow paper into Troye's hand.

For a fleeting instant, delicate warmth brushed past Troye's fingers, sparking in his thin nerves and sending a slight shiver through his body. The green eyes stole Troye's attention as the sweet boy offered a shy smile.

"Sorry," he breathed out, causing Troye's stomach to jump. But before Troye found words, the eighteen year old had scrambled back to his seat.

'Every time.' Troye thought with a sigh.

"You just had to ruin the fun, Con." Kian whined.

"Oh, fuck off man." Connor's typical confident demeanor returned rapidly. The crisis avoided, Troye tried to carry on with his lesson.

"No, man you've got to come to this party. It's gonna be a rave." Kian's voice carried from the back of the class.

"I don't know..." Connor sounded unenthusiastic.

"Still tired from your last fuck?" J.C. teased, "Con-the-man gets the girls and the guys."

Meanwhile, Troye persisted in droning on about color symbolism, desperately trying to focus on anything but the boys in the back.