So many questions, not enough answers.
My co-workers were whispering when I passed by them, but only partially about me. I halted as their murmurs ceased, and darted my eyes away from my phone.
They were standing before the one door of the magnet school we weren't allowed to go in: Goodwin's chambers.
I did the math in my head: Goodwin's personal hours were between 3 and 7, and it was 5:42. If the faculty found it necessary to bother him during those times it meant only one thing: they were doubting his mental stability.
Goodwin Saltonstall, originally from Northern Virginia, is a world renowned musician, mathematician, and author. His most well-known piece, a collaboration with physicist Alto Thurmond, is called Soundscape. It describes a dimension where melody and the human mind are in full sync, allowing true peace. Soon after the book was published, Alto was found in a state of lifelessness. He breathed like any other person, but did not respond to commands, much less move on his own. After a scan, doctors found no sign of brain activity, thus, they declared him dead. Alto's been hospitalized ever since, because nobody is ready to put him down.
Goodwin was crushed by his partner's supposed death. He never considered Alto to be truly dead, and still believes a part of him lives on somewhere. Sometime later, he moved to Manhattan, New York, applying to the job of the computational physics teacher at Quinn Kelley School of Technology and Science, where he currently works now.
And my associates and I were his fellow teachers, meaning that if he wasn't stable mentally, our jobs were on the line. Especially since classes started in a week.
The worst part, my co-workers can't even talk to him themselves, because they didn't study psychology in college, like I did. They needed me.
A sigh slipped between my gritted teeth. "We really shouldn't bother him."
"He's acting strange, Jackie." Topanga, the first of my colleagues, bounced on her feet nervously. "He hasn't come out for his coffee yet. That's not like him at all."
"You're sure he isn't busy? People tend to get caught up in their work sometimes." I tried to reason with them.
My second co-worker, Garrett, gazed at me from beneath his glasses. "Jackie, Goodwin becomes less and less sane the more time he spends alone. Someone needs to check on him, to make sure he isn't going bonkers, and it should be someone who's good with words."
I really wanted to argue more with them, or convince them that Goodwin wasn't losing his marbles, but it was true. He practically lived in his classroom, and when he left for whatever reason, he tended to snap at anyone who made an effort to converse with him.
"Fine." I grumbled, handing my things to Topanga. "But this better be quick. I don't want to catch whatever he has."
