So Close, and still so far

Chapter 3, Part 1: Iain

I park my motorcycle and look at my surroundings. So this is what it's like to stuck in a John Hughes movie, I smirk as I take in the sight of high school kids scurrying about as they run inside the school premises. Unlike my old school in Britain, we wore stuffy uniforms and had a zero-tolerance policy which kept our uniforms, well, uniform.

On the outside, we may have all looked the same, but it's really no different from any regular school. We had our own versions of the jocks, the nerds, the social outcasts. Though culturally, we were a bit more civilized compared to a public government-run highschool.

 I notice that one kid with messed afro hair being harassed by a group of males in lettermen jackets. The boy with the weird hair gets dumped in the garbage bin, as my eyes widen in horror. I look around to see if anyone interferes or calls out for attention. Sadly, no one notices, almost as if this were a common occurrence.

If this were at my former school in Scotland, those jocks would have definitely been expelled. No matter what circumstance, even if their mother was the bloody Queen of England, my school other than having a zero-tolerance uniform policy also advocated a very strict zero-tolerance in bullying. 

 Which was probably the reason why most royals sent their kids to my alma matter. You have no idea what kind of rubbish the Sloane Rangers (see British derogatory slang term for someone with peerage living in the elitist part of London) take from the commoners. Given to the fact that history makes them wear ridiculously heavy crowns definitely is not the definition of cool where I come from.

I distract myself and notice a group of girls in their red and white cheerleader uniforms. One of them looks at me and gives me that saucy look before whispering to her friend who also checks me out. 

 I shake my head and ignore them. 

 The last thing you want is to be accused of statutory rape, I tell myself under my breath as I grab my sling bag and head off to the Principal's office. I have a brief talk with the secretary who looks equally as flustered as the cheerleaders and find myself face to face with a middle-age, portly man of ostentatious Indian descent. I hand in my credentials. He reads them briefly and takes his time interviewing me.

"I've heard a lot about you," Principal Figgins says. 

 My body stiffens in defensive mode. Oh god, what did Dr. Hennessy, my old high school Headmaster say about me this time? My grades were bloody impeccable, my conduct (before my graduation incident where I flashed Kate and Pippa Middleton before accepting my diploma) was perfectly flawless, I was a Prefect at the top dormitory. I was a star pupil on the outside, but an apparent mess inside.

"Really, sir?" I answer slowly, expecting the drop of the shoe at any moment.

"Dr Hennessy spoke very highly of you. He says that it was your personal choice to teach Music to underprivileged children. I am just curious why you chose America, especially Ohio?"

Because Hennessy, obviously was high with from smoking weed and possesses a sick sense of humor. 

 Well, I don't really tell him that, instead, I flash a sincere smile and prepare my soliloquy, which I had practiced dozens of times in front of the mirror.

"I was born and raised in London as a child but my parents are American so I carry with me the best of both transatlantic worlds. Unlike Britain, where their government supports the arts for public schools and grants scholarships with an estimated 30 million pound annual budget, I figured that my country could use someone of my talent. I've also done my research and found that Ohio is one of the states that holds the least priorities in the arts, so I've made it my personal mission to change at least a few minds."

"We're sadly in the middle of a recession, so you probably wouldn't be limited to simply just teaching music. As it was, due to the suspicious behavior of our previous music teacher, Sandy Ryerson, we are having our own doubts so as to encourage the arts as part of the curriculum."

Whoa, say what?

"But, sir." I interject, slightly losing a bit of my cool for a brief moment. I place myself in check, hoping that I don't lose it. 

Keep, calm Hargreave, remember that you're here to look for your brother. 

 "Does this mean, music as a class is out? Surely you have other extracurricular activities that doesn't particularly involve having a student smash his brains out with a helmet?"

"We do, in fact, have a Glee club, but that's already headed by William Schuester. The least I can do for you is have you teach History, since our last substitute teacher has left. You can also teach French, seeing that you have scored A* in your A levels of foreign languages. Perhaps, maybe also be an assistant to the football team with their coach, Shannon Beiste."

"You mean football, sir like the ones with helmets and touch downs I presume? You do realize sir that the football I've participated in is World Cup material, not Super Bowl."

"Well, it's one and the same. We're in budget and the annual teacher's strike isn't going to disappear so we really could use all the sources we can get at minimal cost. This is why I'm placing you in front and center. Besides, you seem like a confident young man who has it all figured out, I'm sure you can handle yourself perfectly well in a classroom setting. Welcome to McKinley High." He gives a warm smile before he offers to give my dumbfounded self a handshake in order to seal my impending doom.

God, could this guy be a real tool or what?

Two days later I'm reassigned to teaching night school. Apparently, it had something to do about me serving as a distraction for the younger female students and the openly gay boys assigned to my classes. Though I may not have inspired the students to have better grades, but I did make them at least have a perfect attendance score. In fact, my attendance score still holds the record for not only achieving a perfect attendance, but an overpopulated one as well.

Also, I was no closer to finding Neil. Figgins had placed me to teaching the seniors class so I mostly spent my time dealing with the older kids. 

 I also ended up signing myself into a Big Brother program where I became good friends with the sweetest kid who reminds me of my uncle. Her name is Becky and she has Down Syndrome like my uncle Chase. Though I did end up with a friend, it still didn't help me deal with the obvious situation.

My plans weren't working as well as I hoped.

I had to find them fast before I headed back to New York. For the past 4 years, I've been working myself like a dog barely taking any vacation leave. If I delay this, there would bound to be questions that the less anyone knew or asked, the better. So the only answer lay back to starting at square one.

Time for plan B.