Driving license

From that day, Tristan found that his eyes looked for the little fairy in the corridors more often. Their conversation, however brief, had left him with an aftertaste of easiness; he found that he would have liked talking to her again.

So when the biology guys invited him to their traditional monthly sortie in Joe's bar the next thurdsay, Tristan decided to tag along. After all, they were of age; it wasn't like going out for a drink with high school students. The evening he spent reminded his of his youngers years, nary eight years ago. Of the soirées spent with his future wife and bunch of friends from university before they all staggered, dead drunk, to their respective student houses. The disappointment of not seeing Frances here – she never comes, Madeleyne said, she hates drinking, and alcohol in general – was soon drowned in songs, laughter and a warm fuzzy buzzing at the back of his mind. He wasn't so old after all.

Despite the rowdy bunch and pressure they endured, none of his students needed a call at the emergency room. They even managed to come home on their own – Even Madeleyne - some less assured than the others, but safe and sound all the same. He admired them for it, or perhaps it was his presence that had tamed them enough to not end up vomiting in every corner of the city. Still… as he walked home in the chilly night, he couldn't help but think of a set of chocolate eyes and long ringlets of fire.

No one knew if she had passed that driving licence or failed. How come, for such a tight bunch ? Most of them didn't even know the reason of her absence last Thursday. Frances seemed, even to her class, an unattainable person. He'd heard things, mostly good, a few a little jealous from the ladies, about how she kept to herself in the canteen queue, reading The lord of the rings in English of all things ! Or how she'd saved her roommate from being thrown into the shower with her clothes on, calling forth such wrath that the chemistry boys had fled in fear. Three guys, against one slender woman. This particular story made him laugh; she packed quite a moral punch, that little lady.

Where did the curiosity came from ? Was it their mutual love of Mark Knopfler, or her disturbing confession about 'Brothers in arms' ? He felt a certain kinship, and refused to see that, even before her visit in his classroom, his eyes fell upon her more often than not.

So when he spotted her the next Tuesday in a corridor, his curiosity won the better of him.

— "Frances !", he called from over the other students' head.

Easy, he was several inches taller than most of them. Tristan didn't fail at spotting that many high school girls had turned around as he raised his voice, but he was only interested in nailing the little fairy before she disappeared in the stairs. The young woman spun on her heels, her eyes looking for the caller. Her eyes found his easily, warm chocolate filled with an interrogation. Tristan jogged up to her with a reassuring smile – a professor calling a student out in a corridor could only mean a rebuke.

— "Yes, Monsieur Kristiansen ?", she asked.

Funny, how a simple title, 'monsieur', could build a 6 feet thick wall with a smile. Distance established by the simple acknowledgement of his status. And indirectly, hers.

— "I, uh…"

Now that he faced her, the corridor filled with eyes that watched him but would, fortunately, not hear the conversation, he suddenly felt self-conscious. None of her comrades were in sight – as usual, and the young woman watched him with earnest curiosity.

— "So ?", he asked clumsily.

Her eyebrow rose upon her pale forehead, a dark maroon that didn't reflect the fire of her hair.

— "So what ?"

— "Did you get it ? Your license. None of your comrades could tell me if you'd passed"

The set of her shoulders tensed and Tristan cursed himself for his curiosity. Of course ! If no one knew, it probably meant she had failed. Her frown said it all.

— "Ah, yes. I passed"

The geography teacher blinked; why did she seem so defeated then ? Non plussed, he pushed his head back to watch her more carefully. The worry lines around her eyes only reflected deep conflict.

— "Congratulations, did you get to celebrate ? Took a drive to your friends, perhaps ?"

She watched him as if he's sprouted a second head.

— "Ugh, no! I don't want to ever hear about driving a car again. It's done, I'm relieved."

The teacher bristled a moment, oblivious of the many gazes that lingered upon his form as students passed them. He had committed a very obvious blunder; one he did not understand. Most teenagers enjoyed driving and the freedom it granted them; a major party had ensued the obtention of his own driving license. Didn't she enjoy it ? Perhaps the matter laid elsewhere altogether. Something to do with her driving instructor ? She seemed… almost trapped, stuck against the wall, her eyes darting around to assess the dimming stream of students that had now found their own classrooms.

— "I'm sorry, sir. I need to rush"

Her voice faltered, almost pleading. The riddle would have to wait.

— "Ah, well. I'm sorry for keeping you, hurry along before someone grumpy bites your head off"

She sent him a curious look – perhaps because he wasn't so far off the truth, a minute late in biology class meant to be refused - then a relieved smile flourished upon her lips before she turned and marched away. Head held high, long ringlets swaying down her back, high heels covering the distance easily. There was a story there, one that he vowed to ask someday.

Until then… life would have resume its course. After all, those students all had history. Every single one could surprise him with tales of their homes, their travels, their culture. Tristan's lips quirked up; he had a new idea to help his class of 11th grade about the middle ages. He would make a card game with traditions to research, ranking from food to popular dancing, roaming the European and Asian world to illustrates the different cultures that existed at the time.

Good. The teacher turned around, striding to his classroom to put his little idea into motion.