Chapter Text
“Pearls before swine,” muttered Ben Solo for the hundredth time. He stared at the Powerpoint he had been working on for the past hour: he had a grand total of one slide. To be fair, he only fiddled with the font size and colors for about thirty minutes. For the other thirty, he had been trying to summon the energy to address the task set before him by Principal Holdo: to inspire the new teachers regarding their calling: Teaching with a capital T. Cue holy lights and choir music. Ben had originally thought to answer the prompt Principal Holdo had given him to start off his inspirational talk: “What, to you, is teaching?”
Ben Solo. Veteran teacher. Magna cum laude graduate of one of the top universities in the country. Son of Senator Organa whose education platform changed the nation. Ten years of teaching Anglo-American literature to high school students at Chandrila High. What, to him, was teaching?
“Pearls. Before. Swine.” Ben muttered while typing the words on his keypad. Good thing his laptop was sturdy enough to take the brunt of his cathartic emo-typing.
There. One slide down, only a couple thirty more to go. He groaned and ran a hand through his hair. Damn, Holdo should have known better than to pick him to inspire a roomful of wide-eyed fresh Education graduates. He wasn’t his mother, able to rally crowds and charm entire ballrooms. He wasn’t his father, celebrity car racer with a killer smile and hordes of male and female fans. No, he was Mister Solo, and he could make huge, hulking teenaged boys weep if they didn’t recite Shakespeare’s soliloquys to his satisfaction in class. He wasn’t, well, inspirational. He knew students found him terrifying. In fact, he relished it.
He was a teacher, and dammit, he would teach even if it felt like squeezing blood from a stone or casting pearls before swine.
Poe Dameron, History teacher and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu coach, scoffed without looking up from his own pile of paperwork. “Don’t let the babies hear you say that,” he said.
“Year One teachers. They’re not babies; they’re fetuses. Good God, Poe, to think that once upon a time, that was us.”
“And here we are---” Poe looked up to flash him a grin, then ducked back to grading the essays of several summer remedial students, “---world-weary, experienced, and still rocking this school! Veteran teachers to inspire the young ones to take up the Teachers’ Burden and rid the world of ignorance, one student at a time!” His voice had boomed in exaggeration.
Ben shook his head. “Well, Holdo wanted me to give the talk. I’ll give them the damn talk.”
Poe looked over at his laptop screen and chortled. “You’re gonna need more than one slide, man.”
Shit.
“Yeah, you’re right.” He sighed. “Just need to take a breather. I’ll take a walk.”
Poe nodded absently, still lost in his own checking, “Go do that, man.”
Ben stood and put down his laptop screen. He checked his watch: enough time to take fifteen, then sit down and try completing the damn presentation. The talk was in two days.
He walked outside into the sunshine.
Wryly he clocked in all the elements of mise en scene: soft afternoon light casting a warm golden glow on buildings and trees, the wind blowing through the green grass of the nearby football field, a mostly empty campus with the occasional handful of students gathered in their own little groups here and there. Ah, juxtaposition. Him. Because he was not sunshine-y and cheerful and summer-y.
He sighed and closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sunlight tickle his cheeks, and the wind ruffling his hair. Grouch he may be, but sometimes, just sometimes, life on Chandrila High was bearable. Even though he did have that stupid inspirational talk to get back to---
High-pitched squeals broke his reverie. He squinted and opened his eyes to see a man and a woman heading straight for the Chandrila High entrance. The man looked African-American, and was quite handsome with the brightest teeth he had ever seen (and he knew Poe Dameron, so that was saying something). But it was the woman who held Ben’s eye. She was as tall as the dark-skinned man, and much louder. Dressed in torn jeans and a soft gray sweater, she was all rosy cheeks and fresh-faced cheer. “I can’t believe it, Finn! We’re actually heeeere.” She gestured wildly to the façade of Chandrila High, not caring how ridiculous (adorable?) she looked. A brunette, her hazel eyes flashed and the sun hit her hair just right. Her energy was palpable from where Ben stood, a good ten feet away. Well, she’s a beauty, Ben thought to himself (objectively, of course).
“Miss Niima.” The man bowed in front of her.
“Mister Storm.” She did a little curtsey.
They guffawed then did a strange little hop-dance right in front of the prestigious Chandrila High. The security guard standing a few feet away from them shot Ben an amused look. Ben raised an eyebrow and shrugged.
He’d figured they were Year One teachers. It was either that or some very young-looking, very lost parents.
His very bones ached just looking at them. God, to think he used to be a Year One teacher himself. He started to walk away, wanting to get his few minutes of walking in to jumpstart his brain, when a woman’s lilting voice called out, “Excuse me? Mister?”
He looked up, and saw both of them had drawn closer, grinning at him. Ben got reminded of a pair of golden retrievers panting at their owner in a Facebook video he saw that morning.
“We’re new teachers!” said the woman, and Good God her smile was blinding.
“Yep, teachers!” hooted the man. Ben’s head started to ache with all the grinning and smiling.
“That’s us! Teachers!” from the woman. Good Lord, was she bouncing? Just a little.
Ben sighed inwardly. “Er…right. Heard you the first time.” All that energy, all that optimism was making him a bit nauseous. “Well, good luck to you, guys. Guess I’ll be seeing you around.” He made as if to turn, but was stopped by a touch.
A hand was on his shoulder.
When Ben turned his head and caught a glimpse of the guard, the guard’s eyebrows had raised so high, they practically disappeared beneath his cap.
At Chandrila High, no one touched Ben Solo. No one. Not even the Principal claimed such familiarity (and it was widely known that the Principal had known Ben ever since he was a teenager).
“Yes? What is it?” Sarcasm and a scowl. Ben Solo trademarks. If these teachers were going to last in Chandrila High, it was best that he established certain realities this early.
Unfazed, the woman’s smile was still as blinding. And up close, Ben realized she was freckled. And slightly sweating, but on her skin, she just seemed to glow----
“That’s it, mister? Was hoping we could ask you a few questions---”
(God that accent was magical…)
“The receptionist’s desk is literally at the entrance,” Ben heard himself saying without a shred of warmth. “Kindly direct any and all questions there.”
The woman’s smile disappeared, and with it, some of the sunlight. Or so he thought.
“Receptionist, huh?”
“C’mon, peanut,” the man at her elbow tugged at her, scowling back at Ben.
(Good. Someone was getting the message loud and clear.)
“Are all Chandrila High faculty as…welcoming…as you?” That was surely sarcasm in her tone, and her eyes were bright but no longer with cheer. She hadn’t looked away from Ben.
“Er, miss, the receptionist is much friendlier,” the guard --- Bob? John? Ben couldn’t really say ---- said helpfully. “If you’ll just follow me----”
Ben smiled tight-lipped. “Go on, then,” he drawled as if he was speaking to a couple of wayward teens he’d caught in the corridors without a hall pass, “You heard the man.” A beat. “Welcome to Chandrila High.”
Then he spun and walked away, but not before hearing the woman’s outraged gasp of, “I never---!” and the man’s growl, “Dick.”
They’ll learn. They always do.
But for now, he had to prepare to be inspiring. These new teachers needed someone to set them straight. Unfortunately for them, that someone was him.