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No, no, no. Not this blouse! Of all...
The coffee was cold, but only because she’d forgotten about it and abandoned it three periods ago. But her top was drenched and there was no way she could continue the day wearing it.
Her morning couldn’t get much worse than this. First, she couldn’t even find that shirt to begin with. And then her breakfast burned while she fed the fluffy cat who meandered in one night and seemed to think this was his home now (it was but she still needed to take him to the vet first). And then the trains were late. Crossed signals or something. Either way, she barely made it into her classroom on time before home room.
And then, of course, it was Monday, so no one had the energy levels to participate in discussion. She couldn’t blame the kids but surely one person could raise a hand and try?
Nothing seemed to go her way today. She moved halfway across the world and yet some things never changed.
She sighed and set the travel cup down on her desk harder than she meant to. At least her materials were clean. The American went over to the supply cabinet that doubled as a coat closet and pulled out the extra shirt she kept on hand.
Even if today was disastrous, at least she was somewhat prepared.
She scribbled a note, taped it to the door, and left her room before she dashed off to the bathroom. Once changed, her heart sank into her stomach when she reached for the tag on the probably-ruined shirt. Of course the blouse was hand wash only and she had nothing to try and remove the stain. She had the time to wash it and hang it in the closet to dry but what good would that do if she couldn’t get the stain out?
Dry cleaning wasn’t an option; it would set by the time she got there on her lunch. She was supposed to be using this period to grade or plan the day, or even let students come in to make up work.
Why didn’t she keep a handy stain remover in her desk? Idiot.
Her nearby teachers, Monsieur DeMarsant and Mademoiselle Hong wouldn’t be much help. The former tended to look like he rolled out of bed and the latter didn’t seem to have a lint roller; she always had cat hair on her. Monsieur Laurent was absent, and Mademoiselle Zembe frightened her more than she cared to admit.
Who else in this school would...? Oh!
Monsieur Karm was likely to have something that would help, and quickly. He always dressed to the nines, the only teacher to wear a three piece suit. Even in the warmer months, he wasn’t without a waistcoat when he managed to shed his jacket. The economics classroom wasn’t terribly far but she didn’t know his schedule. What if he wasn’t even in today? She didn’t know what car he drove plus she’d arrived later than usual, so she hadn’t managed to see anyone before students started arriving.
Clutching the blouse, she made her way to the math, business, and economics side of the school. Most of the doors were closed but she could hear Karm’s voice crisply explaining market practices and laissez-faire market policies. Part of her was having flashbacks to her own time in high school, sitting through economics and politics classes in her last year, trying not to fall asleep as the old professor droned on.
She had to admit, his voice sounded far more appealing, stern though he tended to be. The door was in the back of the room, the students’ backs to her and their teacher writing something on the whiteboard. He was continuing the lecture, textbook open in one hand and marker in the other, as she peered in and she was amazed at how attentive his class was. They were actively taking notes and a brave few had their hands up. He was the harshest grader out of all the faculty and his height only furthered how intimidating he could be.
Intimidating and yet...surprisingly passionate about the profession. Everyone knew (and told her) he already had a business started when he began teaching, that he would have succeeded just as well outside of academics.
She was so lost in thought— did he always wear glasses? —that she didn’t notice when he stopped mid-lecture and looked straight at her down the middle of the room.
“And may I ask why you’re interrupting my class, Ms. (L/N?)”
She blinked and apologized, before continuing, “Would you happen to have a stain remover? A Tide Pen or something?”
God, this was embarrassing. They hardly talked to one another and yet here she was, asking for help? The only time they ever really interacted was when she waved goodnight as she passed by his room, as he usually stayed late to tutor.
He watched her for a moment longer than necessary, eyes falling to the blouse bunched in her hand for a moment before scanning the textbook again.
“Read the passages from pages forty to forty-two, and answer the chapter questions for the remainder of class,” he said. “And be sure to have your project outlines finished and in my hands by Friday.”
Vincent—she wondered if she would ever get used to thinking of any of her coworkers by their first names—closed the textbook with a snap and gestured for her to come in. The students murmured amongst themselves for a moment before settling into their work.
She walked along the perimeter of the room to the desk nestled near two bookshelves filled with books, mostly business related. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, you seemed the most likely to have something on hand,” the English teacher explained softly.
She cocked her head as she spotted Faust , The Divine Comedy , and a few other classics. Was that...Austen? She should ask him for some suggestions the French students would be more familiar with when it came time for semester projects...
“It’s quite alright. Mondays are a bit restless anyway,” he replied, setting the textbook down and opening a drawer at his desk. “What kind of fabric is it?”
She drew her attention back to the matter at hand and quickly checked the tag. “Synthetic.”
“Coffee, I take it?” He picked up a small travel-sized bottle up to eye-level and read the label before returning it.
“...Yeah…” She admitted, her gaze falling onto the drawer. Two extra ties were tucked away, along with a small box of buttons, a sewing kit, shoe polish and brush, and a small selection of stain removers. He was prepared. “How did…”
“You usually bring yours from home, as do I,” he explained, a small smirk playing at his lips. “It seemed the most likely option for the stain, given the trains were late this morning.”
Did he just…
One thing she’d learned fairly quickly in her time in Paris was that Vincent Karm was incredibly perceptive. He noticed small things about students and faculty alike, and often had his finger on the pulse of new trends when it came to teenaged fads to be aware of. It didn’t surprise her that he would surmise what she’d spilled, given most of the staff drank coffee anyway; it was more that he wasn’t biting her head off for throwing off his lesson plan.
He was either low-key flirting or patronizing her and she couldn’t figure out which.
“Here,” Vincent held out a small bottle labeled vinaigre and she took it, looking at it for a moment.
“Vinegar?” She glanced back up at him, confused.
“Diluted vinegar. Dab it into the back of the stain and rinse with hot water. It should come right out.”
She thanked him and headed straight to the bathroom to work the stain out for the rest of her free period. She took the wet, and stain free, shirt back to her room just before the bell, resting the garment on paper towels on the windowsill to dry. It wasn’t until she was clearing her desk and pulling up her presentation and plans for the next class that she noticed the thermos with a note attached.
When did that get there?
She picked it up, the metal still surprisingly warm. Did someone come into the room when she wasn’t here? She hadn’t locked the door but usually it wasn’t required as long as there was some indication of where the teacher went. The school was fairly small and most people knew not to enter an empty room with a door closed. She picked up the note, the handwriting familiar by now, wishing her a better day.
Flirting. Definitely flirting …
She smiled and reminded herself to return his things to him before she left later that day. The smell wafted through the air as she poured the coffee and her class trickled in, clusters of students chattering about gossip and television and assignments.
At least the thermos gave her an extra excuse to see him again. And maybe ask to have coffee together on a weekend, instead.