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Mrs. Darling sat patiently at her desk not bothering to make conversation with the little girl sitting on the other side. It had been ten minutes since the last bell rang and both Mrs. Darling and Isabelle were waiting for Isabelle’s fathers to arrive.
The girl kept her head down, twiddling her thumbs, swinging her legs and all the other little motions children do when they don’t want to think about something.
Mrs. Darling, again, paid no mind. Isabelle was being punished after all. Some good constructive silence was exactly what she needed.
Isabelle had been asking questions again. Normally this was not such a bad thing. In fact, most teachers were encouraged to indulge in such flights of fancy. However, Isabelle had a habit of asking all the wrong questions.
Today for instance they were learning about butterflies. Most of the children asked the usual questions: How long does it take? What do we do with them afterwards? Can we keep them? And so on.
Isabelle, however, opened with the silliest question Mrs. Darling had heard from a child; Why are they born larva, why can’t they just start off as butterflies?
The children had laughed, and Mrs. Darling had been tempted to do so as well, but the slight pout that came to the girl’s face restrained her.
“That’s so stupid,” one of the boys said over the noise.
“It’s not stupid!” Isabelle snapped. “Why can’t they just be butterflies? It seems like an awful amount of trouble.”
Mrs. Darling took a deep breath and gathered herself before putting on a well-practiced smile.
“You see dear, they have to be larva. Their born into eggs too small to suddenly be butterflies.”
Isabelle’s brows furrowed for a moment, clearly unsatisfied with the answer. “So why don’t they have bigger eggs? Or start small and get really big?”
Mrs. Darling let out a small sigh. “It’s just not the way it is.”
“But why though?”
“It’s the way nature made them.”
“Well nature isn’t very good at planning then, is it?”
The students let out another laugh, but this time it wasn’t directed at Isabelle. Some of them were looking at right at her.
Mrs. Darling stiffened, her lip going into a firm line.
“Isabelle, I do not appreciate you making a spectacle of yourself in my classroom.”
“I’m not making a spectacle,” she defended. “I’m just asking.”
“Well stop asking.”
“Why though?”
“Because there isn’t an answer.”
“Well there has to be an answer,” she insisted. “Just because you don’t know it, doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
The room went silent. All of the children were now looking between Isabelle and Mrs. Darling as the tension grew, a tension Isabelle seemed completely unaware of.
“What did you say to me?” asked Mrs. Darling sharply.
“I said just because you don’t know the answer, doesn’t mean it’s not there.” There wasn’t a hint of apology in her tone, and that did it more than anything.
With concentrated frustration, Mrs. Darling straightened her back to her full height.
“Isabelle, go to the principal’s office.”
The words hit in the same way one might be hit with a feather, if it was strapped to a brick. It was a technique all teachers obtain after spending a few years reining in seven-year olds. It reminded children at the end of the day they were just tiny humans whose safety and peace of mind were fully reliant on bigger humans. Normally, it got the job done, but Isabelle was apparently one of those tiny humans who were convinced they were about the same size as the larger ones.
“But why?”
“Because you are going to stay there until we are finished with class.”
“But why?”
“You are being punished, that’s why.”
That got Isabelle’s attention, her annoyed pout morphing in confused frustration. “But I didn’t do anything!”
“Office now!” snapped Mrs. Darling, deciding to forgo the feather and go right to the brick.
Isabelle blinked, but it wasn’t out of surprise or fear, rather uncertainty. An odd thought then occurred to Mrs. Darling; Isabelle had never been yelled at by an adult before.
This was, of course, impossible, but as Isabelle looked around the room, it seemed the only logical explanation. She appeared looking to her fellow students for how she was supposed to react.
All of the children were showing their own signs of discomfort; some looking at the desk, others stiff with shock, and all of them fully aware if they made a sound Mrs. Darling’s anger would be turned on them.
Isabelle got at least part of the message. She didn’t make eye contact again, but her gait held more confusion then then the intended shame. She left the room without another word.
After a small break, Mrs. Darling had managed to catch Mr. Crowley at home. She explained Isabelle had caused a disruption in class and she needed to speak with him and his husband immediately after school ended. And so ten minutes after the bell she and Isabelle sat in the classroom awaiting their arrival.
They didn’t have to wait much longer than that, as the door opened.
Mrs. Darling knew well in advanced Isabelle came from a rather unconventional household. Not that there was anything wrong with having two fathers. Not at all in Mrs. Darling’s books, or rather there wasn’t anything wrong with it on paper. In practice, however, Mrs. Darling felt children needed both a paternal and maternal figure in their lives in order to balance everything out. Two men, even two women couldn’t hope to raise a child in a truly healthy, normal way. But she supposed that was where people like her stepped in. Proper adults who could make up the difference. And looking at Isabelle’s fathers now, it was obvious there was quite a bit to make up for.
The pair of them were a sight to behold. An example of opposites if Mrs. Darling had ever saw them. While one wore off white the other wore off black. Where Mr. Fell was round, Mr. Crowley was slim. And while Mr. Fell’s look of concern was directed right at Isabelle, Mr. Crowley’s look of contempt was directed right at her.
“Isabelle,” Mrs. Darling said, cutting through the silence. “Would you wait outside please?”
Isabelle nodded, continuing to not say a word as she headed toward the door.
Mr. Fell stopped her before she could, crouching down to her level. He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and took a moment to dot her cheeks with it.
Mrs. Darling hadn’t realized Isabelle had been crying.
“It’s alright Belle,” he assured, quietly. “We’ll get this whole thing sorted out and pop off right back home.”
Isabelle only nodded, clearly not trusting her voice.
Mrs. Darling suppressed a huff of frustration. So, they were those kinds of parents; taking the word of the child over the word of a fellow adult. It was an abhorrent epidemic as far as she was concerned. After all, children had more reason to lie than adults. She was just happy Isabelle decided to keep quiet as to not taint the truth before she could talk to her fathers.
Isabelle then looked up and away toward her other father.
It was hard to read his expression through the tinted sunglasses, but the small nod and even smaller tick upward of his lip seemed to be enough for Isabelle. She walked out of the room then, handkerchief in hand leaving just Mrs. Darling, Mr. Crowley, and Mr. Fell to themselves.
“Please have a seat,” she greeted, gesturing them to the two chairs in front of her desk.
They each did, Mr. Fell sitting fully up right with his hands placed dutifully in his lap. Mr. Crowley meanwhile made himself comfortable, which was to say, leaning back as far as he could, crossed arms and legs spread wide.
This was going to be a long conversation.
“Now I’m sure Mr. Crowley has informed you as to why I asked you here,” she said, deciding Mr. Fell was going to be the easier of the two to talk to.
“Yes, he did,” Mr. Fell replied. “But I don’t think either of us are clear on the details. What sort of disturbance did she cause? Nobody is hurt, are they? Isabelle did seem rather upset.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure that’s just guilt manifesting itself,” Mrs. Darling waved off. “Isabelle made a point of mocking me in front of the class today.”
Mr. Crowley let out a snort, earning a reproachful glare from his partner.
“What?” he asked.
Mr. Fell let out a small sigh before turning his attention back to Mrs. Darling.
“I will say that sounds rather unlike her,” he said. “What exactly did she say?”
“She accused me of not knowing the answer to a question.”
“Well did you?” It was Mr. Crowley who spoke, giving her a moment’s pause.
“Did I what?”
“Did you know the answer,” he said it slowly, and she got the vague impression she was being mocked again.
“Well, no…”
“So Izz didn’t accuse you of anything, she just stated a fact.”
Mrs. Darling was now certain the man was laughing at her. At least now she knew were Isabelle got it from.
“She was asking improper questions,” she replied, tightly.
“What’s wrong with asking questions?”
Mr. Crowley leaned forward forcing Mrs. Darling to meet his gaze. She immediately regretted it. There was something about his eyes. Wave lengths of light particles entered her pupils sending off a chain reaction of neural impulses to her brain, accumulating into an image of slitted yellow eyes burning with all the fires of hell over the top of his glasses. The laws of physics and human physiology had gone through a lot of trouble to present her with this information, but it was all for not. Somewhere in the process her mind decided what she was seeing was impossible and therefor, couldn’t exist. If someone were to ask her what color Mr. Crowley’s eyes were, she wouldn’t have been able to answer. This also had the side effect of not giving her body the signals to run in the opposite direction.
“She asked me why butterflies can’t just be born butterflies and had to go through a larva stage first,” she said, caring on with the confidence of naivety. “That’s not a question you ask if you’re looking for an answer. It’s a question to ask to make the other person appear foolish. Isabelle has a habit of asking these sorts of disingenuous questions, and frankly somebody has to talk to her about it.”
Mr. Crowley lip tightened. It was only then Mrs. Darling noticed just how tightly balled his knuckles were.
“And by talk to her, you mean punish.”
“If that becomes necessary, yes.”
There was a flash behind his glasses which cut through the cloud keeping Mrs. Darling from seeing his eyes straight to the part of her brain which still remembered to climb the nearest tree when it saw something with large pointed teeth.
Mr. Fell’s place a hand on Mr. Crowley’s arm, rubbing it gently. The tension didn’t leave the other man’s shoulders, but it did make Mrs. Darlings urge to crawl out the window slightly less urgent.
“So, let me see if I’m understanding this correctly,” said Mr. Fell, in a tone which acted as a thin layer of ice keeping one from seeing the frozen rushing river underneath. “You brought us here with the intention of us speaking with Isabelle about asking questions in class because you’re too prideful to admit when you don’t know the answer.”
“It’s not a matter of pride,” she defended. “It’s a matter of maintaining authority in the classroom.”
“By making yourself appear infallible.”
“I’m the teacher!” she snapped. “Children need to see me as an authority they can trust.”
“So don’t lie to them,” interjected Mr. Crowley. “If you don’t know the answer. You don’t know the answer. You’re human. You’re allowed to not know things.”
“That’s not the point!”
“Right, the point is to teach children to trust any adult with authority over them. I’m sure that won’t have any long-term consequences.”
Mrs. Darling was about to say something along the lines of “listen to me you washed out punk rocker, the seventies called and would like to remind you, you lost”, but she never got the chance as Mr. Fell let out a distracting cough.
“It seems to me we’re at an impasse,” he said. “You want us to punish Isabelle for embarrassing you. While we, on the other hand, rather not, because from what you’ve described, it seems to me, Isabelle hasn’t truly done anything wrong.”
Mrs. Darling opened her mouth to interject, but the man continued on.
“We will, however, take the time to explain when asking questions is no longer beneficial and it might be best to simply look it up when she gets home. If she does ask questions you don’t know the answer to, my suggestion is to just say “I don’t know”. Personally, I think the world would be a much more pleasant place if now and again people just said “I don’t know”. What do you think my dear?”
Mr. Crowley didn’t look to the other man, his gaze never leaving Mrs. Darling. It made her uncomfortable. It was an odd feeling being stared down by something that wasn’t supposed to be there.
“Seems fair to me,” he finally said.
“Wonderful,” Mr. Fell said, cheerfully. “And, Mrs. Darling, does that sounds reasonable to you?”
She looked to him, hoping to find some reprieve from Mr. Crowley’s face only to be met by something else. Her mind had an easier time deciding that his eyes were truly there, it was the number of them she was having trouble recollecting.
“I…” Her mind was out of focus. That feeling of running up a tree was gone, and the more complex feeling of need to appeal to a higher unseen and unknowable authority for some semblance of mercy was starting to take over.
“Y-Yes. I think that is quite reasonable.”
“Excellent,” Mr. Fell said with a smile.
His face became clear again with just the normal two blue eyes twinkling back at her.
All she could do was nod. She was left with the feeling just having been about to step off a curve only to be pulled away at the last minute just before a delivery truck turned a blind corner. It had taken a lot out of her.
Mr. Fell didn’t seem to notice. “Well, if that’s all settled, I think we better be off. Crowley?”
“Right,” he said, getting up from his chair and taking the lead out the door.
“It was lovely to meet you,” Mr. Fell said pleasantly before quickly following behind.
Mrs. Darling stood in stunned silence only truly being able to half remember the conversation. Regardless in the ensuing weeks the phrase “I don’t know” started to enter her regular vocabulary.
Others quickly noted her change in demeanor. She didn’t seem as on edge as before and had developed sudden willingness to listen to others who did, in fact, know what they were talking about. She became more open to new ideas, and it was generally agreed upon that whatever made her decide to adopt this phrase had changed her for the better.
Her students felt it most acutely. The general fear about raising their hands started to dissipate and questions like “how do you spell weird” started to be replaced with “why is weird spelled that way”. However, nobody bothered to ask what had brought on this change. Some of the smarter kids suspected something, and occasionally turned their gaze to Isabelle after a fellow student asked a particularly odd question.
Isabelle, for her part, kept mostly to herself. She still asked questions. She was seven after all and being at it for so long made it impossible for her to stop. However, she did make a point to more properly read the room, and occasionally write a small note on her paper whenever are rather hard question crossed her mind.
“Humans are quiet sensitive Belle,” Papa had explained to her. “Knowing that they don’t know something makes them uncomfortable. Always has.”
They never told her to stop though. Her Dad made a point of that, going so far as he make her promise.
“Don’t you ever stop asking questions,” he had told her. “You understand? I don’t ever want you to feel like you need to stop asking questions ever, and don’t let anyone tell you, you should. Not me. Not Aziraphale. Not anyone. Promise me. Isabelle I need you to promise me that you’ll never stop asking questions.”
She did, and she would never break that promise even years and years after. After all, just because you don’t know the answer, doesn’t mean it’s not there.