Chapter Text
Lancer didn't need a mirror. He considered his students the best reflection of himself. Every day when he strode into the classroom, thirty faces stared back at him.
Thirty pairs of eyes, that showed him how well he was doing with his life's calling. Had he inspired in young minds a love of literature, a deeper understanding of story, as he'd set out to do?
All too often, his pot bellied balding figure shined back at him from eyes dull with boredom, disinterest, or outright distaste.
Some, like young Danny Fenton who was currently asleep in a fast-growing puddle of drool (the class had only started 5 minutes ago for Faulkner's sake!) gave nothing back at all. His eyes were closed, seemingly totally beyond reach showing utter failure on Lancer's part as a teacher.
Then there were the few students whose eyes were a little too bright. They were the grade-grubbers, and almost as bad as the zombied-out kids. In a way, he'd missed the mark with them as badly as he had with Fenton.
They hung on his every word, zealously writing down everything he said, not because it was especially wise or they found it meaningful, but because they were mentally calculating their semester GPA. Pastoral poetry didn't ignite any wonder in them at all, they were more interested in their chances of getting a 4.0 if they memorized and regurgitated the right facts.
Yes, he stared failure in the face every day, not managing to see a single spark of love for the literature that he'd devoted his adult life to. And he would do it every day until they forced him into retirement. The kids might be hopeless, the arts might be dying, and maybe some of that was on him.
Maybe if he was a more charismatic man, more inspiring, he would have won some converts. But he would keep trying, working to relate to them and to speak the same language so he could help them see what he saw when he cracked open a book. There was nothing else to do.