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Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Sarika eyes the clock on the wall with increasing agitation, achingly aware that each passing moment is another one wasted when she could be studying for the AP exam- that is, if their class had a teacher who a) turned up on time and b) actually bothered to teach them biology. As it stands, though, they have neither of those things.
Principal Durbin is being as helpful as always, of course, leaning against Mr Griffin’s desk and continually glancing at the door like this will somehow summon the absent teacher from whichever dive bar he’s currently engaging in early morning drinking in. Or whatever it is that he does instead of, you know, doing his job. Sarika used to feel sorry for the short and rather pathetic little man standing in front of her, so clearly out of his depth trying to wrangle the disgraced Harvard Professor he’d unfortunately saddled himself with, but now, she finds it difficult to retain much sympathy for him. After all, she has no trouble looking Jack Griffin dead in the eye and challenging him, and she’s a 16 year old girl. He’s the principal, for Christ’s sake.
“I’m sure... he’ll be here... any second now.” Principal Durbin says, drawing out the words and tapping his fingers against the wooden desk like he’s playing some kind of imaginary piano.
“And if he’s not?” Sarika asks, resting her chin against her palm and raising her eyebrows.
Durbin opens, then shortly closes his mouth. “I... there will be consequences.”
Usually, this would be where the conversation finishes. She would roll her eyes at his incompetence and try to do flashcards in her head or something along those lines, anything to keep her anger from bubbling over.
Today, however, Sarika Sarkar has had enough.
“The problem, Principal Durbin, is that there are never any consequences for Mr Griffin. He waltzes in to class half an hour late and doesn’t even say sorry, but he says something like ‘you’re a good guy, Ralph’ or ‘but you’re cool, so this is fine’”- she imitates Jack’s voice, lowering her own a few octaves before rising back to her normal tone- “and then you just let him get away with it. Always.”
Principal Durbin blinks, clearly caught off guard, and for a moment Sarika feels bad.
“Look, all I’m saying is that this can’t go on anymore. I’m not letting my chances at getting into Harvard slip away because my negligent teacher is nursing a hangover in his flowery robe. I’m going to confront him.” She turns to the rest of the class, shrugging. “And if any of you want to come, then be my guest, but I’ll gladly do it alone if not.”
The murmurs of assent begin slowly, but soon it’s clear that most of the class are going to be accompanying her- whether for the same reason or not is up for debate.
Marcus, for example, simply wants to tag along because Sarika is the ringleader (and, of course, because he’s been praying for Jack’s downfall about as long as she has). Anthony knows if he goes he’ll miss gym class. Dan is trying to make friends. Devin is going because Dan is. Colin is probably going because he hopes there’ll be an opportunity for him to play the sax, which is highly unlikely but... oddly not impossible. Marissa is going because she’s curious. Grace... well, Grace is just Grace.
And Heather? She definitely just wants to check on Jack, but luckily for her, Sarika likes Heather, and won’t kick her out of the mission for what would otherwise be treachery.
Principal Durbin looks genuinely shell-shocked at the sudden mutiny of the AP Bio class, and perhaps even more so at its instigator, the biggest teacher’s pet at Whitlock. Unfortunately for him, by the time he’s gathered his voice enough to call out for the horde of kids (there are 9 of them, but it’s probably the biggest uprising the school has ever seen) to stop, they’re long gone.
From her position at the front of the group, Sarika grins.
It’s over, Mr Griffin. Soon, even Heather will see what an arrogant fraud you are.
APPROXIMATELY 15 HOURS AGO
It’s a cold evening in Toledo, and as Jack pulls into his dead mom’s driveway, he really wishes it wasn’t. Back in Cambridge, the freezing winters were to be expected, but it’s only just the beginning of October here, and when he’d seen the pedestrians decked in full snow gear this morning he’d laughed at them from the warmth of his car under the assumption that Toledoans were just being Toledoans. Plus, Jack Griffin could handle a little cold. He’s a Harvard professor (former, technically, but in his mind it’s like being a marine), not a little baby who needs a fleece jacket and big furry boots.
The driveway is slippery, though, and he nearly trips over his own feet twice just trying to get to the front door so... maybe baby boots aren’t a bad idea, after all.
After a fight with the house keys (it’s so cold his hands shake just trying to hold them straight enough for the right key to go in), he’s finally in, and pulling off his jacket and shoes in the porch. He notices that his hands still shake even though he’s no longer outside, but decides to attribute it to the lingering chill rather than anything more sinister. Not to mention, the house is also rather cold. No doubt it’s the fault of the decades-old heating appliances.
It’s only when the chill returns after a steaming hot shower that a surge of panic creeps its way up his spine, and he towels himself off quickly so he can collapse on the couch downstairs, heart thumping quickly in his chest. He closes his eyes, forcing himself to inhale deeply. Hold. Exhale. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Tries to conjure his mother’s voice, but fails to tune in to her and instead ends up with a poor replica parroting her words.
“You’re alright, Jackie. You just need to warm up properly, that’s all. I told you to wear that coat, and what did you say!”
He opens his eyes and reaches shakily for the blanket draped across the arm of the couch, legs too jelly-like for standing up to be a viable option. It’s plush, comforting in his hands. Reminiscent of movie nights curled up beside her with a bowl of popcorn and a lightness in his heart that’s been gone ever since he got that call. He should have visited her. He should have told her he loved her. He should have-
With trembling arms, he pulls the blanket around his shoulders like a cape. Settles into it, inhales the scent of freshly baked pies and perfume that it still carries with it after all these years. If he closes his eyes and tries hard enough, he can pretend she’s just in the kitchen whipping up a batch of cookies. She’ll be back soon. Everything will be okay.
He inhales sharply, laughing sardonically as the past melts into reality. It quickly transforms into a cough, so sudden and harsh that his knuckles turn white from gripping the blanket and black spots dance in front of his eyes.
When did he start feeling this bad? It can’t have been more than an hour since he got home, and he can’t remember his bones aching like this when he kicked his shoes off in the hallway, so...
He coughs again, and this time the ensuing shudder makes him feel so ill he sinks back against the cushions and squeezes his eyes shut. A distant memory springs to mind of him curled up on this very couch as a kid, a washcloth draped over his forehead by his mom and reruns of cartoons on the TV, but of course when he opens his eyes he’s an adult, and his mom has been dead for years. A drawn-out sigh pulls itself from his throat and he rubs a hand across his face, trying to ignore the relative coolness of his palm against the skin of his forehead. There’s no use reminiscing about what once was. Jack’s been doing it too often lately, when really he should be looking at the future, which, if Nietzsche is correct, influences the present just as much as the past does. And his present?
Teaching (a generous verb for something that isn’t entirely true) advanced placement biology in Toledo, Ohio, then returning to his dead mother’s house in the evening to eat a microwave meal and ‘get an early night’.
Speaking of, he really should be rustling up one of those meals. It’s late enough.
He grimaces, the thought of eating about as repulsive to him as the idea of his present being his future. Perhaps he should just skip to the ‘early night’ section of his routine already, and hope to a God that he doesn’t believe in that he wakes up with the lingering Ohio chill being a distant memory. He needs to move out of this town before its weather patterns do some permanent damage.
With a beleaguered groan, he drags himself from the couch, the blanket still clutched about his shoulders, and trudges upstairs (only just resisting the temptation to use the stair lift because he’s so exhausted). It’s a miracle he’s able to stay awake long enough to brush his teeth and crawl into bed, drawing the covers over his shoulders and muffling a cough into his pillow, because the moment he settles in, the idea of moving an inch is inconceivable.
He’ll feel better in the morning. He always does.
Right?
“Are you sure this is his house?” Victor asks dumbly from where he’s stood at the door, fist raised after knocking for the fourth time.
Sarika frowns, looking to the others for guidance but receiving only shrugs. “I’m almost certain it is. Do you not remember us coming here when we went to get dirt on him that one time? Try knocking again.”
The look she receives from Victor is sceptical (at least, she’s pretty sure that’s what the curl of his lip means, though it’s not an uncommon expression for him regardless) but he obeys, rapping on the doorframe another few times before pulling back. “My knuckles hurt. I don’t think he’s in.”
With a despairing roll of her eyes, Sarika steps through the gathered group of students and approaches the front door herself. Her own attempts at receiving a response are also unsuccessful, however.
“We could try breaking in?”
“No, Devin. We can’t. Look, I’m trying to expose him for unauthorised absence, not provide him with justification for filing a lawsuit against us. There has to be some way to get him to-“ She bangs on the door once more, and this time it slowly creaks open. Nobody is on the other side, which means... “Odd. If he were out, he would definitely lock it, right? Mr Griffin doesn’t seem like the sort to trust his neighbours.”
“So... he’s ignoring us?” Anthony muses.
Sarika furrows a brow, then turns to the others. “Maybe. We’re in now, anyway, so he can’t ignore us for much longer if that’s his preferred tactic. Come on.”
Marcus crosses his arms. “What happened to ‘not providing him with justification for filing a lawsuit’? I’m pretty sure breaking and entering is still a crime, even if someone’s door is unlocked.”
“Well, I changed my mind. I’m going in.”
She steps over the threshold, heart leaping with the thrill of her own bravado, and when she glances back, she’s relieved to see that the others have opted to join her. A sense of leadership washes over her.
“Okay, Grace and Anthony, you go that way- Devin, Dan, and Heather, through there. Marissa and Colin, go see if he’s in the backyard. Marcus and I will go check upstairs.”
Surprisingly, nobody protests her decision to assert some authority, instead just splitting off to scour their respective locations for signs of Jack’s whereabouts, and this leaves Sarika to march upstairs uninhibited, with Marcus following close behind.
“Do you really think he’s in?” he asks breathlessly, struggling to keep up with her relentless pace.
“Maybe not, but I just have this feeling.”
He fortunately doesn’t press this ‘feeling’ any further, saving Sarika from the necessity of telling him that in the past few seconds, it’s transformed from vengeful curiosity to genuine concern. See, she’s always been a stickler for details, and the details here? They paint a semi-worrying picture. The silence of the house. The shoes left askew in the hallway where the rest are neatly lined up. The thin film of dust on the countertop. All suggest that something might not be right.
And irritatingly, rather than being delighted about this, she finds herself on edge.
“I’ll check the bathroom. Wish me luck.” Marcus’ voice snaps her out of her theorising and back to the upstairs landing.
She nods. “Uh, alright. I’ll go this way.”
Turning the opposite direction, she’s faced with a few doors. One of them- the one closest to her- is the first one she decides to investigate. The paint on the panelling is peeling slightly, clearly untouched for years, and beneath it she sees a single scrawled word, the jagged letters indicative of a young artist: Jack. She pushes on the handle and, from the instant sprinkling of dust, knows there’s no way anybody is in this room. Still, she can’t resist the urge to peek inside.
The room is evidently Jack’s, albeit from when he was much younger, and by the looks of it, hasn’t been altered since it was vacated in the 90s. There are faded posters on the wall of obscure bands Sarika’s never even heard of, an old radio sat upon a desk. The covers of the bed are dark and gothic-looking.
She pulls back, closing the door. While she’d usually jump at the chance to snoop around Jack’s old room for embarrassing secrets, something about doing it while she has no clue where he even is feels... intrusive.
Plus, there’s that nagging feeling again. She turns towards the other door at the far end of the hall, and reaches for the handle with impatience. He probably isn’t here- Victor and Marcus are right, and she, along with her gut, are clutching at straws.
When the door swings open, though, it becomes immediately apparent that her intuition hasn’t failed her.
The first thing that hits her is the humidity of the room. It’s as though this single part of the house has its own climate, just slightly damper and warmer than the rest. Yet the radiator beside her as she enters doesn’t hum with activity. This climate is self-sustaining.
Another step forward, and she finds the cause, her stomach lurching as she freezes in place.
Jack is here.
It takes her a moment to confirm it, because the room is dark and he’s turned away from her, but as she forces her legs to move and approaches the bed where he’s laying, it’s unmistakeable, even if he is unconscious and therefore unable to deliver his usual snarky comments. The more she looks, though, the more she wishes he would resume his antagonistic behaviour, if only to reassure her that he isn’t on the brink of death.
As it stands, he’s paler than she’s ever seen him, the only exception being the dark patches beneath his eyes. There’s a sheen of sweat across his forehead, glistening even in the low light. While she watches, a droplet of it runs down the bridge of his nose and lands against the already saturated fabric of his shirt. She swallows.
“Mr Griffin?”
He doesn’t reply. Doesn’t even stir. The only thing heard within the darkened room is the discomfiting sound of his laboured breathing.
“Mr Griffin?” she tries again, voice timid as she hazards another step forward.
When this is met with the same unresponsiveness as before, her throat constricts in panic. This is bad. Very bad.
“Marcus!”
His steps quickly thud on the carpeted landing and it’s obvious when he reaches the room from the involuntary exhalation of concern. “Oh God.”
Sarika doesn’t turn to look at him, her eyes instead fixed on the slow, shaking, rise and fall of Jack’s chest. On the way his brow is furrowed with discomfort and pain. On the sickly shade of his skin and the way sweat clings to the hair across his forehead, plastering it there.
“Go get the others.” She says, attempting to keep her tone even so as not to evoke further unhelpful panic. “See if you can get some of them to find supplies. A washcloth. A bowl of cool water and a glass of cold water. A thermometer.”
“I... I think we need to call an ambulance, Sarik-“
“Marcus.” There’s a threatening edge to her voice now, and clearly Marcus senses it, because he slinks off with no further complaint and leaves her to figure out what the hell she’s going to do in the meantime.
She and Jack have never really... got on. For one, he failed to meet her minimum requirement for an AP biology teacher, that being somebody who actually taught biology, and in addition to this, he’s always been great at getting under her skin. He’s a Harvard graduate, and she is a future Harvard applicant, but rather than aiding her attempt, he seems hell-bent on thwarting her at every turn. He mocks her incessantly. Rolls his eyes at her eagerness to learn. Delights in her misfortunes.
And yet... she swallows, eyes darting across the scene before her, and takes another step forward before crouching at the side of the bed.
“M-Mr Griffin? It’s... it’s Sarika. Look, I know we’re not exactly best buds, but I really need you to open your eyes and- and give me some indication that you’re not dying. Please?”
She waits a moment, keeping herself as still as possible so as to catch even the faintest murmur. Her eyes flit to the hollow of his throat where she can see the thready jumping of his pulse. When she’s still met with nothing but terrifying silence, she slowly presses her palm against his forehead, pulling it back after only a few seconds with widened eyes and a hiss. He’s burning up bad.
Footsteps sound out from behind her, and she turns to find a gaggle of students standing at the entrance to the room, stunned into silence by the sight of their very sick teacher and the uncharacteristic concern on Sarika’s face. She doesn’t waste any time explaining herself, only interested in the various items she can see bundled in their arms. Anthony’s holding a bowl, over which is draped a washcloth, and Grace is wielding a thermometer like a dagger.
“Grace, pass that here... Please.” The ‘please’ is an afterthought, an added courtesy that she forces herself to offer because despite her panic, she really doesn’t feel like pissing off the only people that might be able to help her here. Thankfully, Grace has never been one to bristle at the absence of politeness, so she’s already moving to give Sarika the thermometer before the latter even has a chance to correct herself.
“Is he okay?” Grace asks, quieter than usual.
“I... I don’t know.”
It isn’t the answer Sarika wants to give, but it’s the truth. As she focuses her attention back on Jack, her disquiet is only validated by how awful he looks, especially now that the door is open enough to cast light from the hallway into the room. He’s visibly trembling, and the sweat that she’d seen rolling off his nose is revealed to be trickling constantly in rivulets, not just down the bridge of his nose but along his cheeks too, and soaking his hair.
She kneels, her legs aching from crouching, and schools her tone into faux calmness as she grips the thermometer like a lifeline.
“Mr Griffin, I need to see if you’re running a fever. Is it... is that alright?”
He says nothing back, because of course he doesn’t he’s probably cooking from the inside with a fever and it’s ridiculous to even check when it’s written on his face so clearly and-
She takes a deep breath and reaches forward, muttering apologies that likely go unheard by her intended recipient. Perhaps it’s better that way, she thinks, gently opening his mouth enough to slip the thermometer under his tongue. If he were lucid and this sick, it would probably be torture- especially if he knew she were the one taking his jaw in her hand like he’s some kind of poseable action figure.
After a few seconds, a beep alerts her that the temperature has been recorded. She murmurs more apologies and carefully retrieves the thermometer.
“Well?” A voice, Colin’s, calls from somewhere behind.
She raises the screen to her eyes. The number 103.9 stares back at her forebodingly.
“It isn’t good.” She replies, chewing on her lip. “Not good at all... Anthony, can you pass me that?”
He hurries over with the washcloth and bowl of water, and it’s perhaps the fastest she’s ever seen him move. Like ever.
“Thanks.” She murmurs, placing the bowl on the floor and dunking the cloth in.
In truth, she’s never had to try to cool someone with a fever down, let alone a fever as dangerously high as Jack’s is. And her own memories of being looked after when sick are hazy- just disembodied snippets of her mother’s voice, the Tamil rolling off her tongue like waves lapping against a shore, and, importantly, the feeling of a cool cloth against her forehead. Her fevers had been light compared to 104°F, but she’s sure it can’t hurt to try an old remedy. Plus, when she starts to sing the same tunes her mother did, almost reflexively, they serve to comfort her too- even if they do nothing for Jack.
She’s careful as she wrings the cloth out not to leave it dripping wet or bone dry, and once she’s sure she’s reached the sweet spot, she raises it and presses it ever so gradually against Jack’s forehead- eliciting the first sound she’s heard from him all day.
It’s only a half-groan, accompanied by a furrowed brow, but she could cry with the relief of hearing something (which is a sentiment she never thought she’d harbour).
“It’s okay, Mr Griffin.” She hears herself say, the words leaving her lips automatically as she wipes the cloth across his forehead and against his cheeks. “It’s okay. You’re alright.”
That might be a lie. She doesn’t know whether he’s okay. There’s no way of telling how long he’s been laying here, unconscious; how much water he’s had; what medication he’s taken. It’s all guesswork, really. She doesn’t even know whether he’s lucid enough to hear her reassurances.
Regardless, though, the words are soothing to at least one person- her. Because deep down, she’s panicking a little with the strangeness of it all, and the responsibility she’s somehow brought upon herself by being the one to suggest their confrontation and hence finding him like this. If she keeps repeating the words like a mantra, perhaps it will make them true.
“I, uh, found some Tylenol in the medicine cabinet.”
Sarika turns to find Heather standing beside her, holding out a red bottle, her eyes continually flitting to Jack. Her tone is more reserved than usual, and it’s clear from the slight shaking of her hands as she passes over the medication that she’s scared. Sarika feels a pang of sympathy. Heather has always been Jack’s favourite, and there’s no doubt that the feeling is mutual. And who can blame her, really? Thinking objectively (and ignoring the former’s personal qualms with Jack), Mr Griffin is probably the first adult to ever really pay attention to her in a genuine way. It’s one of the few things Sarika can’t fault him on.
Plus, she knows something that most people don’t.
A few months ago, at the end of the school day, Sarika had been searching Whitlock for a place to quietly study- at home, she must endure her mother’s constant whining about her lack of normal teenage-girl-ing, which is never conducive to a productive session. The halls had been mostly empty given the time, but most of the classrooms had unfortunately been locked by their previous occupants, and she’d spent nearly ten minutes scouring the school for one that wasn’t.
During her search, she’d noticed something odd: voices emanating from one of the classrooms. Even odder, it was the AP bio classroom, the haunt of none other than the poster child of antisocial behaviour, Jack Griffin.
Intrigued, she’d inched closer, until one voice became recognisable- Heather’s.
“Boss, I... can I tell you something?”
“Shoot, H-Bomb.”
This was going to be something personal- something Sarika shouldn’t have listened in on- but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from taking slow steps towards the classroom.
“I...I think I might be a lesbian.”
There was a brief pause, and for a second Sarika had been livid. Was Mr Griffin about to reject her? Say something stupid, as he was wont to do? But then-
“Awesome. You crushing on anyone in the class? I can get some seats switched around if you want.”
The comment was so unexpected, and yet so unbelievably Jack, that it had taken everything within Sarika’s power not to smile. She tried to remember that she despised Jack- that he had potentially ruined her chances at Harvard by being negligent, that he teased her at every opportunity- but her lip curled up ever so slightly, even if she wasn’t jumping at the chance to admit it.
“Thanks. But... I think I have bigger problems than that, Mr G.”
Heather sounded genuinely anxious. Sarika took another liberal step towards the door, and managed to peer around the edge, just enough to see while avoiding detection.
“What’s up?”
“It’s my Dad. He sort of... I guess... he wouldn’t approve. He once said he’d kick me out of the house if he ever thought I was... Y’know...”
“Gay?”
“Yeah.”
Jack’s face had fallen, expression softer than Sarika had ever seen it before.
“I’m sorry, Heather. Dads can suck sometimes, and though I know it’s no consolation, mine was an ass-wipe too.”
“I’m sure he was, but... this is different, Chief. With all due respect, you don’t know what it’s like to-“
“I do.” Jack suddenly interrupted, voice breaking almost imperceptibly before he cleared his throat and continued. “I... I do, Heather. I... look, c’mere.”
He beckoned her closer to his desk, and she’d obeyed. Sarika watched as he pulled something from his pocket- a wallet, perhaps- and then withdrew something further from that. She craned her neck to see, but Heather was blocking the view.
“This- this used to be me, okay? A long... a long time ago. Now I need you to promise not to tell anyone, okay? You keep this between us. Please?”
Heather had nodded.
“Alright. That’s my girl. I just... I just wanted you to know that I understand. My Dad, he... he didn’t get it either. Refused to call me Jack for so long even when he knew it was tearing me apart. Insisted on using my full name every time. Jacqueline this. Jacqueline that. He did it on purpose because he wanted me to feel that pain. And then one day he just... up and left. My Mom said he came round to things eventually, that he’d changed and wanted to see his ‘son’, but some things... some things can’t just be fixed like that.” Jack sighed, and as Heather shifted slightly, Sarika caught the glistening of unshed tears in his eyes. “But that’s beside the point. I only wanted to tell you that I get it, and that... and that I’m here. Always.” His voice faltered, breaking despite his best efforts. “I need you to remember that, okay, Heather? I’m here. And as much as I hate this shitty town, I’ll stay for you- well, that and because I can’t figure out a way to get out.”
He laughed, and Heather joined in. Sarika realised she’d never heard Heather laugh before Mr Griffin.
“So, anyway.” A sniff. “I didn’t mean to get all weirdly emotional in front of you H-Bomb, but I had to make sure you knew. Know. My door’s always open, kid. This one, here, and my place too. I don’t care if it’s the middle of the night, you need me, you wake me up. Can you promise me that?”
“I promise.”
“Good... good. You’re gonna be okay. I promise. And if things go south and your Dad kicks you out, you can stay with me for as long as you need- just so long as you help me get revenge on my son of a bitch neighbour. Dude’s old, but he’s n-“
He hadn’t been able to finish his sentence, bowled over by a sudden embrace from Heather, her gentle sobs muffled against his cardigan. It surprised him, judging by the sudden ‘umph’ and initial stiffness, but as soon as he’d realised what was happening, he’d put his arms around her, patting her back reassuringly.
“Hey, no need to cry, H-Bomb. This is cashmere, y’know.” He’d said, but his words had no bite to them, and Sarika didn’t fail to notice the way he hastily swiped at his eyes after she finally withdrew.
“Thanks, Boss. You’re the best.”
He smiled softly. “Yeah, I know. Off you go, kid. Remember what I said, won’t you? It’s probably the only important thing I’ve ever told anybody.”
“I will. Promise. Bye, Mr Griffin.”
“Bye, Heather. Take care.”
Sarika had only just managed to duck into a maintenance closet as Heather stepped out of the classroom, and there amidst the mops and spray bottles, she’d wrestled with the revelations she’d unwittingly exposed herself to. Heather’s secret. Jack’s. His unbelievable kindness.
And from then on, she’d at least been able to see why Heather viewed Jack the way she did- as an almost father figure, in spite of his flaws. Because beneath his rough exterior and woollen cardigans, there was somebody genuinely caring.
Of course, she’d also vowed not to let that change her perception of him as a teacher, though. He was still Asshole No.1 in that department.
Sarika studies Heather’s watchful gaze now, and knows that the incident weighs heavily on her too. She doesn’t know exactly how deep their bond goes, but she can imagine that for Heather, it’s like witnessing a sick parent- protector of the vulnerable turned vulnerable out of the blue.
“Should... should I get anything else?”
Her words are too timid. So un-Heather-like. Sarika offers her the best attempt at a gentle smile she can muster. “Uh... I don’t think so. Thanks, Heather.”
When Sarika turns back to look at Jack, though, the panic of not knowing what to do swallows her whole again. It seems like every time she glances away, he worsens. She studies the red bottle tightly gripped in her now-shaking hand, thoughts racing so quickly her vision blurs. He probably needs medication to bring the fever down, but she doesn’t know when he last had any and he could overdose and how the hell is she even supposed to get him to take them when he won’t even open his eyes?
Her gaze settles on the bedside table where Devin has placed the glass of cold water he fetched from the kitchen. Beside it, there’s a phone.
Jack’s phone.
She reaches for it, hope blossoming as the screen flashes to life in her hands. A whole host of notifications pop up in a matter of seconds against the oddly sweet lock screen (a ladybug on a leaf), but among them Sarika pinpoints the most significant.
Chair thief: Where r u???
Chair thief: I think Durbin is actually going to kill u if u don’t turn up this time
Chair thief: Nah I take that back he’s saying there will be ‘consequences’ again which we both kno means NOTHING
Chair thief: R U good, tho?
Chair thief: Jack?
The idea already implanted in her head, Sarika taps on one of the recent messages and is thankfully transported right to the text chain, above which is emblazoned ‘Chair thief’. No awards for guessing who that is.
She presses on the contact, then ‘call’. It only takes a few seconds to connect.
“Ugh, thank God. I was starting to believe you’d actually up and died on me.”
“Hi Ms Hofstadter, it’s Sarika- Sarika Sarkar. I- I’m calling because Mr Griffin is really sick, and I think we might need your help.”
The line goes quiet for a moment.
“Sick?”
“Yes- to cut a long story short, we’re at his house because we wanted to see why he wasn’t in school- I know that’s probably illegal but right now it isn’t important- and we found him in the bedroom. He... he isn’t looking good, and he’s running a nearly 104 degree fever, but we can’t get him to wake up.”
“Who’s with you?”
“Most of the AP bio class. Again, I know we probably shouldn’t have-“
“I’ll be there ASAP. Text me the address.”
Sarika frowns. They only met a few weeks ago, but by how flirty things had seemed between them, it’s surprising to hear that Lynette hasn’t even been to Jack’s weird old townhouse yet. “Uh, okay. See you.”
Lynette hangs up the phone, and Sarika switches to messaging, typing out Jack’s address and sending it off with a satisfying ‘whoosh’.
“Lynette’s coming?” Marissa asks.
Sarika nods. “I think it’s the best bet we have. We can’t do much right now, but she might be able to.”
She sets the phone back down on the nightstand and glances over to see that Heather is busying herself with the hands-on work in her absence, bespectacled eyes deep in concentration as she drags the damp dishcloth down the bridge of Jack’s nose. With the backdrop being what it is- religious paraphernalia at every turn- there’s something biblical, Sarika thinks, in this little act of service. Like a disciple washing the feet of Jesus. Of course, she would never admit such a thought out loud for fear of being misunderstood. She isn’t calling Mr Griffin the Messiah, because a comparison like that is offensive to her for so many reasons, but Heather’s reverence of him means that for a second the idea flashes in her mind.
“You’re gonna be okay, Boss.” Sarika hears Heather whisper.
She hopes to any real Gods in existence that her classmate is right.
Sarika’s been sitting on Jack’s couch for about thirty minutes or so when she hears the knock on the door, and the relief is so great she nearly knocks over a statuette of the Virgin Mary as she rushes to answer it. Lynette is standing on the other side with a duffel bag hanging from one hand, the other still raised in a fist like she was about to knock again.
“Ms Hofstadter. Thank God you’re here, we- I didn’t know what else to do.”
Lynette swipes a stray hair from her eyes and offers Sarika a smile. “I’m glad you called me.” Her gaze travels to peruse the rest of the room, visible confusion mounting. “This is Jack’s place? I mean, I knew about the whole ‘dead mom’s house thing but...” she whistles. “This is next level. It’s like a Catholic museum in here.”
She laughs gently, but it quickly peters out into an expression of concern. “Is he... upstairs?”
Sarika nods. “This way.”
They ascend the staircase and reach the entrance to Jack’s room without another word exchanged. When the rest of the students, still gathered on the threshold, see the two approaching, they scatter at last to leave only Heather. She clearly hasn’t left Jack’s side since Sarika went downstairs to wait for Lynette, if the cloth freshly draped over his forehead is anything to go by, but she too stands and steps back when she sees Lynette.
The latter walks forwards, steps more uncertain than they had been moments ago, and slowly crouches at the bedside. Her brow furrows, and she reaches out to press the back of her hand against Jack’s cheek.
He mumbles incoherently but doesn’t stir.
The knot of concern in Sarika’s stomach (the existence of which she can no longer deny) tightens, her hands clasped in front of her. She feels as though she’s intruding on something private now, especially when Lynette’s thumb brushes the jut of his cheekbone, her voice low.
“Jack?”
There’s undoubtedly a romance in the way she says his name- even Sarika can admit that. She’s never been one for ideals of true love or soulmates, her pursuits always far more academic in nature, but it’s not as if she doesn’t know how to recognise it in others. Evidently before they see it themselves, given the fact that Jack and Lynette are capable of continually dancing around the chemistry between them.
“Jack? Come on, old man.” Lynette’s stroking the curve of his cheek again, voice gentle and slightly teasing. Sarika suspects the attempt to lighten the mood is only a flimsy cover for fear.
At last, though, there’s a weak exhale- more of a groan, really- and a sliver of blue peeks out from beneath heavy eyelids. Jack’s gaze is unfocused, combining with languid blinking and sweat-soaked skin to give the impression of a man so sick his body has decided that true consciousness would be torture. Despite the gravity of the situation, though, Lynette still manages a weak smile.
“There you are. Still kicking, huh?”
Her hand shifts upwards, where she peels the damp washcloth away from his fevered brow, a murmured apology on her lips when he looses a small sound of discontent. “Yeah, I know, bud, but this is doing Jack shit if it’s this warm. Pun absolutely intended.” She reaches down to dunk the cloth in the bowl of water with one hand, the other drifting to brush back the damp curls plastered to his forehead. “Okay, this’ll be better. There.”
The washcloth successfully replaced, she directs her attention to Sarika.
“I need you to call Durbin and tell him I’m not coming back today. Probably not for the next few days. My phone’s in that bag on the side.”
Sarika obeys, enduring perhaps the most awkward phone call of her life as she paces up and down the corridor outside Jack’s room. As soon as she explains the situation to Durbin, it’s like the incident this morning never happened. His concern is only that Jack’s alright. Sarika tries to reassure him as best she can, but her tone slips like always back to being factual and clinical. He has a fever of 104°. Ms Hofstadter is trying to bring it down. No, he isn’t really awake, but it’s probably better that way.
When at last the call ends, Sarika places the phone gently back down on the bedside table, eyes lingering on Lynette and the methodical way she wipes the cloth against Jack’s brow.
“Should we... should we call an ambulance?” she asks timidly. It’s something she hadn’t even wanted to consider earlier, when Marcus brought it up, but back then she’d admittedly underestimated the severity of the situation.
Lynette shakes her head slowly, gaze not drifting from Jack’s languid blinking.
“No... not yet.” She murmurs. Her fingers card through his hair, and she addresses him when she next speaks. “You just need to be looked after, don’t you, hm?”
Sarika watches his lower lip tremble in a kind of awe that only increases when a tear slips free, trickling down his cheek until its caught by Lynette’s thumb.
“Shh... you’re alright, Jack.”
He swallows thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing, nostrils flaring. “I wan’... I want my Mom.”
His words are so quiet as to barely be audible, murmured through chapped lips and an undoubtedly sore throat, but Sarika hears them all the same. As does Lynette, if the sorrowful furrow of her brow is any indication.
“Oh, hon.”
When his breath hitches, Sarika turns away in an attempt to give him a semblance of privacy- at least, that’s the reason she gives herself after the fact. It’s perhaps more true that the sight of Jack Griffin sobbing is too much for her to bear. That the fear and desperation she hears in his voice tears a hole in her worldview and makes her own eyes burn with the threat of tears.
“Hey.”
Sarika looks up to find Heather standing in the doorway, a tattered book in her hands. She must have left the room a few minutes ago to retrieve it.
“Do you think... do you think it would help if someone read to him?... I know it helps when- when I’m sick.”
A glance over to Lynette sees her nod her head, gesturing for Heather to come closer. She does.
“What book is it?” Lynette asks. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes red-rimmed just like Sarika’s surely are.
“The Republic. P-Plato.”
She smiles; turns to Jack. Her hand swoops along his jaw, settling against his cheek. “God, you’re a nerd.”
Usually, this kind of comment would elicit an eye roll at the very least, and a detailed defence of Plato’s work, but in his weakened state Jack does neither. He’s obviously exhausted.
Heather approaches the bed, thumbing open the first page of the book as she gets closer. Her owlish eyes, magnified by the glasses, flit to the top and begin to slowly move across the sentences while her lips move to read them out.
“I went down to Piraeus yesterday with Glaucon the son of Ariston, that I might offer up a prayer to the goddess; and also because I wanted to see in what manner they...”
Jack’s expression settles a little, swathed in the comfort of familiarity. Sarika wouldn’t be surprised if he knew the whole book front to back, especially considering how well-read it appears, yellowed pages flopping over Heather’s thumb in a way that suggests the spine is all but worn out. As he relaxes and listens, Lynette unscrews the bottle of Tylenol on the bedside table and tips a couple of pills into her palm. Jack, blinking languidly, allows her to press them against his lips, swallowing them and taking a few sips of the water she offers him afterwards.
“You are not far wrong, I said. But do you see, he rejoined, how many we are? I do. And are you stronger than all these? For if not, you will have to remain where you are.”
The tear tracks on his cheeks start to dry, and no new ones fall to replace them. His breaths even out again, stuttering no longer.
Heather continues to read.
Lynette continues to card through his hair and dab the washcloth against his sweat-covered brow.
Sarika continues to watch it all, with a strange sense that she didn’t know Jack Griffin at all up until now.
Over the coming days, the students of Whitlock High are frequent visitors to their teacher’s abode. Unlike their first trip, though, the intent is not to catch him out, but instead to offer him what they can in the hopes that he’ll feel better soon. Victor brings soup. Dan brings edible soup. Colin offers to kindly perform a sax solo for Jack, but by day three, he’s lucid enough to politely refuse the torture. Heather reads Plato.
Sarika half-expects to be refused when she turns up on Day Four of Mr Griffin’s confinement, because surely now he’s well enough to speak properly, he won’t want anything to do with her. She waits on his doorstep, fiddling with the sealed flaps of the small package she holds. Wonders whether it might just be better to leave it on the stoop.
Before she can follow through on this plan, though, the door swings open and she’s greeted by Lynette- looking far more jovial than she had been the other day.
“Sarika! Hey! Did you wanna come in?”
The immediate invitation is unexpected. “Oh, I just- I just came to drop off a package.”
“A package?”
“A gift.” She clarifies sheepishly.
Lynette smiles gently. “Ah. I see. You should come deliver it in person- Jack wanted to see you anyway.”
Sarika’s sure her eyes bug out of her head. “He did?”
She steps in when beckoned, glancing around the living room to find Lynette’s things scattered about in amongst the religious paraphernalia.
“Don’t sound so scared, I promise he’s not going to kill you.”
They ascend the staircase, Sarika’s gaze drifting to the photos she’d been too distracted to notice the first time she passed them. There are a great deal of Jack when he was a teen, hair all wild curls, often sporting a boyish grin. Some from an even more distant past, almost hidden, show him longer-haired. Dressed in frocks and frowns. His eyes are dull, and he isn’t smiling in any of these older photos- not like he is in the ones where his chin is speckled with stubble. In those, he’s bursting with energy. He’s Jack.
“Knock knock.” Lynette says, rapping on the open door of Jack’s bedroom as Sarika trails behind. “You’ve got a visitor.”
He looks up when she steps forward, eyes lifting from the book he’s currently poring over. He’s sat in bed, the covers tucked up to his waist, and Sarika is relieved to see that the worrying pallor is mostly gone. She’d bet money on him still having a fever- his eyes are bright with it, and his cheeks and nose are flushed red- but it’s clearly far better than it was a few days before.
“Sarika.” He greets, voice gentle and slightly scratchy.
She shifts. “Mr Griffin.”
“You can- you should come in.”
The almost sheepish way with which he speaks reminds her of the vulnerability she’d witnessed on her last visit. It gives her the strength to step forward when he beckons.
“I... I wanted to thank you. Lynette- Lynette told me about what you did, and your decision to come over, well... even if you weren’t intending to at first, it feels like you saved my life.” He shrugs. “I don’t- I only really remember snippets from that day, but I- I remember you. Heather, and you. Clear as day.”
Sarika can’t help the slight smile that alights on her face.
“You... did you...” he continues, chuckling gently. “Look, this might be a crazy question, because I’m not entirely sure whether it happened or whether I dreamt it, but... did you sing to me?”
Oh, fuck. Her cheeks flush crimson, but before she can vehemently deny it (even when it’s written so clearly on her face), Jack speaks up.
“Because... because it helped.”
She swallows. “It did?”
“Yeah. My Mom, she....” he clears his throat, eyes glittering for a moment with unshed tears before he hastily swipes them away. “She, uh, she used to sing to me, that’s all. When I was sick. It... it felt like home, so... so thank you. Not that you- not that you did sing to me at all.”
When she looks up, confused, he winks. The gesture is so utterly playful and stupid and Mr Griffin that she snorts. Why the hell is she starting to like him?
Shaking away the thought, she finally remembers the package, and places it on the covers in front of him.
“I... I got you something.”
His eyes light up. The look that he gives her is reminiscent of a boy on Christmas Day. “For me?”
“Y-yeah. For you.” As he slowly tears the packaging, she speaks again. “I- it might be stupid, because you’ve probably already got it, but on the off chance that you- that you don’t, I thought you might like it.”
“Oh, Sarika.” His entire expression softens when he lifts up the book, corners of his mouth tilting into the most genuine smile she’s ever seen. “You got me Crito.”
Lynette laughs softly as she crosses the room to sit next to him on the bed. “I have no idea what that means, but I’m guessing it’s a good thing?”
Jack nods fervently. “God, Lynette, this is Crito. It’s Plato’s most underrated work, and I couldn’t find a copy in the bookshop and I know you told me to just buy it online but I don’t trust online retailers enough to do that and-“
“Okay, breathe, hon.” Lynette says, still chuckling.
Sarika doesn’t miss the pet name, nor the way Jack turns to look at her, affection crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“Just because you’re a Philistine who doesn’t appreciate the value of Plato.” He murmurs fondly.
Lynette rolls her eyes, shuffling closer and wrapping her arms around one of his. “Yeah, alright. I’ll take that label, nerd.”
If Sarika were to guess, she’d say that the past few days have brought Jack and Lynette closer- inevitable, really, considering how much they were crushing on each other (to use a colloquial term she hates) beforehand, but something that still makes her proud because, in some small way, she helped this union to flourish. She could have just followed Marcus’ lead and called an ambulance, thereby removing Lynette entirely from the situation.
But she didn’t. So... credit where credit’s due, right?
After a few painfully long seconds of what can only be described as ‘lovey-dovey eyes’ at Lynette, Jack turns back to Sarika with a grin.
“Thank you, Sarika. You know, you’re not half bad.”
It’s hardly the greatest of compliments, but from Jack, it’s like being bestowed a Nobel Prize.
Sarika smiles. “Yeah, you’re not half bad either. I have to say I prefer you when you’re not talking, though.”
Jack scowls at her and threatens to throw his new book, but his own smile breaks through the faux anger anyway.
“Yeah, yeah. Get out of here, you.”
She shrugs. Moves to the door.
“And... and genuinely, thank you. I owe you one, Sarkar.”
When she glances back at him, Lynette curled around his arm, eyes twinkling in the low light of the bedroom, Sarika knows that he’s referencing more than just her caretaking skills.
“I know. I’m expecting the best Harvard recommendation letter you’ve ever written.”
He affixes her with a serious expression. “Sarika, if you do not get into Harvard University, I will personally torch the place.”
And that’s good enough for her.