Chapter Text
There are certain fundamental truths Ryland Grace believes society takes for granted without actually understanding.
For example, contrary to common belief, the Earth would cease to exist the day not a single student in his class forgets their homework, or at least makes up an elaborate scene about how their pet stick bug ate said homework.
That didn't explain why he was certain there was something that he himself had assumed madly wrong, lingering in the back of his mind like it lived there rent-free.
"—Mr. Grace?" a voice rang in his head.
Ryland blinked at the general direction of the sound, his mind waging a small internal battle to pinpoint the source. Apparently, ending a Friday afternoon lesson on the Moon's phases was the most difficult task known to science.
"That's… all for today's lesson, Nicole. Not my finest wrap-up, is it?"
"Maybe we're just too awesome for you to let go, Mr. G." Daniel in the corner quickly remarked.
"And maybe you are. Class dismissed! Don't forget to bring your art materials for the space posters on Monday!"
"That includes you, Mateo," he added, catching the boy's eye. A low mumble he could barely decipher may or may not have been a reply.
Ryland tested his hypothesis of how many lesson plans fit into his backpack while supervising the designated end-of-day cleaners. He uncapped his favorite red pen, attempting to make a dent in a stack of eighth-grade pop quizzes before the weekend officially claimed him. Most had surprisingly managed to accurately diagram the changes in lunar transition from waxing crescent to the first quarter correctly. Though a notable group had drawn a comic strip set of astronauts having cheese sandwiches in the margins instead of filling out the fill in the blank and short answer portion.
He stayed by his desk after the kids poured out, adjusted the hanging model of the solar system—the paper-mâché Saturn that had been losing its rings since September—and took a quiet breath, accompanied by the faint tang of pine cleaner.
A stubborn smudge of dry-erase marker left behind on the board dared to look down on him like he had personally offended it, and a chair hadn't been placed back neatly with the others from the mass exiting hurry.
Participation over perfection, that was Principal Stratt’s motto.
Her position as head of Grover Cleveland Middle School was unquestioned, undisputed. The school prospered under her reign, student compliance at an all-time high, and the facilities budget even managed to replace those fountains that used to trickle down green.
That being said, handing industrial-grade chemicals to energetic twelve-year-olds felt like a safety hazard Stratt had approved simply to enforce discipline.
Deciding that Monday's prep couldn't wait until Sunday evening, Ryland slung his backpack over one shoulder and did a quick detour down the hall to the faculty room.
Inside, the school's industrial copier sat humming in the corner like a mechanical failure waiting to happen. Ryland tapped the touch screen, loaded a stack of recycled paper into the second tray, and pressed start.
The machine groaned, pulled in three sheets, and immediately jammed with a metallic crunch.
"I am going to throw that piece of junk through the window," a loud, heavily accented voice erupted from the nearby table.
Ryland turned the corner to spot Olesya Ilyukhina, Grover Cleveland's lead Mathematics teacher and former structural engineer who taught middle school geometry like an expert of defense departments, sitting in the midst of papers he could only call his students' sad attempt at proving an upward curve.
"I wouldn't recommend it, Olesya," Ryland said, his hand pausing over the jam lever. "Stratt installed new security cameras."
"Let her watch," Ilyukhina snapped, not even looking up as she vigorously encircled a student's paper a few more times than necessary. "Not a speck of quality control in that machine. Is insult to technology. Yesterday, it ate entire unit on linear functions! I tell Stratt, buy proper industrial printer, but no. She tells me she is giving me assistant instead."
Ryland paused, hand resting on the blue release latch. "An assistant?"
"Yeah. Some guy starting next week," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "Stratt gives to me whole speech about 'special district program' and 'non-traditional background," she scoffed, "Absolute garbage. What do I need assistant for? I do not need someone in my classroom hovering over me while I teach coordinates."
"Well... maybe he can help you fix the copier," Ryland offered gently. He reached into the feeding rollers and fished a forcefully folded paper out. He clicked the panel shut, and with a whir, the copier resumed printing his moon phase diagrams.
"Show-off," Ilyukhina waved her pen at him dismissively. "Why are you still here anyway, Grace? Go home."
"Working on it!" he called back, grabbing his diagrams and ducking out before the lady could find another machine to complain about.
Ryland made his way toward the main exit and stood by the open doorway for an agonizing five seconds to psych himself up.
He took one final breath of indoor air before stepping out into the mess outside he was sure had a far more catastrophic label than a simple storm.
The rain hit his face like a handful of wet gravel. His bike was remarkably unscathed by the gusts of wind currently trying to knock Ryland off his feet, and that was probably more alarming than the total absence of rust on the frame's lock as he unclasped it.
He fastened his helmet visor down, eyes locked on the grey blur ahead. It was a fifteen-minute ride from Grover Cleveland Middle School to his own apartment, maybe ten if he pedalled like a madman. But cold water was already finding its way down the collar of his shirt, and his glasses were no match against the pounding downpour. Not to worry; he’d just pray that whatever divine forces governed municipal traffic would bestow mercy on him.
A buzz in his jacket pocket interrupted his mental calculations. He fumbled with cold, clumsy fingers to pull out his phone.
"Oh," he managed to say, squinting at the glowing screen.
It was a message from his uncle Holland. A quick greeting normally would've been sent in the middle of the morning, but then again it was completely false to say anyone in Ryland's family was "normal".
He tapped on the notification and drifted his eyes to the words Holland had typed.
HM: You are not riding your stupid two-wheeler bicycle home, Ryland.
Ryland let out a fogged sigh. Yes, his uncle lived a shorter distance from the school, but what was the difference between being in the rain for five minutes compared to ten? Besides, he assured himself silently, he had endured worse circumstances in the past. He tapped out his reply:
RG: All bicycles have two wheels, and a little water won't break me.
For someone who regularly claimed to not understand a dime about modern technology, Ryland had three dots appear on the screen from Holland and then disappear just as fast.
HM: It should. Be here in 5, Healy misses you.
Pushing the pedals against forty-mile-an-hour headwinds felt like attempting an uphill climb on a treadmill set to maximum incline. Rain blurred the red tail lights into ruby light, and the bicycle chain clicked violently against the gears every time he pushed through a puddle, water churning up against his trousers.
By the time he veered off the main avenue and onto his uncle’s quiet residential street, his socks were soaked inside his sneakers and his fingers were too numb to squeeze the handbrakes without a full-arm effort.
He took a sharp turn to a humble house that held less-than-humble house owners. His bike came to a halt and he rested it under the nearby shed that, thankfully, had a roof on it.
The front lawn looked physically unfazed by the coastal squall. The grass was trimmed to precision, with flowering shrubs neatly arranged, though a few stray autumn leaves fluttered in front of him.
It seemed as if the entire world could continue spinning on its axis, yet Holland's home would remain an indestructible time capsule of failed barbecues, pool parties, and substances that definitely shouldn't have been in the vicinity of late teenagers. His head hurt just recalling the hangover from his first drink, or maybe two. Was it the whole bottle? His mind refused to delve further into his memory.
As he caught his breath under the eaves, his eyes caught something bizarre around the back of the property. Looming behind the shed, parked along the muddy, unpaved utility lane, was a massive, unidentified shape draped under an industrial blue tarp. A vehicle trying—and failing—to blend into the neighborhood trees.
Ryland didn't even have time to ponder the tarp and pull off his bicycle helmet before the front door creaked open, revealing Jackson Healy against the doorframe. Healy looked every bit like a man who used to break bones for a living, with his broad shoulders and a perpetually unreadable scowl even while holding a cup of espresso that should've been comforting. Even after all the years of being married to Holland and becoming a permanent fixture in the family, Healy still possessed the terrifying presence of someone who could dismantle a man with his bare hands.
"Get inside, kid. Dry up before the coffee gets cold," Healy grumbled, stepping aside to let him pass.
Ryland peeled off his dripping raincoat, hanging it over the plastic shoe rack by the door where it immediately began forming a sizeable puddle. The living room smelled of worn leather, dark roast espresso, and an unmistakable hint of tobacco contrasted strongly to the feeling of misery outside. Healy, looking too relaxed for a man whose line of work used to involve heavy intimidation, was sprawled across the armchair.
Once he got comfortable and as dry as someone who'd been cycling through a gale could be, Holland emerged from the kitchen holding two cracked ceramic mugs. He gave one to Ryland before he stepped around the coffee table with theatrical flair and took a seat opposite Healy.
"So," Healy broke the brief silence while Ryland blew on the inside of the cup like that would instantly change how badly his tongue would get scorched.
"Teacher thing still going strong?" Healy asked, leaning into the cushions, the tone of voice that escaped his lips more akin to a casual statement than questioning it.
"I've been doing the 'teacher thing' for five years. I'm not sure where you're getting the thought that me having a passion is something shocking," Ryland said, taking a cautious sip.
"'Course I remembered. Just… testing your memory." Healy set his own mug on the coffee table with a soft clink.
"Healy kinda does have a point, though," Holland chimed in, setting his own mug on a coaster Ryland didn't know they owned. "If I were as ignorant as him, I'd assume you go to that school every weekday because you don't know any better," he testified, taking a sharp shot at his husband's eyes.
"I feel like the two of you are aggressively deflecting from the fact there's a tarp the size of a circus tent sitting behind the shed," Ryland deadpanned.
"And I'm feelin' generous, so I'll pretend you didn't say that," Healy grumbled. "Consider it an early birthday gift. Or late. Don't care, take it."
Holland reached into his pocket and dug out a key ring around his index finger, a wide, slightly unhinged grin spreading across his face. "Isn't it a spectacular idea?" he cut in cheerfully, waving off Ryland's panic with a sweep of his arm. "My old science teacher got her PhD, went off to do research, and retired from the whole teaching thing. Handed me the keys to her school bus yesterday and said she needed someone with 'scientific vision' to take over. And look at you! Your life lacks panache, Ryland, you could probably use a field trip yourself."
"I ride a bicycle to work! I don't even know how it's legal for you to own a vehicle that large just living behind the shed."
"Which is why the tarp's tucked away on the unpaved city easement where the code enforcement officers can't see from the street," Holland declared proudly.
"If the city catches wind, we get a hundred-and-eight dollar fine every citation since this neighborhood's way too small for a vehicle of this scale," Healy added dryly, taking a sip. "So, we're moving it to your school's overflow lot on Wednesday. Problem solved."
"Wednesday?" Ryland blurted out. "I can't just barge into Stratt's office announcing that she's getting transportation for field trips! My paycheck barely covers my rent, let alone hiring a driver!"
"Hiring a driver? Look past the paperwork, kid. What, scared you'll hit someone's goddamn—" Holland caught himself mid-sentence, glancing at Ryland as if clearing his throat. "—fence? Fence. Scared you'll hit a fence? Besides, you've got talent! Colt would jump at the chance to drive a truck that could easily level a group of teenagers, and you two share the same DNA!"
"Colt is a professional stunt double who made it his life mission in third grade to punch anyone who made fun of my asthma," Ryland replied, rubbing his temple. "He has a concussive back injury, an active stunt union contract, and more fearlessness of death than the average human. I am the older twin who calculated the exact impact velocity of falling off a shed roof and decided that academia was a much safer career path! ...After a brief college trial period I refuse to speak of."
"You took pills from a guy named Squeaky at a frat party," Healy grumbled into his espresso mug.
"We promised never to bring up Squeaky again!" Ryland argued, his face heating up at the mention. "The point is, I teach eighth-grade physics with paper plates and string! I would rather be launched into zero gravity at relativistic speeds than attempt to navigate a transit bus through city traffic!"
"Careful what you wish for," Healy muttered under a scoff.
"At least sneak a peek before you leave." Holland pleaded, tapping his ceramic mug with wide-eyed, toddler eagerness.
"Fine, but only because of your hospitality. Albeit subpar, if you were to ask me."
The conversation drifted to safer, mundane family topics while they waited for the worst of the rainstorm to blow over. Twenty minutes later, the drum beat of water against the living room window softened into a dull drizzle.
"Looks like the rain’s giving up," Healy remarked, standing up.
"Please don't make me regret agreeing to this," Ryland said, earning only a chuckle as they all made their way out.
Holland swung the back door open, and the three of them immediately met the scent of wet foliage and faint cigarette smoke from passersby. Holland would undoubtedly contribute to that smog later, clearly being half-sober in the moment only because Ryland was visiting. For now, the vehicle hidden behind the property held more importance.
They squelched through the muddy grass behind the shed until they reached the unpaved utility lane. Holland grabbed the edge of the blue tarp with a flourish and yanked it back, revealing a section of dark, weathered steel, reinforced black bumpers, and passenger windows made of glass far too thick for standard transit. Down near the rear axle, heavy-duty floorboards looked reinforced with steel plating, and a thick, industrial deadbolt sat fixed to the interior folding door frame.
"She's a real beauty, ain't she?" Holland marveled, leaning his arm against the tattered bodywork.
"She?" Ryland echoed, raising an eyebrow.
"My teacher used to call this piece Mary when I was in her class, had a lot of good memories that year," Holland explained.
Mary—a twelve-ton vehicle currently threatening his uncles with four-hundred-dollar daily fines, tied directly to Ryland's name if he placed his signature, that he had zero ability or legal certification to drive.
"If your definition of 'beauty' involves dented bumpers and a door that looks like an open jaw, then yes, she’s a stunning piece of machinery."
Holland laughed so hard a tear welled in his eye, mixing with the drizzle on his cheek.
"Trust me, you'll love her. There's more than meets the eye or whatever wiser people say."
Holland shifted his stance, throwing a quick, lightning-fast glance at Healy. It was a subtle, loaded look, one that anyone else would have brushed off as casual. But Ryland knew his family too well. There was absolutely nothing good happening behind those eyes, even if Ryland couldn't figure out the specific scam just yet.
"Didn't know your judgment became a reliable source," Healy put in softly.
"I was about to say the exact same thing," Ryland muttered, glancing between them in suspicion.
"Fair point, but this time I actually mean it. Just take the damn vehicle, Ryland. I promise I'll bail you out if you get caught, though I doubt you will."
Holland stood on his left with his arms crossed, Healy leaned against the porch railing on his right. There was no escape route that didn't involve sprinting through the mud.
"Okay, but I'm gonna have to consult Stratt on this. No promises."
"Deal." Healy agreed with a nod.
"See you soon?" Holland called out as Ryland wheeled his bicycle out from under the shed.
"Soon enough," was his only response.
The ride back to his own apartment building was mercifully shorter, though the wind still tried its absolute best to turn Ryland's yellow raincoat into a makeshift parachute.
He pulled his bicycle under the ground-floor stairwell, wrapping his u-lock around the metal railing before heading upstairs. He unlocked his second-floor unit with hands that were only just regaining sensation. The apartment welcomed him with its familiar state of chaos—unsorted science journals threatening to slide off his worktable, three half-filled notebooks resting on the arm of the sofa, and a drying rack of laundry he’d intended to fold three days ago.
Ryland kicked off his sneakers by the entry mat, peeled off his wet socks, and tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter. He stood by the sink for a moment, turning the tap on to let the water run over his stiff, cold fingers until feeling returned. He hung his damp coat in the bathroom, dried his hair with a scratchy hand towel, and carefully wiped his fogged spectacles.
He didn't bother making a warm drink. He was fine, really, choosing to fill a generic glass of tap water by the kitchen counter as he listened to the stillness of his unit.
Outside, a heavy gust of wind rattled his apartment windowpanes, bringing a sudden wave of quiet panic with it. How in the world was he going to deal with a twelve-ton bus? If he managed to park the bus in the school overflow lot, explaining to Stratt that it was a good asset to have a school bus without anybody he knew having a commercial driver's license was practically begging for an administrative disciplinary hearing. And following through on Holland's plan on getting a commercial license would mean months of testing, fees he clearly couldn't afford, and legal paperwork he had no desire to navigate.
Add on the fact that Ilyukhina has a mystery assistant. Olesya's intuition was rarely wrong when it came to reading people, and if she suspected Stratt's "special district program" line was cover for something unusual, she was probably right. Why would Stratt randomly assign an assistant to a Mathematics teacher who notoriously worked alone and hated interference? The thought alone made Ryland feel a headache forming behind his eyes.
Ryland set the glass down, letting out a long, drawn-out exhale into the dark room.
"Right," he muttered to himself.
"Just another weekend."