ERIC

As his eyes snapped open, Eric jerked upright in the forceful way one does when they let their fantasies run wild in the middle of the afternoon. What was he doing, again?

Papers. He looked at the stack on his desk - a bundle was sprawled across his desk and covered in green ink; another stack was piled high and unmarked. He sighed. Ah, right.

Rubbing a tired hand over his face and through his hair, he pressed 'play' on his answering machine, and reached for his phone, lit up with the messages he missed in his interlude.

"You have one new message" —"Afternoon,  Eric, it's Doug - Madison. Apologies, I know you're off today but just wanted to call you in for a quick meeting..."

*New text message from Evie* ~ madison called me in for a meeting 🙄 it's all good but he might do the same w you :/

— "...Listen, it's a sensitive one, the sooner you come in and we get this resolved, the better, alright? Give me a call back when you can. Alright, take care."

~ p.s. emily dickinson xx

• • • •

It had been a while since Eric had last worn a tie. He'd become accustomed to the daily attire of loose dress shirts tucked into well-worn Levi's, with his sleeves rolled up and a satchel slung over his shoulder. The tie he'd picked out today had only made the cut because it was the only one he could find without turning his flat inside out.

This one was thin, navy with little red strips, and he didn't know how low these kinds were supposed to hang but he was almost certain that he'd done his a little too short.

He wasn't one for nerves; or at least when he was, he masked them well, and tugging at the skinny tie as he stood at the office door hardly seemed to do him any favours. He cleared his throat, with gruff intention, and stretched his lips into a small smile when a group of student passing by shouted a 'you alright, Mr. Macklin?' with inquisitive eyes.

Tell the truth, but tell it slant. An Emily Dickinson quote, supposedly. He'd racked his brains before he googled her after Evie's odd little P.S. More specifically, he'd googled 'emily dickinson code', suspecting Evie had sent him some sort of secret cipher to figure out. He hadn't found much along those lines beyond a few rude jokes, but he had stumbled across those words, wise and intriguing. Tell the truth, but tell it slant.

Eric wasn't one of those arseholes that didn't 'believe in truth' or hid behind some 'post-truth society' bullshit in order to get away with being a liar. He knew very well what truth was, and in spite of it had told his fair share of blue and black and barefaced lies, but to tell it slant would mean something rather different – something more challenging than mistruth. For what was at stake, for who he stood to lose, he was more than willing to give it a go.

"Come on in, Eric."

Mike Kelly's globular head stuck out from inside the room. With a civil smile, and a final adjustment of his tie, Eric walked in.

• • • •

With the headmaster, Doug Madison, sat behind the centre of the desk, and his deputy head, Mike Kelly, perched by his side, the two looked like a depleted row of bobbleheads, or incredibly dull action figures perhaps. They spoke like them, too; as though everything they said was pre-programmed, triggered by the yank of a string.

"Eric," Doug Madison began, unsurprisingly, with a leering smirk less subtle than he thought, "I'm sure you know why you're here, we know why you're here – we just need you to say something for the record, and we should be all done."

He looked over at his deputy, all puffed up and superior, with a shrug that said case closed, and something about his bold expression made Eric grit his teeth behind closed lips.

Eric let out a short, confused laugh, casting a glance plainly between the pair of them.

"I'm, uh, I'm sorry gents," he said with open, oblivious palms, "you'll have to enlighten me."

In his best impression of an important man, Mike Kelly took over, trying to carry on with his superior's air,

"There've been a couple of rumours – harmless things really," he waved his hand flippantly, "of some sort of, um, th- a sort of-"

"Fraternisation." Doug Madison's interruption had the air of a real notable lad. He spoke without breaking Eric's gaze, in anticipation of some careless slip – some smirk or roll of his eyes. When the heavy word left his lips, he sat back in his chair, a stripy-suited big bad pussycat. It troubled Eric, who considered himself a rather intuitive man, that he couldn't quite read him just yet. He leaned in sceptically, waiting for the duo to go on. Indeed, Mike Kelly did, with an embarrassed clearing of his throat.

"Exactly, 'xactly. We understand you have a tutoring arrangement with a student, and it seems that it was... misconstrued, shall we say, by another student with some history there." Mike Kelly, thoroughly entertained by the whole notion, raised his eyebrows, while Doug Madison let out a low chuckle.

"Angie Channing." Doug Madison said, sitting forward and putting down the final piece.

"Ah!" Eric exclaimed. "Right, wow, um – I wasn't aware there were any concerns there, and I assure you there's no reason for any. Evi- um, Evangeline's mother is aware of the arrangement, and I make sure to keep her briefed on what we cover, but if there's anything I need to provide for the school I'd be-"

This time when Doug Madison's recurring deep chuckle erupted, his yellow teeth emerged, and Eric began to understand exactly what he was here for – what impression the bobbleheads had. Doug Madison put a finger up to pause him, before opening a desk drawer, and retrieving a small black box.

The silence, save for the ticking of the Mondaine overhead, was distinct; decided as though it was part of their coordinated routine. Whilst Doug Madison fiddled with the box, Mike Kelly smiled at Eric with stern eyes, and once the little black box emitted a short, sharp beep, the smile vanished in time.

"Eric Macklin, January 9th, 2020." Whatever it was that Doug Madison flashed at Eric before beginning resembled a facial exercise more closely than a soothing smile. Not that Doug Madison had intended one. "Eric, could you tell us about the nature of your acquaintance with Evangeline Channing? How were your ...sessions initiated?"

He flapped his fingers about in the gap between his words, as though he had paused only to grasp the right phrase. His leer said something else, though – something villainous and slick. The whole thing made Eric feel rather sick.

Nudging his rounded glasses up the bridge of his nose, Eric picked his words with care, and his expressions with calculated caution. He began by addressing Mike Kelly, with an air of indifferent precision.

"Well if I'm honest with you, I don't think acquaintance is the word for it at all. Evangeline's a very bright young lady, who expressed an interest in higher level work beyond the syllabus, so I suppose in that respect I'm, uh, something of an academic mentor."

If he wasn't so aware of the movements of each of the individual muscles in his face, Eric's lip would have twitched, or his brow would have raised – something would have betrayed those words. He didn't have enough digits on his body to count the things he'd learnt from that girl. Often it felt as though she taught him far more without even realising than he could ever teach her. Eric turned his torso towards Doug Madison, his tone, warm and informal.

"I ran into her mother one afternoon – I'd seen her a handful of times at the PTA meetings and things like that." Eric's eyes dipped down at the box. "She invited me for tea, and I had to decline but that's when we found out we lived on the same street!"

Eric's disbelieving laugh was contagious, and the duo's stares began to soften into attentive smiles, a faint aha! coming from Mike Kelly's mouth.

"So," Eric continued casually, like the three of them were old mates trading stories about some crazy, innocent mix-up, "she was talking about how fast Evangeline gets through the stuff for class, and showed me a couple of the essays she'd written – not for class or anything, just for fun. And I-I was just blown away. Offered to read them, give her some feedback. I supposed that's how our, uh, sessions were initiated..."

When Eric said the bureaucratic words back, the men began to laugh at the misunderstanding, at the formality of it all.

"But yeah, I think at some point it just made more sense that we meetup somewhere on the same street, rather than trek down somewhere else..."

"Right, right, of course." Mike Kelly bobbed his head in time with Doug Madison, but his eyes were glancing up at the post-Modern Mondaine clock above Eric's head. He was most relieved that the ordeal had lasted the duration of the day's staff meeting.

"Well, that's really it, Eric," Doug Madison said, holding his chuckle until the little black box safe and tucked away in its drawer, "we just had to clear it up for the record, and the sake of sake's sake."

Eric felt a wave of relief rush over him, although he wasn't naïve enough to think that meant he'd evaded the familiar tsunami of internal conflict. That'd probably come about on his train journey home.

"What can we do, hey?" As Doug Madison slapped his back, Eric felt the flood come down all at once, and had the sudden urge to itch or retch or scrub himself thoroughly. "Have to keep the bright minds of tomorrow... stimulated."

With his leering grin, unwavering eye contact, and his back to the ungainly Mike Kelly as he looked Eric in the eyes and said "we", Doug Madison left himself utterly exposed.

Clinging to what was left of his chocolate locks as best as he could, it was apparent that Doug Madison had been a young man of good looks – great ones, perhaps – and to his mind, this made him, and Eric for that matter, a member of a very special order. Sharp, knowing, easy-on-the-eyes young men, entitled to any and all affection that took their fancy. What can we do, hey?

Eric, irritated most keenly by the hand resting on his back, stretched his face into a so-called smile, the way Doug Madison had stretched his.

"If that's all, gents..."

"Just one more thing, Eric," Mike Kelly spoke as he rose from his seat.

"Oh?"

"Just out of curiosity," despite his efforts at an innocent smile, Mike Kelly's poker face wasn't half as good as his superior's, "last session, with Evangeline, what were you... covering? If you remember?"

His words weren't as slick either – Eric saw right through them: a last-ditch attempt to prove himself, and scope out the trouble if there was any.

Instinctively, Eric stuttered. Somehow, he didn't think that the first images that sprung to his mind – of caresses and picnics and cake batter licked from peaks and napes – were the answers they were looking for. In a second that felt like many more, he stumbled, until the first logical thought made itself clear.

"Emily Dickinson – the, uh, poet. Yeah, it was thought-provoking stuff."

Without a word, the heads bobbled, in unison and approval, and Eric was certain he had to leave.

"Gentlemen." He nodded as he left through the door Mike Kelly held open. It was only once he was stood in the cool hallway that he could breathe normally again, without anger warming the air, or anxiety trapping it.

"Nice tie he had on, wasn't it?" Came Doug Madison's voice, faint and firm from behind the closed door. 

• • • •

EVANGELINE

It's only 5, but today already seems to have lasted forever.

I've been pacing up and down the same avenue for the better part of 15 minutes, waiting. In the first 5, I saw a lady walking her Yorkie, and thought of a stupid in-joke to message Barbara. All things considered, I decided against it. After 5 more minutes, I started to feel the cold and typed out the message: snuggle? Then I watched the letters disappear when I freaked out that he might be in the Madison meeting. After 5 more, I started looking shady, and pulled out my phone again:

where are you mate, a girl can only hang around a street corner for so long before she starts raising eyebrows

When I sigh, deep and long, I watch the air escape in a smoke-like cloud and my heart gets heavy again. I'm being dumb. This is dumb. Eric and I will be fine. Babe and I will be fine. I exhale again, shallow and short, and when I look up the sloping stretch of road I see a girl, fur-hooded, heading down towards me. I grin, she flips me off, and suddenly I feel better. She's still some way off, but she mouths what she feels, and, frankly, what I feel, what the fuck?

Chocolate locks spill out from either side of her hood, and her hands are firmly tucked in her pocket, but her slim legs are out, in all their glory, in a tennis skirt. It's bold, but if anyone could pull it off, Caz could.

⋆

There were very few things, Cara thought, that she couldn't do or say. If she thought you looked good, she'd say it. If she thought you didn't, her eyes would. And evidently, if she felt like wearing a white mink hood, faux of course, over a tennis dress, there wasn't a soul who could tell her she couldn't. It had been that fuck-you-can-do attitude that had drawn the two to each other in year 7. A small girl with a big spirit, she approached Evangeline on the first day, in the lunch queue, "you're so pretty. Come sit," then stalked off back to her crowded table in the corner with the grace of someone much older.

"Move," she'd said, shooing off some incredulous year 9 who thought they'd found her favour, "my best friend's sitting here." Once it was empty, she patted the plastic seat and smiled up at Evangeline. When she sat down and the table-wide conversation resumed, she noted that Cara didn't speak much like the people she knew. She never dropped her t's, hardly ever said like, and sounded like the kind of person her father would call a Tory-toff with great disdain. But Evangeline also noted that she felt safe with Cara. Cara wasn't afraid to be herself, and although Cara gave her eye-rolls and glares where she felt they were necessary, Evangeline didn't feel afraid either. Granted, she had to remember to hand her coat to the butler whenever she went over to her house, and learn how to just say thank you when Cara's parents gave her gifts that certainly cost more than anything she would dare to put on her Christmas list. But, above all, Evangeline felt safe. And to find a friend who gives one that, is to find a great treasure.

⋆

"Angie," she's over the hill now, and up close, with rouged cheeks and a Gucci Zumi, she looks like a Sloanie snow angel, "What the actual fuck? What happened with Babe?"

"Are you bloody wearing a tennis dress? In 3 degrees?" I'm trying to change the subject, even though I know it's where we'll end up.

"Yes. Babe? What did you say to her?" The disbelief stops me, for a moment, before Caz clicks her fingers, come on, keep walking, and we start moving again.

"What do you mean, what did I say?"

"She said she can't be friends with you." My heart sinks, fast and illogically, like it's heard something unfathomable. Babe wouldn't say that, would she? Caz wouldn't lie. I know things got intense, but she can't be done. Can she? I don't fucking care who's right or wrong; I need us to be okay.

"Wait, she said that?"

"Yes! I was at my tennis lesson with Dion," ah, now the tiny skirt makes sense, "about to rip this stupid dress off, and suddenly the two of you are imploding. She just said she can't do it with you. She said," she's reading off the screen now, and somehow it makes it more real, more close, "she's scared because this thing with Macklin might be making her realise that maybe she can't be friends with you. Angie, what the fuck happened?"

Now that my best friend's on the line, defences and arguments seem useless. It's my fault.

"It's on me, Caz. I told you guys about Eric and she didn't like it to begin with, and now she's mad I lied to my Mum and Walt about it and I don't know. I just wish I could show her nothing's changed. I feel like shit for saying anything at all."

"Love, no!" Caz's eyes are soft and sympathetic, and I wish it changed how I felt. "She doesn't want you to feel like you have to hide stuff. She just... she's worried things have changed already, and you don't even know it, and you'll end up dissenting her. Wait, no, sorry, resenting her."

"How could I resent her, Caz!" Everything I feel is welling up now, here, in the middle of what ever posh neighbourhood this is, and it doesn't feel like the right time, but that doesn't stop the tears.

"She's been my best friend since I learned to fucking walk. She's half my bloody heart, or a third or whatever fucking number means I love her. And you. And my family, fuck." I added, with tearful hiccups. I hate that I'm sniffling and sobbing, is it PMS? But I hate the idea of losing her more.

"'Course I love Eric, but if Eric ever dies, or cheats or just fucking leaves, I know she'll be there! I want her there, always! At my wedding, my baby shower, my fucking funeral!" Now tears are streaming down my face in the middle of a street I've never been on and this is so ridiculous. I laugh, and try to shake my head, but after the tears it gives me an instant migraine,
"I'm being so stupid."

We've stopped now, and Caz is flapping her manicured hands in front of her face, with her head tilted up,

"No you're not, Ang," she's doing the laugh-cry too and I think she needs a hug as bad as I do, "oh, Barbie says she loves you."

"What?"

Barbara emerges from the corner we've stopped at, with her phone still to her ear. Her face is glistening with tears, too. When she throws her arms around me things feel ... restored.

"I fucking love you, E. I didn't mean it. Not a word. You're good through and through, and you're my best friend, first and always, no matter who you end up loving."

And just like that my heart rises again, out of the pit of my stomach, and the water on the shoulder of her hoodie springs from joy. Still sniffling like a child after a tantrum, I turn to my girls, and ask with a tentative smile,

"Sleepover?"