Chapter Text
It was a shitty job; you knew that from a quick glance at the description. The pay foreshadowed evenings scouring the reduced section and the idea of a roommate, though it left a sour taste in your mouth, was something you would likely have to think about.
You knew the area too, knew it from harried walks lingering in the squalid light of the street lamps, your gaze firmly planted on the uneven sidewalk. It wasn’t rough per se, but it did leave you questioning the council’s ability to allocate funding.
You liked to fix things. You were a fixer. In preschool you were the first to create a, mostly functional, pop-up card and that somehow bled into fully functional car models (even if the suspension comprised of crudely glued wooden doweling). You were praised for your ‘hands-on approach’ to problem-solving- something that was encouraged in your younger years but soon grew to warrant a grownup idling nearby lest your curiosity-fuelled experimentation was to land you in the Emergency Room.
And it did, of course it did. You were a kid and you had the embarrassing scars to prove it. Except then you weren’t. Soon it wasn’t cute that the electrician had to pay a visit because you got ‘carried away’ playing with the circuit breaker. Neighbours no longer cooed at your ‘potential’ when they found you tinkering with the junction box at the end of the street. Your parents stopped taking the time to explain how the appliances worked, instead they told you to find out yourself (and not by taking something apart).
It was fine; I mean it worked, for a time. You exceeded in Science Fairs, your grades were acceptable and you were accepted into your choice of University. So what if you were a loner? It wasn’t as if anyone would want to fabricate circuits or read of Rome’s aqueducts with you.
You were fine on your own. The fact that you had to drop out of University had nothing to do with it. It had nothing to do with the fact that you were so burdened by your solitary thoughts that you could no longer complete the work load.
It had nothing to do with you moving away from your overbearing parents, into a veritable shack of a flat, the toilet not two meters from your bed (though separated by a thin wall thankfully), flipping through entry-level jobs when your patchy wifi allowed you to scroll.
A Janitor at the local elementary school? That was something your misanthropic, fixer-self could work with.
It was a swift interview, if you could call it that. It was after hours so the few cars that lined the building likely belonged to those who buried themselves in work to avoid their miserable home lives. Surprisingly, that didn’t include the Principal who, when you inquired about to the retiring janitor, laughed in your face.
Mr Johnson seemed kindly enough, even if his methods for lighting the building were less than ideal. After listening intently for an hour or so, the eccentric man handed you a folder with some scrawled notes, which you took dutifully, then removed his worn cap and plopped it atop your messy pony-tail, chucking you the keys.
Though he hadn’t said as much, you assumed you got the job.
Your first day was, well, a day of firsts.
You arrived uncharacteristically early knowing it was your duty to open up the building and explored the corridors a little, glancing out of the window every minute or so in an attempt to gauge who the early risers were.
By 7:30 you had counted three arrivals, the first being a modestly dressed but regally poised woman who went straight to the teacher’s lounge. You hid in the shadows, busying yourself with covering the exposed wiring that seemed to line the hallways.
Second was a cheerful-looking woman who looked around the same age as you, though her curls bounced with so much enthusiasm you doubted you would get pally. You dubbed her ‘the human embodiment of sunshine’ and set to work thinking up excuses as to why you couldn’t ‘hang’ when she inevitably asked.
By the time the third teacher arrived, you were clad in a far-too-large pair of paint-stained overalls, your face embarrassedly sweaty from the exertion it to took to get them on over your thermal. He appeared to be the PE teacher if his matching tracksuit was anything to go by, again heading towards the teachers lounge.
Deciding to bite the bullet, you pluck up the courage to announce your presence and offer your services.
You knock hesitantly, jumping back when the door is opened. Human sunshine answers with a bewildered but spritely grin.
“Hi, um, I’m the new Janitor.” you mutter with less confidence than you had intended. “Let me know if-“
“Hi! I’m Janine!” she beams, before pulling you into the cosy room by the cuff of your sleeve.
“Say hello guys!” she prompts, introducing you like you’re the new student. In a way, you suppose you are.
“Barbara Howard.” the regal lady introduces with a tight smile, “Are you Mr Johnson’s replacement?”
You nod meekly, hiding behind the cap of your progenitor. “Let me know if there’s-“
“Jacob.” the tracksuit clad man interrupts, his mouth full of apple.
“Ok, um nice to meet you.” you offer, though your manners are slipping with each interruption.
“What’s your name? Oooh, where are you from? What made you want to become a janitor?” Janine tirades, each question pushing you further towards the door.
You answer selectively, refraining from telling the nice lady that you dislike people and just needed the fucking money. By the time she’s squeezed out more personal information than you are comfortable with, you are wringing your clammy palms and biting your lip to withhold any unnecessary snarky comments.
You’re at the end of your social tether when an irritated “Ahem” sounds behind you. You jolt in shock, your hand grabbing the nearest surface to relinquish your balance. The nearest surface just so happens to be a definitely not solid, plate of exquisitely prepared fish.
It clatters to the floor, the clingfilm doing very little to keep the food on the silver dish.
You close your eyes tightly as the room grows silent. Maybe you can find a plug socket and stick a fork in it; maybe that would shock some sense into you.
“Who the fuck are you?! And what the fuck did you do to my fuckin’ fish?!”
The thick Philly accent does nothing to abate the growing nausea in the pit of your belly. The woman behind you sounds intimidating and everyone in the room knows what the fuck you did to her fucking fish.
When you spin on your heel to apologise, your breath catches in your throat. It’s because you’re scared, you tell yourself. You fucked up and confrontation scares you, that’s all. It’s definitely not because the woman standing before you, her hand cocked on her hip waiting for an explanation, is so far from the perky youngsters or washed out geriatrics you expected from the teaching staff. It’s not because she’s dressed in a leather jacket and v-neck sweater that shows a delightful amount of skin. It’s not because her leather pants cling to her hips.
It’s just because you weren’t expecting her.
“Are you dumb and a klutz?” she bites out, her small frame closing in on you as she gets in your face.
“Shit, fuck, I’m so sorry! Fuck!” you hiss, the curse words doing nothing to eliminate the hot flush that’s dampening your skin. You bend down, your knee resting on the tiles as you try, pathetically, to scoop the food back onto the plate.
The bell rings, stalling any real progress and the woman, who’s name you’ve yet to learn, scoffs impatiently.
Janine smiles at you with thinly veiled pity, patting your shoulder hesitantly, as she leads the teachers around your fishy mess to the door behind you. When the door clicks shut you swear again, a string of expletives muttered in contempt under your breath. You don’t even fucking like fucking fish.
You don’t notice the camera pointed at you until you gag, prompting the gent behind the machine to snort. Just when you thought it couldn’t get more humiliating. You glare as harshly as you can muster, a triumphant smile momentarily receding you embarrassment as the man scurries from the room.
The victory, however, is short-lived as you turn to look at the mess on the floor.
It doesn’t take long to clean up; almost nothing is salvageable. Even the dish has a thick crack down the side. You throw the food away, a frustrated frown etched into your skin, and take the dish away with you. The least you could do is patch it up.
When you exit the lounge, you find a kid, maybe five or six years old, standing restlessly against the wall, clearly in some kind of time out. It took exactly one second for the boy to catch on to your misery and exacerbate it.
“You stink,” he mumbled, his noise all scrunched up.
“I stink,” you agreed, sliding down the wall next to him.
“What’s that?” The boy pointed to the dish you held in your hand. The crack had propagated, the china now in two separate pieces.
“A mess I made,” you mutter darkly.
“Who are you?” he asks, his voice rising in pitch.
“The new janitor. Probably not for long, though.”
The boy squints at you questioningly, his arms folded behind his back as he continuously pushes himself of the wall.
“Why aren’t you working?” he settles on.
“Why aren’t you working?” you snap, immediately grimacing at your immature behaviour.
“I was chatting to Jared,” he mutters solemnly. “Ms Howard said I needed to come out here to practice my two times table so I can say it to the class.”
You nod at his words, noting how he keeps scuffing the floor with his worn trainers.
“What’s your name?”
“Cole,” he answers.
“Well, Cole, do you know your two times tables?”
He shakes his head slowly, anxiety filling his eyes.
“Do you want me to go through them with you?”
He nods his head eagerly, surprised at the easy offer of guidance.
You leave a few minutes later, the boy’s nervousness abated some as he confidently mutters the two times table up to twenty, a small smile playing at his lips.
You, too, smile to yourself as you listen to his murmurings before disappearing round the corner, back towards your ‘office’. In reality it was a metal desk shoved against the back of the wall with dented lockers lining the walls, each arranged arbitrarily with various knickknacks that Mr Johnson seemed to use to keep the school running. Still, it was your space, a reprieve from your colossal fuck up witnessed by a good chunk of the teaching body.
You set the cracked dish gently onto the empty space atop the desk and started to rummage through the lockers for any sort of inconspicuous adhesive.
———
It’s late morning by the time you re-emerge from your grotto, a hardy plan forming to check the lighting circuits and to replace any waning bulbs. You’re stopped in your tracks though as a well-dressed, slightly aloof woman stands in the hallway, regarding you judgementally.
“Honey, you are just swimming in that thing.” her observation is punctuated by an accusatory waving of her arm. “And that hat! You rob a hobo on your way over here?”
You bristle even though you know she isn’t exaggerating.
“Hi, sorry, I got carried away uh, fixing something. How can I help?”
“You can help by shedding that offensive outfit.” she shudders, her eyes still raking over the massive sleeves.
“I like it,” you frown.
“Mmmhmmm, sure you do, sugar. I’m Ava, ruler of this domain.”
You reach your hand out to shake hers, which she takes timidly before immediately wiping her hand on your sleeve. Ah, there’s dried glue sticking to your fingers. By her ambiguous self-proclamation, you assume she’s the Principal that apparently doesn’t do overtime.
“The new Janitor,” you introduce, “anything I can do?”
You almost immediately regret asking as you’re led into her…blingy office and asked to set up a ring-light which spotlights her spotless desk. You slip out after a very one-sided conversation, Ava’s attention on her tiktok live.
When lunchtime rolls around, you’re hungry for some peace and quiet but fall short on both counts. You’re munching idly on an apple as you stroll through the corridors with a clipboard when an upbeat “Hey!” rouses you from your notes. Janine sidles up to you, her grin making you want to jam your fingertips under the metal clip of the clipboard.
“Sorry about earlier, it’s just well, I’m still kind of scared of Ms Schemmenti.” she admits, her shoulders shrugged apologetically. “She’s not really friends with anyone apart from Ms Howard.”
You pause in your steps as the surname resonates within you. Schemmenti. The angry, beautiful, possibly italian woman you had wronged.
“Schemmenti.” you try out, oblivious to Janine’s rambling.
“-I even tried getting her a coffee but apparently she takes decaf which I know is a lie because she glugs like three cups from the coffee pot every morning.”
You nod absentmindedly, feigning unwavering attention.
“I mean, I even tried rearranging the desks in her classroom but that got me banished from the teacher’s lounge. That was my third week here. Apparently, I’m a people-pleaser- that’s what my therapist said.”
In your opinion, the mentioning of a therapist is already a step too far in disclosing personal information. Surname? Ok. First name? Sure? Anything else is on a need to know basis and currently Janine was flinging your game plan so far out the window that it’s probably sinking in the ocean somewhere.
“Anyway, you’re welcome to use it whenever you like. You’re one of us now!” she grins, like she just told you that you won the lottery.
You stare at her for a moment, trying to gauge her level of sincerity.
“I really don’t think Ms Schemmenti wants me anywhere near her right now.” you grimace at the understatement. You think that if Ms Schemmenti wasn’t a law-abiding citizen, she would’ve slit your throat by now.
Janine stays silent as she ponders your words and you let her. There isn’t really anything she can say to make you feel better.
“Is there anything I can do in your classroom? Bulbs need changing? Radiators checked?”
A distraction might help.
You let Janine lead you through the corridors until you reach her classroom which sports an undeniable jungle theme. Leaves patterned by markers line the borders of the display boards which house varying levels of artistic skill, all proudly displayed by the young teacher. It makes you smile.
She points to the rectangular light nearest the door and you nod, leaving to fetch the step ladder that was leaning against the wall in your office. By the time you return, you know your face is a bright shade of red, the effort of lugging the ladder whilst dressed in veritable ‘snow clothes’ having left its mark.
After you set up the ladder, you unbutton the top half of the overalls and slip off your t-shirt, leaving you in your infinitely more snug but certainly cooler, thermal. You’re just reattaching the covering when the door to the classroom swings open, making the step ladder wobble.
“It’s all done!” you murmur through the screwdriver that’s balanced between your teeth. “Anything else? There are a few more replacement bulbs in-“ you words turn to ash in your mouth as your eyes are met with the rigid posture of the leather-clad teacher you are learning is called Ms Schemmenti.
You frantically scan the walls of the classroom, the under-the-sea theme smacking into you like a brick wall. How did you fail to notice it was a different fucking classroom?
“Um,” you stall awkwardly, “it wasn’t working.” you say dumbly. In your defence, it hadn’t been working. You had replaced a blown bulb just, not the right bulb.
“None of them work, dumbass. The school’s budget is a joke and the previous Janitor spent most of his time smoking confiscated weed.”
Ok, the tone was unnecessary. You hadn’t done anything wrong yet, in fact, you had done something right. You also wished to avoid delving into the fact that the oldest child in the school was likely around 10 or 11, definitely not the age to be procuring weed.
“Hey, I fixed your lamp lady.” you snap, pursing your lips immediately afterwards.
“It’s your job, don’t go expecting a pat on the back.” she scoffs, her hand resting on her hip again.
“I don’t! I don’t expect to get yelled at either!” You huff out, indignance stiffening your posture. You clench your jaw as you reposition the screwdriver on your tool belt, though your brow furrows when silence greets your outburst. You angle your head to face Ms Schemmenti only to be met by the top of her soft-looking, bronze hair.
You hadn’t noticed the glasses before, the thin gold chain seemed to have melted into the older woman’s sparkling skin, but they were in her grasp now, the left temple stroking her lower lip as she stared at your torso.
You glance down to where she’s looking, your internal berating session in full swing as you brush roughly at any glue that might have stuck to you.
That seems to rouse her from her trance as she shakes her head dismissively, settling you with the expression of irritation that you were expecting.
“Just…just get out. Go spend your lunch break with kids your own age.” she mutters wearily. She produces a silk cloth and wipes at methodically at the lens on her glasses, clearly awaiting your departure.
You watch her movements, confused and, quite frankly, a little pissed at her dig at your age. She does look tired though and for some unfathomable you don’t wish to add to her frustrations.
You whisper a quiet “Ok”, folding the step ladder as you take your leave. You make a mental note to sneak into the classroom and replace the bulbs later in the day, perhaps after Ms Schemmenti goes home. You’ll need to stop Janine’s classroom as well but, well, you didn’t drop her fucking fish so she’ll have to fucking wait.
————
The next few weeks pass quickly; a blur of unclogging drains, avoiding Janine’s unwavering optimism, ducking away from Ava thrusting her recording phone in your face claiming her followers wanted an update on the ‘fish lady’ and trying desperately not sneak glances at Ms Schemmenti.
You had changed all the fluorescent lighting tubes in her classroom and had placed the, now-in-one-piece, china dish that you had smashed up on your first day on her desk a couple of evenings ago before you had locked up.
She had yet to acknowledge either act, though you knew any acknowledgment was probably less than you deserved.
You were basically back at step one, with the addition of a less-than-flattering moniker thanks to Ava.
A welcome addition to your long day was lunch break. Your time in school paired with your introverted tendencies had taught you that break time was a period of the school day where you hid in some overlooked nook, most often with a book, lest the teachers push you interact with the kids in your grade.
At Abbott Elementary however, lunch came with a five minute period of scarfing down whatever you nabbed from the reduced section before hurrying out into the yard to kick a football around with some of the Grade 3 boys.
It had started miscellaneously, the ball hitting you in the back as you were filling in some of the gaps in the cement that had eroded between the bricks resulting in a draughty gymnasium. The action was unprompted; it was just something you had picked up after tidying away a weathered pommel horse. It hadn’t helped that the exterior section of weakened wall served as the goal post for one end of the make shift pitch.
Cole, the kid you helped with his two times table, pushed incessantly for you to join in, his excuse being that the teams needed to be even. And, well, despite your age old motto that kids were sticky, the young boy had counted to eight in increments of two to highlight the inequality of the teams, with the brightest smile on his face. You’d’ve had to be a monster to refuse his pleading.
If Ms Schemmenti was on break duty that day, leaning insouciantly against the frame of the door, it was a mere coincidence.
You planned ahead, dressing in sports leggings or shorts under your overalls, and stripped your outer layer in your cupboard office to save giving the kids a show. If the sun was feeling particularly cruel, you would hose off behind the building to avoid any foul smells that would conjure further name-calling. It was frugal, sure, but if you timed it right, the cold water would cool you whilst simultaneously drying your clothes as you worked on the exterior of the building.
In short, you were growing suspiciously comfortable considering you had only been working there a week.
It wasn’t as if Ava was going to reprimand you for slacking either. Her work ethic was dubious at best, unless it involved increasing her virtual following. So, as long as her camera and ring light were working, you were left to divvy your time between the kids and the necessary maintenance required to keep the building in as best shape as you could manage. If was a tough line to tread and you went home most days, just to walk the few steps from your door to collapse right on your bed. It felt good though, it was a good tired; a productive tired.
Your dedication to the contact sport had done very little in way of honing your skills. At least, when Jared had instructed that you were to be in goals for the fourth time that week because you were the “biggest”, you assumed it was because of your lacklustre passing or the fact that you were a stickler for the offside rules.
It got to the point where you had inundate a well-read referee, and if that suggestion rolled off your tongue as you watched a stern-faced Ms Schemmenti converse lightly with Barbara Howard on the steps leading to the playground, it was merely a coincidence.
You wondered how many coincidences it would take to strip the word of its meaning.
You just knew she would scan you up and down in your sweaty mess of a state, disdain curling her lip as she complained that you were playing the ‘wrong kind of football’. You knew she would grumble and groan only to ‘do it for the kids’.
So it was a damn fucking shame when your walk over to her was interrupted by an eager-looking Jacob, whistle in hand.
You supposed it worked out for the best. You had declined Jacob, insisting you were fetching some water, and explained that it was best if one of the kids held the post.
———
You were also learning the staff’s habits; when they arrived, if they would leave at lunchtime, and what time they left for home.
Janine was a chronic overworker- you figured it went hand-in-hand with her need to please others which she had admitted to you outright. Jacob was usually last in and first to leave, though you pegged that on his ability to improvise and characteristically chill vibe. Gregory was, well, in all honesty pretty fucking forgettable, even if you meant it in the best way. Sometimes being forgettable just meant you weren’t persistently chirpy or the poster child for ADHD…which lead you to Ava. She was a wild card. Sometimes she spent hours holed up in her office, probably perfecting a video of some kind, while other days you would blink and she would already be reversing out of her parking space. Barbara Howard was a rigorous routine follower; she pulled up to the school at 7:35 each morning, enough time for a staff room coffee and a last minute check over her lesson plans before waiting an hour after the final bell to tidy her classroom, leaving it in tiptop shape, ready for the following morning.
Ms Schemmenti though, she was an enigma if only because she was impossible to keep tabs on. If you had to guess, you’d say she was less about a structured routine like Barbara and more about allotting time before particularly complicated lessons or after messy sessions of cutting and sticking that left the classroom looking like a whirlwind had hit the nearest Michaels.
She appeared cool when collected was needed and disappointed when guilt was warranted. She wore leather pants on days when the temperature would not exceed 60’F and a leopard print rain coat if the air felt even the slightest bit damp. She wore heels religiously, but not to an extent where it made it difficult to connect with the children and on Fridays, she wore a matt red lipstick which made it your favourite day of the week.
But yes, she was horribly difficult to keep a track of.
A resounding thwack, lulled you from your thoughts, the football smacking the right side of your face before a whistle sounded, followed by a confident “OFFSIDE!” from one of the kids that preferred to linger on the sidelines rather than get dirty.
A kid, you think his name is Harry, wears an expression of equal parts grimace and indignance as he makes to shout at the referee’s decision. Meanwhile, a painful throbbing sensation thrums rhythmically through the skin on your face, the impact site burning hotly. It’s a second later when you try to blink, that you know your eyes is going to blacken.
Honestly, you’re surprised more than anything, that an injury of this magnitude had taken so long to mark you.
You tell Harry that you’re fine, that you’re glad it was just you and not one of his peers (for which you ensure he would be in real trouble for), and thank the stars that sometimes the staff would lend their break duties to you since you were out there with the kids so consistently.
You manage to hide in the shadows throughout the rest of the day, wanting desperately to avoid Ava filming your misery or of Janine’s insatiable questions, though you know you should really get an ice pack on the blossoming bruise.
You’re so sure the staff room is empty by the time you search the freezer for a pack a half hour or so after the school day ends, and you’re right, it is empty…for about two seconds until a soothing floral scent paired with a massive silent presence stills your movements as you clasp weakly at a pack.
You stand up abruptly, keeping your back to the teacher who you’re sure is parading her usual “what the fuck kind of game you playing at” expression that makes your knees wobble.
She clears her voice, expecting an answer and it makes you grimace as you quickly survey your options. Thinking yourself smart, you turn the side of your face that isn’t darkening towards the woman, an uncharacteristically cheery smile painted across your lips.
“Why aren’t you looking me, hon?” Each syllable is drawled out, like she knows you’ll cave and is just playing with her food. You wonder when the Philly accent became so sexy to you. You refuse to entertain the idea that it has something to do with the beautiful, hot-headed woman that shares it’s personality and aesthetics.
“Look at me,” she commands, suddenly far closer than you’d realised.
When you freeze, she takes the opportunity to angle her head to get a better view. You jerk away stubbornly, unwilling to live out the awkwardness that might ensue. She moves again, quickly and you stumble back, only for manicured fingers to grab at your chin firmly.
She pulls your face towards hers and you offer no real resistance now that the battle is won. A soft gasp is not what you were expecting.
Her fingers remain at your chin as she fumbles blindly around for her glasses. Once perched on the end of her nose, she presses her finger into your jaw, prompting you to turn for her. A soft sigh escapes your lips as you try to bookmark this moment as the closest you have been to the older woman. It’s all flowers and concern and if your cheek perhaps wasn’t various shades of purple-yellow, she might interpret your blush differently.
“Who did this?” she whispers, almost imperceptibly.
A vision of a guilt-stricken Harry flashes before your eyes, helping you to remain steadfast.
“Football.” you mutter sheepishly. You choose that moment to foolishly try to blink and a subsequent groan filters the air between you.
She tutts softly, before guiding you to a chair, the air around you still thick with her presence.
“Why are you, just now, getting a pack?”
It’s a gentle scolding and a very appropriate question, even if you are a bit embarrassed to answer right away. She waits though, she waits with the crinkle of her brow betraying her persistent worry.
“Haven’t had time,” you mumble, though her squinting eyes tell you almost immediately that she doesn't believe you.
“You play ball with the kids at lunch.” she states humourlessly.
If you weren’t so restless at being caught in your lie, you might glow with the news that she pays attention to you.
“Didn’t want to attract attention.” you murmur under your breath, a soft exhale making your honesty.
She squints again, her perceptiveness making you squirm in the plastic chair she seated you in.
“You don’t use the lounge.”
It’s more of a question than a statement though it’s phrased as the latter. Of course you don’t use the lounge, you’re not a teacher.
“I’m not a teacher.” you speak softly, though your confidence wavers as she tilts her head to one side.
“You’re staff aren’t you?” she huffs, like the prospect of even explaining something so obvious is taxing on her.
You’re so busy wondering if her sarcasm was a veiled invitation that you don’t realise it when she takes the pack from your hand and holds it gently to your face. You lean in anyway, past caring that your thirsty-ass brain is pretending that it’s her hand.
She keeps her hand in place for perhaps a minute or maybe a couple of seconds before she grabs your hand and gently atop of hers. Her skin is really soft and warm and you bite back a soft whimper as she pulls her hand from under yours.
“You know what I hate more than a damn liar?” she huffs out, harsher than her previous words have been. Smartly, you sense its rhetorical nature and keep your trap shut.
“Fools who don’t take care of their damn selves.”