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Much like Georgie.
Fearing her lunch would make a reappearance, she pulled her glassy glare away, choosing her leather flats over locking eyes with Laporte or Brian, his lopsided grin shamelessly smug.
“Bri’s Grade 10 Canadian history class will visit Vimy next spring, and our school will finally be on the international map.” Principal Laporte rocked back on his heels, clearly not reading the room.
Not a single person rushed forth with praise.
“It’s amazing, right?” Laporte prodded. “This is historic stuff here. A little excitement wouldn’t go amiss.”
Georgie gritted her teeth and stood her ground. There was no way in hell she’d lead a celebratory parade for fucking Houdini, the charlatan.
The humanities teacher reacted first, thankfully, patting Brian on the back with a brief “Well done” before departing. In his wake, the economics faculty offered their congratulations as did Eden, her face pink and pinched as if she were holding back a flurry of fiery expletives. But a righteous outburst wouldn’t have achieved anything, except maybe a private disciplinary hearing with Laporte.
The facts, though, were undeniable. The teacher who never took his students on field trips or supervised clubs, who skipped out on extra help and balked at assisting in the library during spares had been gifted the plum travel assignment, the first of its kind in the storied history of their school.
And all Georgie could do was graciously congratulate him while her blood boiled quick and hot.
FOUR
OLIVER
Later that day
Oliver could’ve waited for the end-of-day progress report on the curriculum revisions he’d worked on all weekend, but a bout of incessant curiosity pushed him to go rogue.
Safely storing the Horus amulet he’d been examining in the lab, he yanked off his gloves and sprinted up several flights of stairs to the third-floor exhibit, choosing an out-of-the-way vantage point on the periphery of the Egyptian mummies. Spying wasn’t the most sophisticated method of research, but sometimes a rudimentary approach yielded the quickest results.
He plunged his hands into the pockets of his lab coat and clocked the room. The last field trip of the day, a large class of eleventh graders from the suburban wilds of Peterborough, Ontario, were learning about burial rituals. At least, he hoped they were learning—their slack jaws suggested otherwise.
Edging closer, Oliver’s pulse slowed as the female guide, one of the museum’s senior recruits, began wrapping up the revamped presentation.
“…and that’s how we have uncovered so many amazing archeological finds in the deserts of Egypt. Any questions?”
Like a lit match tossed onto a stack of gasoline-soaked newspapers, her earnest query sparked a WHOOSH of giddy chatter from the students, the loudest coming from a teen boy cocooned in a puffy jacket with a basketball-dribbling hornet on the back. “I have one.” He nudged his disheveled hair from his eyes. “How do we get back that half hour?”
Cheeky! Oliver jerked his head back as the students in front of him broke into gut-busting laughter, its sharp staccato echoing through the display cases. The guide looked flustered by the inappropriate remark, but Oliver wasn’t discouraged. School groups often grew restless after long presentations. Too much time standing, too many hot spotlights, too little food in their bellies—all annoyances that chipped away at an adolescent’s concentration and manners. Add in an attention-seeking mischief-maker like hornet jacket boy, and a nasty comment like his was bound to find a receptive audience. This wouldn’t be the first time peer pressure influenced the court of teenage opinion, nor would it be the last.
Their scowling teacher, however, wasn’t as sympathetic.
“Class, rudeness will NOT be tolerated.” Twisting toward the guide, the teacher’s “I’m sorry” was delivered with a wince while behind her back two girls draped themselves across Antjef’s glass case, gasping like they were dying of boredom. Their amateur theatrics inspired more student giggling.
“Excuse us, thank you.” A man Oliver recognized from a meeting that morning, Haruki Yamaguchi, the museum’s mustachioed CEO of philanthropic support, squeezed past the students with a tour of well-dressed benefactors in tow. “We host hundreds of schools each year,” boasted the CEO. “Through our remarkable collection of artifacts and captivating storytelling, we provide an educational experience that’s unrivaled anywhere else in the country.”
To his right, a pupil in a baggy plaid shirt and high-waisted jeans crossed her arms with a huff. “Educational, my ass,” she whined. “THIS was a fuckin’ waste of time.” Laughter and squeals greeted her brazen profanity.
Shit… Oliver blanched and fidgeted with his museum lanyard.
“CLASS!” the teacher scowled. “What did I just say?”
The CEO’s grin shriveled into a taut line. Walking past, he acknowledged Oliver with a curt nod. “Dr. Jönsson.”
“Haruki,” Oliver replied sheepishly as the whispering VIPs glanced back at the student, their expressions a mix of bewilderment and shock.
Oliver’s stomach sank. If even one of these potential financial sponsors took the student’s obnoxious, expletive-filled grievance to heart, it could cost the museum tens of thousands in much-needed funding. Competition for endowments was fierce. Hospitals, art galleries, educational facilities—they were all battling it out with museums, each one desperately trying to woo deep-pocketed supporters who could make a real difference. Donations were never a sure thing, and the slightest whiff of scandal or impropriety could easily reroute a financial gift to another, more suitable institution.
“I told ya, didn’t I?” Egged on by her friends, the student wouldn’t quit. “We should’ve skipped and gone shopping at the Eaton Centre. At least we’d have SOMETHING to show for this trip.” She punctuated her rant with a petulant flip of her pinkish hair and a disgusted frown.
A frown matched by Oliver, but for a completely different reason.
