So I Might Just Disobey (Sean)

[Alaska Baker]

The phone's light reflected off Alaska's face as she checked her email, casting an anxious shadow against the hallway's corridors. The Headmaster wanted to see her. 'Already?!' she thought to herself, moving her way down towards the offices. Better to get it out of the way than to put it off and get off on a bad start at the new school. 'Kind of like ripping off a band-aid,' she surmised. Authority figures never really liked Alaska, and the feeling was mutual. Who wants somebody bossing them around all the time? Alaska certainly didn't. 

'I wanna go to shows
Don't wanna pierce my nose
I wanna get a mohawk but mom won't let me get one'

Turning the corner, Alaska removed her earbuds that were playing AFI's "I Wanna Get a Mohawk"  obnoxiously loud, coming upon the doom-master's office door. 'I wanna skip this meeting, but Dr. Neville won't let me, so I might just disobey,' Alaska sang in her mind, knowing full well she couldn't just "disobey." This had to happen eventually, and better now than later, as making authority figures wait was usually a bad call in general.

After standing in front the door that read the Headmaster's name in big bold letters for an ominously long time, Alaska raised her hand and rapped on the door. A muffled noise filtered itself through the wooden door, a noise that Alaska recognized as an invitation. Sighing heavily, Alaska wiped her palms against her jeans, a desperate attempt to hide her nerves, and turned the knob. As the door swung on its hinges, Alaska slowly entered. 

The room was just as expected, filled with boring adult stuff like books, paperwork, and the big man himself's desk. Behind the desk sat a giant older man, one that Alaska had no quandaries about being the headmaster. "'Sup old man," Alaska spouted, a decent attempt to hide her nervousness, "You called for me? I promise I haven't burned anything down!" Yet. Hopefully she wouldn't but things didn't always go as planned, that was something life had taught her well. Disregarding her manners, Alaska planted herself in one of the chairs in front of the desk, crossing her legs as if to create a barrier between the two of them, as if the desk weren't enough already. Just like a band-aid, right?

Dr. Sean Neville

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean had always prided himself on his office decor, one of the perks of his administrative position rather than as a teacher who had to share their classrooms, or at least, by definition, accommodated students each period and were limited to their desk and a few posters on the walls. His office was professional, tasteful, and intended to be comforting, matched to his sensibilities as he spent closer to fifty hours every week within its confines.

The desk had been with him since the beginning, solid oak and achingly familiar, had survived any number of power mishaps and altercations; he could recount the story behind every little imperfection. He had refused the offer to upgrade that accompanied his promotion, insisting that it had been his constant companion from his first day and unless it could not longer serve its purpose, it would remain a fixture in his office until his retirement party. His desk chair had not fared quite as well, replaced periodically when its predecessor wore out, or most recently, because the psychiatrist, now 62 instead of 33, required greater lumbar support. The surface of his desk was what one might expect from an administrator and a mental health professional: a desktop computer because he had never found laptops particularly useful; a cordless telephone, his inbox and outbox, his Rolodex, a photo of himself and his husband from several years before their wedding - shortly after their reconciliation, a box of tissues, a (plastic, shatterproof) cup of pens and other writing implements, his coffee mug, empty now and still atop a coaster, and a yellow notepad open to a crisp, blank sheet. His other valuables had long been moved to safer quarter.
Two chairs were seated in front of his desk, less luxurious than the one in which he sat although more comfortable than were found in classrooms or study hall, intended for students during their first meeting with him. A sofa and two armchairs occupied the other side of the room, with a coffee table between them, more reminiscent of a living room than an office, intended for sessions or when a student needed to unload or gab in a safe environment. They were forgotten in the moment, as Alaska entered without a proper introduction and claimed one of the chairs by his desk.

The song, although unfamiliar as of this moment, was loud and persistent enough to burrow into his brain, where the refrain would be trapped for at least three days; if something else didn’t replace it, then it might stretch into the full week. He reached one large hand across his desk for a handshake when she opened her mouth for the least respectful greeting he had received in…quite a while, longer than his promotion. Still, it was hardly the worst experience in this office, let alone at Hammel, and it wouldn't get under his skin.

She was met with the barest twitch of his lips, the only outward expression of his disapproval there. “It’s Dr. Neville, actually, or Doc if you want to use something a little less formal.” Best to get that out of the way now. “And I did, Alaska, I try to meet with students early on, and I know you’ve come a bit of a ways. How do you like Vermont so far?”

[Alaska Baker]

Alaska squirmed in her chair like worms evading a hook when she caught a glimpse of the slight displeasure emanating from the doctor. Even in Vermont she couldn't please the authority. It wasn't like she had been trying very hard up to this point, but she had expected a slight break from the suspicious eyes of adults. Maybe it was time to try a little harder at it all, at least for the Hammel staff, who had been caring enough to let her transfer. It was the least Alaska figured she could do, even though the thought of it all made her stomach flip like a capsizing ship.

"Right...Sorry, old habits...so, Doc then!" Alaska's tone moving from slight embarrassment to sheer confidence, an easy play for her to shift the energy. It was one of her usual self-defense tactics, change your energy, and believe that the energy is natural. If you can convince yourself, you can convince others. It was top of the list on ways to get out of bad situations, and a tool Alaska loved applying.

"Vermont has been pretty neat so far. The people here have a bit more back-bone, which is cool. Being away from my mom has been..." Alaska's voice trailed off as her eyes sunk to the floor for a brief moment before rising to meet the Headmaster's, "Amazing. My grandma is ten times the mother she ever was, and I have much less to worry about when I go home. So that's been pretty rad, Doc." It was true, but Alaska still wasn't sure how she felt about telling all of this to a man she'd known for the span of a few weeks.

Popping up from her chair, Alaska moved to one of the bookshelves in the room, aimlessly perusing his collection. "The school has been nice so far. The teachers have been mostly understanding and patient. The campus is nice, the curriculum is hard enough so I'm not bored, and honestly I'm a fair bit happier here," Alaska told Dr. Neville, almost as if she were recalling old times like a war veteran. "Oh, and the cafeteria food is amazing. They're not like, using human meat, right?" Alaska's energy changed again with a laugh, recalling a certain lunch table discussion she'd had previously.

Browsing further into Doc's collection, Alaska was surprised to find that not all of the books on the shelves were boring. She had expected more textbooks and school studies, yet there were novels and books on relevant issues like religion and philosophy taking up shelf space instead. "Lots of novels by the same pen name here, you must really like this author," she mused, interested in the fact that the Headmaster might actually be a real human-being underneath it all.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

“Doc then,” Sean repeated as though firming up the terms of a verbal contract. With that, all was forgiven as she demonstrated that she was at least interested in making an effort, rather than digging in her heels over disrespectful address within the first minute of their interaction. Far better than a litany of former students who had paraded through his office,running the gamut from the wealthy and insulated Zac Larousse whose instinct was to use his father’s money to paper over any missteps in lieu of genuine (or feigned) contrition to Sam Rixon who inhabited a semi-permanent drug haze and risked causing a contact high to anyone in his presence to Vincent Verax whose intelligence might be compared to a sack of rocks but doing so would slander the sack.

His eyes settled on her as she shared her experiences, nodding every so often to demonstrate active listening. “I’m glad of that.” All of it - that she liked Vermont well enough, that the distance between herself and her mother alleviated stress rather than caused conflicting feelings, and that she got on so well with her grandmother. “Tell me about her - your grandmother,” he encouraged.

Likewise, he took no offense when she rose abruptly and circled around his office. She wasn’t in trouble and thus had no reason to tether herself to her chair. Her question - in jest - earned a gentle scoff. “Hardly, but our cafeteria chef takes pride in his work. You can always tell him that you like the food; I’m sure he’d be thrilled to hear it.


That section of his bookshelf was lined with paperbacks, many bought new on recommendation from a friend, his nephew, a colleague, or a student and added to his collection to share, many others old and rescued from the farthest stacks of used bookstores from Pilot Ridge to New York and in every city in between. Several authors were featured, often science fiction or fantasy that involved a character with powers (psychics remained his particular interest for personal reasons) - from Alfred Bester’s The Demolished Man to Theodore Sturgeon’s More than Human to Octavia E. Butler’s Patternist series and Dan Simmons’ The Hollow Man. Yet, an entire row was devoted not to those themes but instead an altar to his favorite fiction author.

The inimitable Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

Those books were newer, purchased a few years ago as part of the releases of his entire collection upon his death. Colorful spines displayed the name of each novel and short story anthology in fanciful fonts, arranged by date rather than alphabetically.

A real human being indeed.

“He’s my favorite,” he confirmed as a pleased smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Gesturing towards the bookcase, he added, “You know, anything on that shelf you can borrow if something catches your eye. Slaughterhouse Five is his most favorite but Breakfast of Champions might be the best starting place.”