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A salad, Constance finds, is very good at keeping her internal panic at bay.
Sure, she’d quit her job as a stenographer to make ends meet on a whim once Themis had called with a job offer contingent on getting an expedited teaching license; sure, she’d almost been late on the first day because nobody told her there was construction on the main road; sure, she wishes she could go back to the order of the courtroom after just three periods of chaos in the classroom, but something about that zippy avocado dressing hitting her tongue with the faintest trace of astringency is enough to convince her that everything is just fine.
Lunch ends, unfortunately, and it’s time for her to soldier on through another class before she can cry over all the PowerPoint presentations she has to make to explain the nuance of law to kids who should be playing outside and living their lives like… well, kids.
God, is she already so old that she’s complaining about the “kids these days?”
Is this what a mid-life crisis is like?
Oh god, is this her mid-life crisis?
It takes every ounce of her strength to not tangle her fingers in her hair and pull it all out as the door opens to a slow trickle of students who tentatively pick their seats— among them, a boy with a single lock of hair stuck up in a curl who sits in the front. That’s good, right? A learner.
What really gets her attention, though, is the egregious dress code violation that walks in right after, surrounded by a small entourage giggling like he’s some hotshot who does theatre and basketball and gets the girl. The kid’s got his blond hair haphazardly thrown into a low knot with his choppy bangs framing his face, the top half of his shirt unbuttoned, silver jewelry in droves, a fucking guitar case slung over his shoulder, and a thousand-watt smile that Constance remembers hating when she was in school herself. It screams, “Can I ‘borrow’ the homework?”
She’s only been a teacher for about four hours, but something in her, deep down— instinctually, even— knows that this one is gonna be a character, and quite possibly, a troublesome one.
So why does he sit right next to the boy with the squiggly hair, right in front of her podium that makes her impostor’s syndrome feel that much worse?
She puts those thoughts aside and takes a deep breath, though, and starts the same spiel that she’s been workshopping for weeks.
“Hello, everyone,” she pitches, singsong, “I’m Professor Courte and I’m going to be your instructor this year. Just to be sure, everyone is here for Intro to Ethics in Law, correct?”
Squiggles panics, grabs his bag, and dashes out of the room, and everyone laughs as if there’s some sort of inside joke, but Dress Code up front just pouts.
Curious.
“Alright, well, anyone else wanna run out of the scary professor’s class?” she snorts.
A few scattered chuckles, but now, a genuine smile from Dress Code, who moves a hand to cover it.
“Okay, alright. Like I said, I’m Professor Courte, and just like all of you, this is my first day. Just a little background, I served as a district judge and court stenographer for… oh god, don’t ask me how many years. I feel old enough already.” More laughter this time; that’s good, right? They’re laughing with her, not at her, right?
“Anyway, I graduated from here a while ago, but I came back to teach because…”
She trails off.
Not for the first time today, everyone’s watching her.
Some are doing it with glazed over eyes that already fog with boredom, some are tapping away at their laptops and scribbling notes in pen (do they think there’s gonna be a quiz on this?), and some, like Dress Code, are hanging onto her every word.
What exactly is she supposed to tell these kids? That she came back to warn them about how absolutely screwed up the justice system is? That they should run for the hills while they can and just become accountants if they’re that fond of needless procedures? That she only came back to teach because some guy on the news with a parrot gave her an inkling of hope that the system wasn’t completely irreparable?
She looks down at the grain of the wooden podium in front of her, scratched up by pencil lead and marked with ridiculous things of all sorts, but her eye catches on familiar handwriting in the top left corner that reads, “Veritas vitæ magistra.”
It may be from her mock trial days, but isn’t that just it?
She turns to the large smartboard that she just learned how to use this morning with the help of a chorus of technologically literate children— after all, it was a whiteboard back in her day— and writes out a phrase that her hand knows by heart.
“I came back to Themis for this reason,” she declares, underlining the text. “Anyone know it?”
Dress Code, to her utter shock, puts up a hand with all the confidence of a mouse in the face of an elephant— he’s scared. She nods, inviting him to speak. “It’s okay,” her smile says. She’s a little scared, too.
“It’s something about truth and life, right?” he asks, in some inscrutable European accent— French, maybe?
She smiles a bit wider, and she can feel her crow’s feet pulling into a wrinkle.
“Truth,” she confirms, “is the teacher of life. Show of hands, how many of you are pursuing a career in the courtroom? Hopefully all of you, or you might’ve applied to the wrong school.” Most hands go up, a few wavering as if to say they’re not quite sure.
“Well,” she continues, “I’ll tell you right now. The courts aren’t like what you see on TV, or in movies or video games. Every day, you will have to walk up to or behind that bench and fight for fairness. I’m sure some of you know that I quit my job as a judge after presiding over a year-long case.”
The room’s gone quiet, and any students who were scribbling or otherwise distracted before are just… staring.
She steels herself, and reminds herself that it’s all in the past, and these kids might be too young to remember the details anyway.
She hopes they are, at least.
“I’m going to let you all in on another secret. A lot of professors, judges, defense attorneys, prosecutors, the whole lot of us, will tell you that you can change the system to work better. But the truth is, you guys, this system was designed to fail those who need its protection the most,” she adds solemnly, grimly, as she pushes off the podium and starts slowly pacing the front of the room.
“Just in the past couple years, we’ve seen ethics at the forefront of debates about courtroom politics. I did read some of your summer assignments, and one of you focused on the implementation of the initial trial system…?” she trails off, inviting the author to make themselves known with a quick glance around the room.
Dress Code— again, to her shock— wordlessly lifts a couple fingers.
“Right, and you brought up a really great point on how the system is designed to favor prosecutors and secure convictions because the defense doesn’t have the same time and resources for investigation. I don’t wanna say that every trial is rigged, but it’s worth noting that the lack of due process that can often occur with these ‘expedited’ trials is a violation of the very nature of the courtroom and justice system. And… I’m sorry,” she looks back down at Dress Code, “…name?”
His small smile brims with pride. “Gavin. Klavier Gavin.”
The name strikes a memory. An up-and-coming defense attorney who’s been stirring up a buzz lately, known for an acquittal rate almost as impressive as that of Phoenix Wright himself, positioned well enough among the legal community to have a shot at a spot on the Bar Committee. Impressive.
Maybe, she posits, there’s more to this kid than meets the eye.
“Right. Well, Klavier, you made a really similar point— you said that only by fighting for the truth— regardless of how long it takes to get to the bottom of things— can we learn what happened and how we should proceed.”
“Ja.”
Italian?
“And so, that brings me back to this.” She taps the board with a knuckle. “Truth is the teacher of life, and I’ve seen a lot of harsh truths that I hope to pass on to the rest of you so that you can make some real change.” She pauses for just long enough to loosen the tension in the room before speaking again. “I’d actually like you all to open up to page 56, because it gives us an introduction…”
She’s halfway through her tangent on the potential ramifications of a jury system when the bell rings, and almost everyone dashes out of the room like their life depends on it, scattered calls of “Thank you!” peppering the air. Dress Code— Klavier, she corrects herself— is among them, scurrying out like he’s trying to hide. The glinting jewelry doesn’t help, though.
“Gavin,” she calls, not loud enough to embarrass him but just audible enough that he turns around. “Mind hanging back for a second?”
His expression shifts to that of a deer in headlights. “Nein— er, no, of course not.” He takes tentative steps back into the room, bracing himself on a desk.
She tries her best to take a sincere, kind, teacherly tone, but she doesn’t have a hold on it, she realizes, as she snarks, “Nobody brought up the fact that you’re walking around school like this is a rave?”
He doesn’t react. His face is oddly neutral. Expectant, even.
She purses her lips. “I didn’t wanna say it during class, but you’ve violated just about every rule in the dress code. No excessive jewelry, uniforms are to be worn closed to at least to the base of the neck… you know.” She releases the breath that’s been frying her voice. “Look, believe me, I can appreciate fun jewelry, really. I’ve got some fun fringe earrings I know would probably be right up your alley. But we’ve gotta keep things professional.”
Klavier (full of surprises, apparently) smirks with confidence and pulls out his phone. “Actually, Professor, I didn’t violate the dress code at all.”
She tries to keep her face from twisting in confusion like an out-of-touch adult, but she swears the dress code hasn’t changed since she wore her own uniform.
He turns his screen to her. “The dress code specifies that girls are to button their uniforms and refrain from excessive jewelry. There’s actually nothing of the sort listed out for boys. A bit sexist if you ask me, but I don’t make the rules.” He sounds entirely ambivalent, but something in his eyes and small smirk is a bit harder to read, like he’s trying to make a point.
She should take his word for it, really, considering the phone is right in front of her, but she squints at the text anyways. Sure enough, he’s right. She makes a mental note to bring that up at the next staff meeting.
“I’m not the first one to pull you aside today, am I?” she asks, already fairly certain of the answer.
“Nein.”
“Hm.” He’s smarter than he lets on.
An awkward silence follows, and just like that, he’s back on edge again, eyes darting towards the door. “Not to be rude, but is that all?”
“Mm, actually I do have one more question.”
“Ja?”
“Okay, two questions, actually. One, is that Russian, and two, what’s with the guitar?”
He laughs, hopping up onto the desk fully. “German. My mother immigrated from there, and my father was half Turkish, but he was born here.” A short pause. “My brother takes after him. He’s an uptight defense attorney, but he’s good at what he does. I wanna be just like him and Papa, actually. Except for the scowls.”
Her brain catches on the deliberate use of past tense and the slight frown that pulls down on his sunny expression as he talks.
“You’re wearing a prosecutor’s uniform, though…” she remarks, trying to change the subject.
“But that’s the point! He and I will stand across each other and fight for the truth. The sibling rivalry just makes it that much more intense. Song material, even!” He’s beaming, and god, maybe that’s why she decided to teach— to help kids, ordinarily so lost in this phase of their lives, smile like that.
To be the person she needed at that age.
“I take it that’s got something to do with the guitar?”
He gets sheepish again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ja. My friend from middle school and I are trying to start a band. He’s mostly in it for the girls, though…” he trails off.
Canting her head, she offers a slight squint and leveling pull of the lips that’s colored with skepticism. “Well, are you any good?”
“Ah, I guess that depends on who you ask, right? Art is subjective, everyone’s got different taste, all that.”
“Well, I’m asking you. Do you think you’re any good?”
Klavier’s hand goes to his hair again. “Ah, well, my mama used to say I’ve got a knack for it, but Kris always tells me to ‘stop that infernal racket’ that I ‘call music,’” he mocks, scrunching air quotes with disdain.
Constance notes the past tense again along with the fact that this kid is very good at dodging questions; he’d be a great politician, honestly, if not for the bands upon bands of spikes and leather that adorn his forearms.
Maybe a rock star, then. A tortured artist.
She quirks an eyebrow, but leaves it alone; clearly, he’s not too keen to discuss his own opinion of his music or the fates of his parents. He can command a room when he’s confident; she saw it when he walked into her classroom, but his self-esteem could use a bit of work, she thinks as he shrinks into himself a bit.
She suspects it might have something to do with that brother of his.
“You know, I don’t know if it’s still running, but we used to have a fine arts club here. Might be a good place to find some other musicians.”
“Really?” Klavier perks up. “I don’t remember seeing that on the school website.”
“Yeah,” Constance sighs, a bit nostalgic. “God, I remember when synthesizers were still in their heyday. I had a friend who was… hm, more than a friend, I guess; her name was Celeste. She’d leave her keyboard in the art room and she’d tap out a tune with a couple other kids while I and a few others would be working on all kinds of projects. I was always partial to painting and ceramics, but there was stained glass, murals, all sorts of stuff. Poetry nights where we all brought food for a potluck after. It was a hell of a good time.”
“That sounds nice. Really nice, actually.” His face, though, falls again. “But I didn’t see anything like that on the website.”
“You can always start a club. That’s how it worked back in my day. You just grab your friends and set some meeting times.”
Klavier sighs, and it’s a big one— angry, even. “Ach. I wish it were that simple. But Kris is insisting I do mock trial to get ahead, and we were told during orientation we had to find a faculty advisor to start a club, and all the professors are already too busy with other organizations.”
“You’re a freshman going out for mock trial?”
“I’m doing an accelerated track approved by the dean. So is my friend Sebastian. We’re both set to graduate in winter of 2019. Kris says I should start bolstering my resume so that I’m more competitive when I apply for study abroad.”
“Christ, kids never rest these days, do they?” Shaking her head, she adds, “Look. Forget for a minute what anyone else expects of you.” She preempts Klavier’s objection, continuing before he can get a word in edgewise— “Yes, even the dean. Even your brother. What do you wanna do?”
Constance, for a moment, wonders if she’s hit a nerve; Klavier’s eyes go wide as dinner plates and he looks as if he’s nearly about to cry when he quietly admits, “I… I don’t know.” He looks up from the floor. “I… I want to do music. I love it as much as I love life itself. But I want to be a lawyer and fight for the truth, too. For real justice.”
Well, the solution’s really simple, she thinks to herself.
“Then do both.”
“Huh?”
“Do both,” she repeats, as nonchalant as before. “Look, Gavin, I’m not the most technologically literate, but I know what a version history is, and I saw your summer assignment. You write better than some attorneys and judges I know, and you only spent 30 minutes on it. Record time.”
He blanches, but she just laughs.
“Oh god, I really don’t care how much time you spend on it. I care about the quality of the work, and you have that down pat already. But seriously, you’re a talented kid in your own right. I don’t doubt that you’re meticulous. I think you could do both if you put your mind to it. It’s possible. Just… a little stressful from time to time, but it builds character, I think.” Looking at Klavier’s face, her chuckle drops to a softer sincerity. “Just… think about it, okay? I see a lot of potential in you. Not as an artist, not as a lawyer, but just as yourself. You’re a good kid.”
“Danke, Professor.” He grips at a cord on his wrist. “But… like I said, even if I wanted to start the art club back up again, every professor is just too busy.”
That’s when the idea hits her.
Perhaps they can both figure out their identity crises.
Perhaps it really is that simple.
“Hang on. You said you checked the website, right?”
He nods.
She wakes her laptop, typing in a web address and navigating to the faculty directory. Sure enough, it hasn’t been updated for the new year yet.
“Well,” she starts, not even looking up until she smirks, mirroring his gotcha expression from earlier, “lucky for you, you’re actually talking to the one teacher in this school who isn’t advising a club yet.”
“Y-you’d want to…?” He looks a bit hesitant, but she can feel something stirring in the fog of her brain. Sure, it’s the real excitement of being a teacher…
But something about this kid… she can’t not help him. Not out of pity— at least not entirely— but because to neglect him otherwise would squander what’s perhaps the most potential she’s ever seen, even in the courtroom.
Really, this kid is something special.
“Tell you what, Gavin. You bring me a club proposal next week and a schedule of how you’ll balance that time, and I’ll sign the forms then and there. Deal?”
“Deal,” he says, standing tall and proud, and in that moment, she knows he’s gonna be just fine.
And when she gets home and washes the extra salad dressing out of her Tupperware, she knows she’ll be, too.