Quarter-Life

It’s not uncommon for Harry to have to wake Niall up on school days. He’ll pass by on his way to shower, and return to see him still asleep by the time he’s dressed and ready to go. How Niall makes it to work before the first bell rings is beyond him considering their morning commute involves a three-block walk and a bus.

It’s slightly less, but still not uncommon for Harry to stumble into Niall’s room on his way to the bathroom and see an always-topless, sometimes-completely-naked Daisy next to Niall in bed. If it weren’t for her job as a cabaret dancer, and the fact that Harry and Niall sometimes attend her gigs, seeing his best mate’s girlfriend’s boobs would make him feel uncomfortable.

Her nude presence in the flat this morning is why Niall can’t keep his eyes open in the terribly stiff and uncomfortable seats in the auditorium. He’s on time today, at least, and snoring softly with his enormous head is on Harry’s shoulder. His hair is poking Harry in the jaw, making him regret his decision to wear his hair in a bun.

On Harry’s mind, somewhere amongst nostalgic feelings for girlfriends past like Jordan, Eliza, and Priya, are Ginny— specifically twenty-year-old Gwenyth Olsen (Ginny was her preferred name) in Harry’s old Pink Floyd t-shirt, during a random weekend holiday to Amsterdam five years ago, arguing with him about ancient philosophers while they smoked a joint— and Anna.

Last night, her blue eyes were a peculiar green under the lamppost outside of his building while the two waited for her Uber. She asked if they could hang out without Daisy and Niall for a change, and Harry accepted her invitation to attend the upcoming jazz night at the bookstore on Friday.

She wasn’t a philosophy geek like Ginny, not that he was comparing, but she was just as gorgeous and she did have a brain under her naiveté.

“I’d suggest, like, drinks or something, but I haven’t decided if I still want to fuck you, you know? Don’t want to get ahead of myself,” she’d mentioned with a fat, cheeky smirk that has Harry hoping she’ll fuck him anyway because he’s sure it’ll cure his irritating anxiety. The hole in his chest had become a wine-filled hum by the time her Uber arrived, and remained so until found himself spacing out in the shower this morning, forgetting to wash his hair but remembering the sound of Anna’s chewing in his ear.

Harry’s staring at the back of some bald coworker’s head and idly biting the straw in his iced coffee, doing his best to listen to Principal Douglas finish item two of her “short and sweet” program for today’s meeting. His palms keep clamming up the way they did last night at the park, a side effect of the ‘weirdness’ (as Niall dubbed it), and his mind is back to replaying his past to the tune of the bald man’s recurring cough.

His phone buzzes with a Facebook friend request from Anna Blanco, which he quickly swipes up to dismiss, and a text from Stephanie Watkins, the Acting teacher. He’s taking notes on his phone despite his inability to focus because if there’s one thing his mind isn’t tormenting him about, it’s his job. Everything else has always lied on a bed of thoughtless impulse and self-gratification in comparison to his schoolteacher title.

Steph Watkins: Can someone catch me up? The little one had a rough morning so I’m not there yet :(

The only colleagues Harry talks to outside of work, Niall for obvious reasons excluded, are the other members of the “cool kids” group of teachers at school. Labeled so by the grouchy school secretary, Mrs. Tomkins, the six of them are the youngest faculty members and are favored by most students, which makes Amelia Tomkins’ job a nightmare when schedule-change season comes around. Harry usually sends her flowers when it’s all over.

He adjusts his arm to make himself comfortable under the weight of Niall’s head, and pastes his notes into the group chat that Steph texted.

*New parking passes for the people that drive here. Pick them up in the main office. I don’t drive so I don’t care.

*Midterm schedules: Humanities and Spoken Language teachers have the option to give either a written or oral exam if they see fit. See Danny for accessibility help… or if you’re a bottom with a bubble butt.

“Why would you put that god-awful joke in there, dick?” Danny Ferreira, the school’s IT guy, hisses from Harry’s left in regard to a joke he’d made about his ideal date. His almond-shaped eyes hold Harry’s gaze for a split second before identical smirks pop up on their faces and Danny pulls out his phone to intensely type something out.

“I thought it was rather clever, honestly,” Harry whispers back after another sip of his coffee. “A bit limited, but clever.”

Danny F: They can be vers too, just saying ;)

Tizzy: Stoooopppp my dad keeps looking at me like he’s going to murder me

Harry looks up to see Tizzy Gutierrez, the Women’s Studies and Religious Studies teacher, scowling at him from the first row next to her father, the Calculus teacher. Harry winks in her direction and tunes back into the memo about midterm schedules before his phone vibrates in his hand again.

Steph Watkins: That’s it??? She could’ve sent that in an email

Joanna White: Fuck you guys for not saving me a seat! I’m stuck next to that alcoholic bio teacher that smells like rotting fruit

Harry snorts softly at Jo’s text halfway through a sip of coffee, which makes him cough hard enough to wake up Niall, who lets out a panicked squeal. Harry tries to pretend he doesn’t find it funny, yet smiles through his muffled cough. He and Danny grip each other’s hands when Monique’s voice trails off and she looks in their direction.

“Something wrong, Niall?” she asks from the podium, pursing her lips. Most of the staff, all of them crammed into the middle tier of seats, turns around to look at Niall, and Harry finds himself doing the same. His own face seems to mirror Monique’s as he and Niall exchange a look.

“No, no, I’m just… nervous for…” Harry can tell he’s struggling to make up an excuse, as always, considering he hasn’t been paying attention since the lights dimmed and the room was overcome with a chill. “Nervous for the start of a busy midterm season,” he says in a triumphant tone and turns to give Harry a smug grin.

“Well, you have two months to prepare, so get on it,” Monique’s look of suspicion is overcome with a satisfied smile. “We only have fifteen minutes left before first bell, so I’d like to move on to the final item on today’s agenda,” she sighs and turns her paper over.

“Good save,” Danny whispers as he snakes an arm around Harry and pats Niall on the shoulder. Harry sees Niall wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, and his nose scrunches up when he realizes Niall’s drooled on the shoulder of his pinstriped button-up.

“Most of y’all are well aware that Jodie’s pregnant,” Monique pauses to applaud Jodie Martinez, the Art and Art History teacher, with a massive smile on her round face. Everyone joins in the clapping, including Harry with his sticky hands, though he can’t stop his eyes from rolling back into his head.

Harry loves all types of physical statements of love: sonnets, sleepovers, music, weddings, movies, holidays, and babies. He places babies at the top of the list because they’re so soft and small, and they always smell like flowers.

He does not, however, love anything involving Jodie Martinez; she’s the school’s only art history teacher, and they’re frequently lumped together when it comes to work things like email threads, department meetings, and school excursions for which they’re always the only two available to chaperone.

It’s funny because she was good company at first, helping him navigate the unfamiliar world of American secondary education. After a while though, Harry began to find her insufferably shallow with a terrible teaching philosophy, and he politely told her the truth because he’s not the best at hiding how he feels.

She retaliated by spreading a rumor about him being gay and in a relationship with Danny, and though Harry wasn’t offended by that image of him, she outed Danny to most of their coworkers and Harry found that grounds to officially dislike her.

“Yeah, Jodie!” Niall cheers. He doesn’t like Jodie either, but he has a soft spot for her despite her foul attitude because she gifts him painkillers whenever he comes to work hungover.

“Before we come together to wish her a joyous maternity leave,” she smiles warmly, “I’d like to remind everyone in this room, myself included, that we guide ourselves by two core principles here at Greene East: respect, and responsibility. We have to respect our scholars, ourselves, each other, and, most importantly, the reason we’re all here: knowledge. Yet, we also have to hold ourselves responsible for our students’ well-being and equipping them with the tools to…”

A smile creeps up on Harry’s face as the new topic piques his interest, and it’s for two reasons. The first is because he admires Principal Douglas’ commitment to education, and she reminds him of Dr. Thurmond— if he were a 64-year-old black lady from Florida. The second is because Jodie’s leaving.

Yeah, he’s happy that a new person is going to enter the world, happy Jodie’s found love with whoever-he-is, and even excited to meet the lucky folks subbing for her, but he’s especially happy that she’s going on maternity leave because that means he won’t have to deal with her until next year.

“We ain’t giving them shit, okay, if we can’t provide them with an openhearted, and inventive foundation for the rest of their lives, am I right? To do that, respect Jodie and her students, and spare the kids from a year of chaos… not to mention waste their parents’ tax dollars,” she jokes, her cheekbones poking out as she laughs, “I decided to take a risk, unlike so many of my district associates, and hire another fresh face. It’s so important to have a variety of folks on staff— younger, older, very experienced, and complete novices…”

Harry uncrosses his legs and leans forward, digging his elbows into the briefcase on his lap while he chews on his straw. He’s eager to see who’s going to be inheriting the messes that make up Jodie Martinez’ lesson plan.

“She’s absolutely as qualified as the rest of you— no offense, Jodie, not to say you’re underqualified— having worked in art conservation for private collectors and auction houses, but she may as well tell y’all herself, right? Layla?”

Everyone claps half-heartedly as Monique motions for Layla to come forward, probably impatient to leave the cold auditorium and get on with their day, and Harry notices a slender person in a plain white t-shirt get up from the front row.

Harry’s phone slips through his sweaty fingers when he gets a good look at her face, and he scrambles to pick up it from behind his pink converse as quickly as he can before the buzz in the room dies down.

“That’s her!” He whispers and swats at Niall’s chest with the back of his ring-adorned hand when he’s upright again.

“That’s also me chest, you pr-”

“It’s her, mate. The girl that knocked my coffee over on Friday.”

She and Monique exchange a brief hug, an odd sight because she towers over the older woman and her long, black hair covers most of Monique’s head. “Thank you, Monique, and congratulations on your baby, Jodie,” Layla smiles as she tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear and returns her hand to her jeans’ pocket.

“That’s her?” Niall asks as he turns to examine her face, and flashes a thumbs-up at Harry. “She’s fit, man."

“Didn’t really notice,” Harry murmurs, mostly to himself.

“I second that,” Danny pats Harry on the knee. “And, her hair is killer.”.

“Looks a lot like yours— that’s why you like it,” Niall reaches over Harry’s lap to nudge Danny.

“I’m Layla, Layla Robinson. I have a Bachelor’s in Art History from Williams College in Massachusetts. I was working for a private family collection for two years before I found it, um, mundane, and a Master’s sounds even more dull so, I decided to throw myself into the crazy and, uh, and fulfilling life of an educator…”

“That explains why she was looking for Douglas’ office,” Harry mutters and leans back into the rigid seat, typing this last item into his meeting notes.

*Jodie’s finally going on maternity leave. Hallelujah. Replacement is the coffee bird, aka Layla. Reportedly killer hair.

“…total rookie, honestly, but I have a deep love for sharing and learning, so if you have any wisdom to give me or you just need purchasing advice, I’ll be in D126,” Layla moves to scratch her arm with an elegant hand and smiles again. Harry notices that she looks just as cautious as she did on Friday, when she was lost in the halls.

“Any questions for Layla?”

When no one speaks up, and the nearby bald man’s cough echoes through the room, Monique turns to Layla and gives her another offbeat hug.

“I’m very glad to have you on board, even if it’s just for a little while,” she says and moves to face the staff before her. “That’s it, y’all! Don’t forget about them parking passes! Go Tigers!”

Harry, Danny, and Niall are quick to bolt up out of their seats and they’re making their way up the aisle to wait for Jo outside, instead of extending their goodbyes to Jodie like a lot of their colleagues are doing.

“Poor girl, yeah? Jodie’s a fucking mess,” Harry says as he tucks his briefcase under his arm and throws his cup into a nearby bin, wiping his hands on his jeans after. He’s already tired of the sweat coating his palms, even though he finds it better than the mysterious dread that’s lurking somewhere in his chest.

“Fuck Jodie,” Danny starts, making him laugh. “I think the new girl will do fine, to be honest. You can already tell she’s not, like, one of those people that’s all pretentious about art.” He shoots a joking glare at Niall.

“I’m not pretentious— I’m critical. Cinema isn’t all algorithms and, er, whatever you do. Maths, or what’s it.”

“I work with computers,” Danny groans, clearly annoyed. “Computers, dearest Niall, that you need for your critical lectures every day.”

“Harry, back me up,” Niall pleads.

“You didn’t say a word about my Lifetime movie binge on Saturday, which works in your favor,” Harry begins as they make it outside, eliciting a mocking laugh from Niall. “But y’did spend half the time at the park on Sunday talking shit about Baz Luhrmann’s angle choices in Romeo + Juliet… ‘s not a good look, mate.”

Danny sticks his tongue out at Niall and drapes one of his long arms around Harry’s shoulders. “My knight in pinstriped armor, if only you were into men,” he sighs gently as he leans his head against Harry’s.

“Hey!” Harry shifts his gaze to see Jo, the American History teacher, standing in the open walkway with a straight face, sipping on a purple smoothie. “Thanks for not saving me a seat.”

“If it’s any comfort, Tiz had to sit with her dad the whole time,” he smiles.

“At least he smells nice,” Jo pouts. “I think we should adopt Sergei and give him a makeover.”

“Nah,” Harry shakes his head and Jo’s eyebrows crease together like he has three heads and she can’t get past it. “Just because the man smells doesn’t mean he needs a change in his life. What if he’s perfectly happy with his vices and his, uh… fragrance? Let him be— shit — his own person!” he argues, wincing as the first and always startling bell rings.

“We’ll talk about this during lunch. You are going to be at lunch, right?” Jo asks, crossing her arms. Harry purses his lips

“I’m always-”

“No, Styles, you’ve been skipping out on us for a full week,” Danny says and looks to Niall, as if he’s Harry’s spokesman.

“He’s been in the lounge,” he clicks his tongue. During his lunch hour, Harry consistently splits his meal with Niall. As for where that happens, he tries to divide his time between the abandoned teacher’s lounge and the library, where Danny’s office is.

He chose to eat in the teacher’s lounge all of last week without even thinking, desperate for solitude to figure out the root of his sudden melancholy and work on his still-unfinished lesson plan.

“Not today, alright? We have to catch up.” Jo takes another sip of her smoothie, and grabs Niall’s arm as he starts to make his way to the other edge of the school grounds with Harry and Danny. “You’re coming with me, you tardy-ass…”



“Do you think you can write me a pass for my Art History class, too?” Angelo asks as Harry scrolls through today’s attendance records on his computer. Harry turns to look at the lanky boy who’s currently skipping his third period gym class in Harry’s ninth-grade World History class and helping him grade their homework assignments from last week.

“When’s that?” He asks absentmindedly, trying to keep his voice low as the other students in his classroom work on a group assignment about the world’s major religious systems.

“Fifth period,” Angelo sighs. “I finished this stack, by the way,” he says as he slides the of papers in his hand over to Harry and picks up the remaining lot on the edge L-shaped desk.

“Cheers,” Harry grabs them and turns back around to face Angelo after placing them next to his computer.

He folds his hands, his eyebrows furrowing as he realizes his hands are way too clammy for this, and he wipes them on his jeans for the umpteenth time today. After staring at Angelo for a few seconds, trying to remember where he’s left his hall passes, he decides that this is the moment he’ll start honoring his arrangement with Principal Douglas instead. “Why don’t you want to go to your Art History class?”

“I took the class, like, thinking it was going to be like your class, but all Miss Martinez does is make us sit in groups and work from the book. She doesn’t teach or nothin’ like you, you know? It’s lame as fuck,” Angelo purses his lips, noticeably bothered.

“Well, I happen to know that Miss Martinez has just started maternity leave,” Harry smiles up at him.

He wants Angelo to do the right thing and go to class, even though he likes indulging Angelo’s desire to make himself a permanent fixture in his classroom. “And your new teacher is, apparently, really knowledgeable ‘bout Art History. Don’t you want to check that out?”

Angelo crosses his arms over the un-graded papers and leans forward with a skeptical look on his face. “How do you know? Who’s your source?”

Harry laughs because he was the type of student to question everything when he was in school, and watching Angelo follow in those footsteps over the past two months nearly overshadows the sick, cold ‘weirdness’ of this newfound funk.

He can’t continue calling it ‘last week’s funk’ anymore because it’s obviously begun to trickle into this week. His palms had been coated in sweat since he boarded the typically freezing bus this morning, much like his stomach knotted when Liam called him last Tuesday, buzzing happily while Harry struggled to pry open the lid of Rhiannon’s food jar.

“A faculty meeting,” he says. “I reckon you should give her some time before you pass judgement— maybe she’ll even end up being your new favorite teacher.”

“Nah, dude, that’s you.”

“Angelo— I truly appreciate you, but flattery will get you nowhere,” he chuckles before he sees a small hand fly up in the air, and a girl named Jessie’s immense green eyes meet his. He gets up to walk toward the tiny student, but stops in front of his desk and pats Angelo on the shoulder. “Besides, missing out on her first day is a little rude, innit?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Angelo sighs and returns to the seat Harry’s set aside for him by the door.



After the bell rings at the end of the period, and the start of his lunch time, a colleague stops Harry on his way out of the toilets and asks if he wants to sign Jodie’s goodbye card.

“I’m all right, Deborah." He declines because he’s not going to pretend he likes her just because she’s having a baby.

After two unsuccessful minutes, the fat blonde woman follows him all the down the hall and across the garden, trying to further convince him ('it's good for fellowship, Harry') until he darts into the library and sprints past a quiet group of students to Danny’s office in the back.

“Hello, friend!” Danny greets Harry with a big smile on his sharp face, but his eyebrows quickly knit together and Harry only recognizes that Danny’s just mirroring his own expression when he feels the tension between his eyes. “Why the face?”

“I’ve just been accosted, chased, by Deborah from Maths to sign Jodie’s baby card. I literally had to run in here to get awa-” his head jerks involuntarily when he hears footsteps behind him, his fingers gripping his worn briefcase because he’s afraid the round blonde has caught up to him, but it’s only Danny’s student assistant Milo. 

“Hi, Mr. Styles. Bye, Mr. Ferreira,” the lanky, curly-haired senior waves feebly at the two of them, indifferent to Harry’s appearance as is Danny who waves goodbye to Milo with a bright smile before laughing at Harry.

“It’s your magnetic charm— can’t keep them away, even if you politely treat them like shit.”

“Tell me about it,” Harry’s eyes widen slightly as he walks to and sits down on the blue settee across from the desk in the office and pulls a small granola bar out of his briefcase. “On Friday at Birdy’s, this girl came up to me, trying to hook up with me, yeah?”

“Confident,” Danny coos, resting his chin on his knuckles.

Harry bites into his bar and tells him about Friday’s catastrophe, then how Anna had agreed to give him a second chance despite him rudely, and unfairly, snapping at her for a little (shitty) comment, and how he had a good time with her and her Pinot at the park yesterday. He’s speaking monotonously, as per, which cuts into his chewing and drags on the already slow story. Danny points this out just before Harry gets to mention his plans to see Anna this Friday night.

“Magnetic, H. You’re magnetic.”

“I’m just attractive, mate,” Harry purses his lips before taking a final bite and crosses his legs. “She told Niall’s girlfriend that it’s the tattoos and the hair.”

“No,” Danny laughs as he stands to pull a container out of his office’s refrigerator. “I get the hair, you look sickening with your hair like this, but your tattoos are stupid. I’m telling you, it’s because you’re-”

“Don’t say magnetic again,” Harry interrupts, scrunching his nose. “It’s starting to sound weird." 

"Why else would she stick around?”

“Same reason they always do,” he says, staring at him while he sits back down at his desk and picks at the lettuce in the box. When Danny shakes his head, not understanding what he means, Harry sweeps a hand down over himself from the top of his bun to his pink shoes.

“Yes, you’re gorgeous and you dress well, but you’re also super smart, and quite possibly one of the sweetest people in the world.”

“Not to her,” Harry rolls his eyes, and the cool air in Danny’s bright office is clashing with the dampness on his palms. He wipes them one at a time in the silence that’s come between them, feeling bothered by the sweat and Danny’s crunchy salad. “It came out of nowhere, too, like, I couldn’t hold myself back and I had these nasty butterflies.”

“Butterflies?” Danny’s eyes widen. He, like Harry’s mother, believes that Harry needs a girlfriend, and that’s why he’s always setting him up with people.

“Like, nervy butterflies all up and down my limbs, like a proper— I don’t know,” he waves dismissive a hand out before leaning backward on the settee’s backrest. He stops himself from uttering the words ‘panic attack’ because he’s never had a panic attack and doesn’t know what they’re like. He’s sure Friday night’s row was nothing more than just some weird breaking point after a long week full of fleeting memories and expensive, long-distance phone calls that were eating up his coffee money, though the speed at which his mind was racing that night was most likely part of a panic attack’s symptoms.

“The magnets, Harry,” Danny giggles and Harry throws the thin, blue wrapper at him. It falls to the floor as he jokingly growls out a declaration of hate. “What’s she like, then? Besides forgiving, and blonde, and eager to show you her beaver.”

Harry’s laughter bubbles up his throat like soda, and out of his mouth with some leftover granola, when he stands to throw the wrapper in the bin by the door.

“Anna?” He asks.

“Who else?”

“I don’t know her much, but I don’t think she’s the type of woman to have a beaver,” he laughs again, swiping his finger at his eye and sitting back down. “She seems like a nice person… Hot, definitely hot,” he chuckles, “and she’s a bookworm— works at some posh bookstore in Williamsburg. Kind of, like, sheltered, though, obviously.”

“But you’re going to keep seeing her?” Danny asks and rests an elbow atop his square desk, smiling when Harry nods.

“Things with Niall and Daisy are going well, so it's best if we get along, right? Who knows— maybe they’ll be married in a few years, or something. I don’t want to have any problems with her,” he suggests, purposely failing to bring up the fact that he’s dying to fuck her.

Danny hums. “You do hate that,” he says through a mouthful of food, probably thinking to the internal conflict Harry complained about when Jodie started to get on his nerves. He looks like he’s about to say something when his face lights up, and Harry hears Niall, with his own roaring laugh, buzz into the room. Tizzy, Jo, and a soft voice sing their hellos, but Harry can’t see them because Niall struts over to him immediately and holds his hand out with a smile, obscuring his view of the rest of the room.

Harry plucks into his briefcase for the second granola bar he’d shoved into it this morning, and chuckles at the grimace on Niall’s lips when he sees that all he got for him is what he calls a ‘horrid oat turd’.

“I didn’t feel like making anything this morning.”

“I'll take it. I’m starving, mate,” he complains as he snatches and rips the packet open, plopping down beside Harry.

"Hi, H," Tizzy purrs as she walks over and kisses Harry on the cheek. "Layla, this is Harry. He teaches World History and Euro on the first floor of our building," she says, gesturing to the woman beside her curiously looking at him, and sits on the white armchair to Harry’s left. The shaggy rug on the floor between the three pieces of furniture is the only decorative item in the room, and where Jo’s decided to eat her fruit salad after greeting the two on the settee.

"British guy," Layla says to him with her dimples poking inward, and he shakes her too-warm hand. “British name— which isn’t surprising— teaching European History…”

“What better way to get kids interested in Euro than to hire a cute British arsehole?” He asks, unbothered that she’s made the same comment everyone makes when they first meet him. The corner of his mouth plucks upward as he watches her shake her head with laughter. “Good to meet you.”

Harry notices Danny, behind Layla, mouth ‘magnetic’ to him and flash an enthusiastic thumb up before he takes another bite of his food. He also notices that Layla, now on the floor with Jo, seems to be more relaxed— physically, at least, because her voice has been confident and cool the past two times he ran into her (though, technically, her dog ran into him at the park). They’ve already met before, he thinks, but it could very well be the neutral vibe of Danny’s office

Maybe the blue walls why Harry’s only half-aware of the nagging in his mind as he struggles to join the conversation around him. His brief chat with Danny before everyone’s arrival now has him nervously pulling at his bottom lip while Jo excitedly speaks, Layla glancing at him every so often. He unintentionally meets her gaze every time, eyes stuck on her eyebrows.

He’s starting to feel off about his “not date” with Anna, and that strikes him as bizarre. Bizarre because, up until right now, the idea of not knowing anything about his sex partners hasn’t been an issue. He hasn’t had sex with Anna— yet— but there’s a nervousness in his stomach when he thinks about how little he knows about her (occupation, school major, first and last names, and that she’s an incredibly loud chewer with blue eyes, aside).

He knew everything about Ginny, or he used to, at least.

The thought of her engagement to Professor of Ethics and Moral Psychology, Michael Strauss, which doesn’t bother him as much as his sister’s friendship with her, makes him miss what it was like to know someone that well. He knows Niall very well (maybe too well, considering he’d know exactly how to turn him on if some apocalyptic catastrophe made it necessary for them to have sex). He knows his old roommates well because he lived with them for three and a half years, and he knows Mr. Frank pretty well despite the old man’s simple and silent demeanor. He knows Rhiannon well, considering he’s raised her and all, but he knew Ginny well.

“…the fucking lounge!”

Harry rubs at his knee and his eyes narrow on Jo, who’s just punched him where his knee bone is exposed through a hole in his jeans, below on the rug.

“What was that for?”

“Hello? Are you even paying attention to me?” Jo asks with wide eyes and moves her hand to her chest, all but the ring finger bare.

“No!” Harry breathes and holds out his hand for Jo to properly show him the ring Cristian, her now-fiancé, has given her. “When?”

“Thursday night,” she says. Jo’s usually very serious, but it’s clear that the excitement overshadowing Harry’s nostalgia is contagious, and she’s beaming— even through her annoyance. “You would’ve known that if you weren’t holed up in the lounge last week.”

“There’s a lounge?”

“Yeah, in building A,” Tizzy answers Layla, shuffling around in the chair to look for the pen she’s dropped in between her bare, crisscrossed legs. She’s grading papers, as always, during their lunch. “It's super old, smells like leather. He likes to hide in there sometimes to do God knows what— reflect on his broody man-ness, FaceTime his cat, grade papers… gotcha!”

“Y'know, I reckon Rhiannon's capable of working a phone,” Niall says.

"The cat," Danny adds when Layla asks. 

“I’m so happy for you,” Harry ignores them, and grins as he examines the small band with an even smaller diamond in the center. “How did he go about it?”

“That’s what I was just talking about!” The black bun on Jo's head remains in place when she throws her head back with a groan. “How is it possible for one person to be this spacey?”

Niall clutches his stomach, nearly dropping the half-eaten granola bar when he laughs. “He’s the worst!”

“Alright, alright, fuck off,” Harry’s brows come together on his forehead, but he’s laughing.

Jo manages to detail the night of her engagement— again— without making Harry cry (though he feels tears prickle at his eyes when she mentions that the ring was her great-grandmother’s and her fiancé had somehow managed to have their entire families surprise her), Layla alleges her maternal Chinese heritage is the reason for her killer hair, and they patiently listen to Niall’s story about his first day as a teacher until there are ten minutes left of their lunch time.

Danny bids everyone goodbye with kisses and an idea to go to a nearby happy hour on Thursday, but Harry declines because he works out around that time four days a week, including Thursdays. Jo’s adamant about making sure Niall gets to class on time, so Harry, along with Layla and Tizzy, leave them behind at the library’s motion-activated doors to head to the building across the garden.

“It’s a shame Dylan got sick, isn’t it?” Tizzy asks, referring to Steph’s youngest son and the reason she was absent. “You’re going to love Steph. She's, like, the coolest mom in the world.”

“Oh, she’s definitely going to like her,” Harry says. “She was doing performance art stuff before Acting. You said you liked that, yeah?”

“So you heard that, but you didn’t hear Danny make fun of your… what was it? Magnets?”

“Yeah, what’s that about? He kept whispering ‘magnets’ the whole time,” Tizzy asks, stopping in the part of the open corridor that leads up to the floor her and Layla’s classrooms are on.

“It’s nothing, he’s just a wanker.”

“Whatever that means,” Tizzy flips her long braid over her shoulders. “I’ll see you guys later, or maybe tomorrow. I have to get the car keys from my dad before the second bell rings, and his classroom is that way,” she says, motioning toward the hallway doors to their right that connect buildings C and D and offers relief from rain when it comes.

“You’re done for the day?” Layla asks with her hands tucked into her back pockets.

“No, I’m picking up my mom from the airport tonight. She’s back from her trip to P.R. and my dad has a tutoring sesh after school’s over. The price I pay for having to live with my parents again,” she sighs before she kisses their cheeks and stalks off past the doors.

“She’s very nice,” Layla notes, turning around to face Harry. She keeps her eyes locked to his, easy because she looks to be about two inches shorter than him, while he pushes the stairwell door open and she walks backward on to the first step. “You’re nicer than I thought you’d be.”

“Why would you get the impression that I’m not? I was nice to you before,” he says, clutching his briefcase to his shirt and leaning against the wall.

“I don’t know,” she says, pulling her hand from her pocket out to tuck a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear, and crosses her arms over her chest. Harry notices that she doesn’t have any nail varnish on, which adds to her plain white-shirt-and-blue-jeans combination. “Your eyebrows are permanently bunched up, and your jaw’s always so tense.”

Harry feels himself trying to imitate the expression on her face, but it doesn’t feel as forced as hers looks. 
"Doesn't mean I'm not nice," he says. "Maybe I've just got a lot on my mind?"

"I'm sure you do— just not about me, I hope."

"Why would it be about you? I've just met you. Properly, I mean."

"You looked pretty upset back there," her chin juts in the library's direction. "You were staring. Made me feel weird, like I offended you."

“I see,” he says, pausing to look down at his beat-up shoes. “I guess I'm just as spacey as Jo thinks. 'S why you got to spill my coffee on me.” 

"And here I was," Layla starts, "thinking you were still holding a grudge about that. Good thing I asked, then."

"It was my favorite shirt," he sighs, hoping his face is reflecting his joke sadness and not the anger Layla’s been perceiving. 

"Was?"

"I had to throw it out, remember? My cat pissed on it," he says.

"The cat, Rhiannon," she says, and Harry nods. "That’s right. It was a good shirt."

"The best shirt," Harry sighs, and Layla breathes out a small laugh. “Your trousers were pretty nice, too,” he smiles.

“They didn’t survive our, um, running into each other, either. That’s what I get, though.”

“For spilling my coffee?”

Layla rolls her eyes and waves a hand, shaking her head. “For walking Marcel in white pants,” she starts before the bell positioned above him shrieks, and her face is quick to crumple.

“I’ll give you a protip better than than all of Niall’s: you’re never going to get used to that,” he says after a shudder, chuckling at her reaction. “Anyway, I'm sorry about the staring."

"It's fine," she says without looking at him and pulls her phone out to look at the time, standing still in an ominous sea of students trickling in through the doors and from the floor above them.

Her tone is cool, and Harry's curious about her calmness; she seems to be as monotonous as he sounds. He hopes there's more to her than plain shirts, detergent pens, and a good eye for detail (old art probably requires it, though outright asking about his unintentional staring may not because he was very obvious). Tizzy added her to their group chat, making it clear that she's going to be around more often.

He’s about to wish her luck for the second half of her first day when he sees a large afro come down the stairs behind a group of cheerleaders, and excited eyes meet his.

“St… yles…” Angelo’s voice is dripping with hesitance as he pauses on the step above Layla to clap Harry’s hand. His round eyes are no longer wide, but narrow and looking between Harry and Layla. Harry looks to see her quirking a brow at him.

“Angelo," Harry smiles. "Can I help you with something?”

“Yeah… uh, yeah,” Angelo breathes and adjusts his backpack. “I wanted to know if I could chill in your class during sixth period instead. Kylie Reyes told me that Miss Watkins is absent today and ol’ Mr. G is the sub.”

“What’s wrong with Mr. G?” Layla sounds genuinely curious. She's no longer trying to make her way up the stairs.

“He smells like green beans, and he never lets us get too loud, which is,” he lowers his voice and looks around, likely for other nearby teachers, “fucking stupid, like, it's an acting class. So, can you?”

“I don’t know, man,” Harry sighs, scratching the back of his neck. He feels like he, in addition to being more responsible with Angelo, should start being more encouraging about sacrificing his skipping habit, especially because Monique knows that he enables it in the first place. Baby steps, he thinks, because there's nothing like an overstepping of boundaries to soil the type of student-teacher friendship Harry wants this ‘agreement’ to be, and he doesn’t want to come off as a flip-flop, either. It’s not like he doesn’t enjoy Angelo’s laid-back, yet blunt company. 

“I’ll grade your papers,” Angelo offers with a forced smile, but it falls when Harry shakes his head.

“That's lovely, but I can’t, I’m sorry. Maybe tomorrow if Ste- Miss Watkins isn’t in again. Besides, you can always work on your homework when you’ve got a sub. That’s nice, yeah?”

Harry sees Angelo examine Layla again, the gears in his mind visibly coming to life.
“Are you acting weird because you got a girlfriend?”

Harry feels his jaw tighten as his eyes widen, and he motions to look at Layla with his upper body pushing itself off the wall in an almost-robotic way. He turns to look back at Angelo, who’s waiting.

“I’m- no, no,” Harry shakes his head. “She’s-”

"Because Madison Trujillo and Vanessa Shah were telling everyone in first period that they saw you with a girl at the park last night," Angelo says, looking to Layla again.

“God-”

“I’m a substitute— Layla Robinson.” Harry’s relieved, though too aware of the sweat on his hands, when Layla steps in to introduce herself. He doesn’t need another rumor about his dating life circulating. Last year, when he’d been seen walking with Tizzy to share a cigarette in the parking lot during lunch, word spread that they were together (they weren’t) and they’d had to press pause on smoke breaks.

“Angelo Williams, tenth grade."

"Mr. Styles was just showing me to my classroom."

“She’s your new Art History teacher,” Harry mentions hastily, and Angelo’s face rearranges from questioning to serene even though the second bell is ringing.

“Word?” He looks to Layla and nods slowly. “Alright, well, I’ll see you later, then, dude,” Angelo says before throwing up a peace sign and heading out through the doors. Harry watches him disappear before they exchange a laugh about his presence, and for just a moment, he isn't nervous about keeping his fourth-period class waiting.

“He’s in your fifth period class. Don’t worry, though, he’s a saint."

"He seems like a sweetheart,” Layla offers. “You coming up, or...?"

"I think I’ll leave you to find your way up from here. I'm already late as it is.”

“You’re in this building, too,” she states with a raised brow, her eyes looking darker than before (if possible) in the dimly-lit stairwell. 

“Yeah, D015, just on this floor. I was below Niall in Building B last year, but that got so annoying. For a film teacher, you’d think he’d be a good neighbor, but he stomps around like he’s trying to take flight,” he tells her, and she rolls her eyes as if she’s already used to Niall’s craziness despite knowing him for a half hour. 

"Sounds like him.” There’s a small pause, and she’s looking at him with her head cocked to the side before she pushes herself up from the handrail she’s been leaning on and flashes a smile. “Thanks for walking me, anyway. I appreciate it.”

He softly waves with his briefcase in hand as she makes her way up the steps. She pauses after the first flight to wiggle a few fingers in his direction, her dimples visible despite the distance, and blends in with the still-buzzing crowd of students.

When a little knot in his stomach finally reminds him that he’s late, again, he groans, and he jumps to hurry back to his classroom, keeping an eye out for Deborah. He may be in a stupid phase right now, unusually sweaty and reflective, but he’s not going to half-ass his way through his job— and he’s not going to sign that dumb card.