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4
It turns out our politics teacher is the young guy I saw enthusiastically debating at breakfast. His presence causes something of a stir in class; I find it rich that Arabella told me off for staring at Rory when she’s the one currently making goo-goo eyes at ourteacher.
I suppose I can see the attraction. He’s pretty cute — for a teacher — and he doesn’t dress in tweed like the older ones. He’s wearing a dark suit that’s tailored to his body, making him look more businesslike, and he’s at least attempted to style his wavy sandy hair with product.
“I’m Dr. Moncrieff,” he says, writing his name on the board. I cast a glance sideways to Arabella’s notebook — they call themjottershere — half-expecting her to have added a heart to thei. “I’m a new addition to the staff this year, stepping in for Professor Barnett, who’s taken early retirement.” He smiles at us, his gaze flitting from face to face. “I hope we’ll all be able to get on.”
I feel it in me, the knowledge that this was a bad thing to announce to a class seemingly spearheaded by Rory.Rest in peace, hot teacher, I think to myself, already consigning him to the trash can.
As if on cue, Rory asks in a bored tone, “Doctor ofwhat?”
Dr. Moncrieff smiles at him. “Politics. I did my PhD at St. Camford before entering the teaching world.”
“I’m not convinced.” Rory’s sitting at the back like he’s on a throne, acting like a lazy king demanding better entertainment. “At your age, you must be terribly inexperienced in the real world. Academia,” he adds, with something of a scoff. “Who cares about navel-gazingexperts? Honestly, I feel like standards have slipped dramatically at Lochkelvin ever since a certain headteacher came along.”
“Oh, shut up,” Arabella snaps, taking me by surprise. I gawk at her. “You mean just because he’s new, your dad hasn’t been able to pay him off yet like all the others?”
Instead of being scandalized by this pretty damning accusation, Rory looks delighted. No wonder. What the hell happened tojust ignore them? That was a great tactic, one I could really get behind, and now Rory’s looking like he’s reeled in a whopper with his bait.
“What kind of language isthis? From the headmistress’s niece? And accusations against my father’scharacter? Sounds like you should check your privilege, be kind and do better.” He glances up at Dr. Moncrieff, that cruel smile still flickering at the corner of his mouth. “I know your teaching modules must still be incredibly fresh in your memory, Mr. Doctor, so don’t let me do your educating for you. However, I do believe urgent action is required here.”
“Settle down, everyone,” Dr. Moncrieff says instead, already developing a tired lull to his voice.
“Stop being such a dick!” Arabella shouts, and I feel like I have to physically hold her into place before she launches herself at Rory.
But Rory just laughs, singing under his breath, “Reee, reee, reee, reee, all the way home.”
There are only ten students in politics class, but with the noise in the room it currently feels like a hundred. Over and over I tell Arabella to ignore Rory, while Dr. Moncrieff shouts for peace, and Rory sits back in his chair and laughs.
It’s at this point that the door opens and the strangest sight meets my eyes.
A boy arrives, taking in the chaos with a radiant grin that keeps expanding the more he watches the scene play out. His raven-dark hair is messy and longer than any other boy’s at this school, and his black blazer is decorated with silver studs.
But the oddest thing about him isn’t his hair or the blazer. No. He’s wearing akilt.
This shouldn’t seem odd in Scotland, but so far I was beginning to think kilts were a myth — more of a tourist marketing gimmick than the actual reality of Scottish attire. And that’s probably true. But staring at this guy with his thick cable-knit socks, deep blue pleated tartan kilt, and polished black Docs, I’m starting to realize exactly why some women go weak for a man in a kilt.
He takes in the chaos with dancing green eyes. “Now this is my kinda class.”
I watch as he stomps toward Rory in his black boots. His arrival is the only thing that’s made Rory shut up. I note that the studs on the new guy’s blazer snake around his back into a pair of intricate glittering wings. Between each wing are a bunch of letters I have to squint at to make out, and in the end I still don’t understand what it means, other than it readsAlbagubrath.
Albagubrath? It must be some kind of slang I don’t get.
I feel like the whole ensemble would have been a lot more effective on a leather jacket, and my instant impression is that this guy is some hell-raising try-hard.
Closer to him, I see that his kilt is decorated with glittering safety pins. With the number of pins attached to it, he turns the Lochkelvin kilt into a kind of punk-rock statement — a statement that seems to befuck, yeah, I’m an edgy little prince, what’cha gonna do about it?
Everything about him seems at odds with the old-fashioned classroom, where the room is surrounded by stone and dotted with dark varnished wood. They even use blackboards and chalk here. I swear my old high school was more high-tech than this.
“What are youwearing?” Arabella asks, looking aghast. “No one wants to see your legs!”
The new guy flashes her a sweet grin. “My national dress, headmistress’s pet. Cannae discriminate on nationality. That’s illegal.”
I don’t know what Arabella’s talking about — his legs are quite nice. Thick. Muscled, like he’s not unfamiliar with working them out. Lightly dusted with soft, dark hair. And positioned right in front of me.
Achingly slowly, I raise my gaze from his bare legs to his face.
He grins down at me, casually removing the rest of the room from my thoughts just from the spark of interest in his eyes.
