The Open University (which, Paul muses sometimes, should probably renamed Mansion Education Institute) is entering its last week of classes before the winter break
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Stephanie had familiarized herself with her roster before the first class: Geneviève Émery, Dancy Flammarion, Titus Groan, Riku Miyagusuku, Catherine Morland, Warren Peace, Erica Reyes, Stiles Stilinski, Tom Yarbro, Zhane.
On the first day of class, she passed out a syllabus. It would have been more detailed, but there's not a printer. Dammit. So they were each hand-written.
Organic Chemistry Syllabus and Course Information
Instructor: Stephanie Barnett
As I have no office, please see me before or after class. Between classes, leave a note for me in the common room. Help Sessions will be offered by appointment. Materials: (a) Organic Chemistry by Robert T. Morrison (Author), Robert N. Boyd (Author) (Required) [It was the only option in the library. I expect you to rotate the text as needed, and whoever has it at any given time, bring it to class.] (b) "Molecular Model Set for General and Organic Chemistry" Prentice Hall, 1965. (Classroom) [Thank goodness for the attic!]
Last semester, her black beast was horseback riding. This semester, let's face it, it's chemistry. First things first, Genie is terrified of Miss Barnett. Secondly, well, she's just not scientifically minded. The truth is, she misses Crazy Crocker.
She still comes to class on time, is faultlessly doing her homework, brings the books as required, and does her best to talk to her friends about it, but the truth is, she's got zero confidence in her work.
At least Warren's in the class with her, and she's got friends she can talk to about this, but still.
So the night before the final, she straggles. She's desperate for help, really, and feels like she might cry.
Stephanie is probably the last person that Genie wants to see, but that's who comes along and finds Genie looking a little desperate. While she's professional as a professional, she's a doctor first and foremost. She's concerned at observing one of her students upset, and has no idea it's her class that's causing the distress.
Stiles loved having a new chemistry professor, and thrived on actual instruction. His teacher back home, Mr. Harris, had been a real dick. No, really. He'd purposely mocked Stiles with name-calling, and Stiles kind of hated him for it. It wasn't his fault he had ADHD, but Ms. Barnett was very professional and quite fair. It was a difficult course, but he managed.
He'd been studying for her final for a week, expecting it to be one of his more difficult. He'd been right. Feel free to catch him studying the night before, or commiserate on how hard it was after class.
This little guy might come to join him the night before, bringing his notebooks and text book. "Hey, Stiles, do you mind if I study with you? I'm a little stuck on some of the formulas."
Stiles looks up and greets the kid with a smile. "Sure thing, man. Have a seat and we can tackle it together." He looks at him with a little smirk. "Aren't you one of the smartest of us all? You sure you can't help me?"
"Oh, I'm good with history and biology, but chemistry puzzles me," Riku admits, setting his books on the table before sitting down across the corner of the table from Stiles. "I think it's the maths involved. I'm not the best with that."
So here's your favorite dean-by-default. Paul was pretty lax with regards to Dr Barnett's involvement in the class, because shortly after discussing matters with her, he decided she knew what she was talking about, and he, well, did not.
He still wants to see how student relations are going, though, so after one of her classes - or possibly the last one - he's standing in the corridor and waiting for the students to vacate the room.
A pale-skinned teen-aged girl who's about sixteen or seventeen but looks like she's about thirteen might slip out, among the last to leave, head down, moving like she's trying to avoid being seen. Her hands might be in the pockets of her cargo pants, and there's an uncertain look in her dark red eyes.
"Yeah, just... exams are tough: not really used to it, not like this," she admits. "Used to be home schooled, long time ago.
"And I don't like hallways much, least not here: never know who or what could be watching from out of sight," she says, glancing up the length of the hall.
"I'd like that, if it's all right, just... keep the door open: I don't like being alone with a guy in a room. It's not you, it's just... stuff that's happened to me back in my world," she says.
Stephanie had familiarized herself with her roster before the first class: Geneviève Émery, Dancy Flammarion, Titus Groan, Riku Miyagusuku, Catherine Morland, Warren Peace, Erica Reyes, Stiles Stilinski, Tom Yarbro, Zhane.
On the first day of class, she passed out a syllabus. It would have been more detailed, but there's not a printer. Dammit. So they were each hand-written.
Organic Chemistry
Syllabus and Course Information
Instructor: Stephanie Barnett
As I have no office, please see me before or after class. Between classes, leave a note for me in the common room. Help Sessions will be offered by appointment.
Materials: (a) Organic Chemistry by Robert T. Morrison (Author), Robert N. Boyd (Author) (Required)
[It was the only option in the library. I expect you to rotate the text as needed, and whoever has it at any given time, bring it to class.]
(b) "Molecular Model Set for General and Organic Chemistry" Prentice Hall, 1965. (Classroom)
[Thank goodness for the attic!]
Lectures: I will only ( ... )
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She still comes to class on time, is faultlessly doing her homework, brings the books as required, and does her best to talk to her friends about it, but the truth is, she's got zero confidence in her work.
At least Warren's in the class with her, and she's got friends she can talk to about this, but still.
So the night before the final, she straggles. She's desperate for help, really, and feels like she might cry.
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"Miss Emery? Are you feeling ill?"
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"I... no, Miss Barnett, I'm fine, thank you."
She doesn't seem like she's ready to leave, though.
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He'd been studying for her final for a week, expecting it to be one of his more difficult. He'd been right. Feel free to catch him studying the night before, or commiserate on how hard it was after class.
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He still wants to see how student relations are going, though, so after one of her classes - or possibly the last one - he's standing in the corridor and waiting for the students to vacate the room.
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"Is all well, Miss Flammarion?" he asks, because she looks, as usual, like she might be stabbed in the foot any time now.
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"And I don't like hallways much, least not here: never know who or what could be watching from out of sight," she says, glancing up the length of the hall.
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"Only your history professor, I'm afraid," he replies disarmingly.
He does understand the feeling, but he hasn't experienced it in a while.
"... would you care to walk to my office, Dancy?"
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and how about we handwave a discussion about academic concerns and leave them to it?
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Handwaving is a go!
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