Learning Curve
Title: Learning Curve
Author: ivesia19
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan (Spencer/Haley; mentioned Brendon/Dallon)
POV: 3rd limited (Ryan)
Summary: The one where Ryan is a pretentious graduate student, and Brendon is a Middle School teacher who teaches him a thing or two.
Disclaimer: False. Fake. Fiction. Other “f” words.
Beta: Thank you to the wonderful kaytvengeance, who not only helped me with this story but also made me laugh out loud by the cultural differences of goldfish snacks.
Author Notes: The opinions expressed by Ryan at the beginning of this story regarding the ineptitude of those who choose to become teachers are not my own. Public education is very near and dear to my heart. Hence this fic. (also, this is for all the people who wanted a return of teacher!Brendon!)
Ryan Ross does not understand why he has to be here. “I’m getting my Masters in Contemporary Literature,” Ryan grumbles into his cell phone, complaining to his roommate again. “I just don’t see why I have to take Y.A. Lit. in order to graduate.”
Spencer sighs audibly through the phone. “Look, Ryan, you’ve been bitching about this since your advisor signed you up, but there’s nothing I can do about it, so you need to stop complaining and get your ass inside the building. I know you’re just hiding in your car, trying to convince yourself that you can skip and go to Starbucks.”
Ryan frowns and makes an offended noise. He would never go to Starbucks. Not after that cappuccino incident.
He can’t deny, however, that he is sitting inside his car, staring at the building that holds the last class he needs to pass to get his Masters over and done with. What he’ll do with a Masters in Contemporary Literature, Ryan doesn’t know, but he’s getting sick of academia.
“Fuck you, Spencer,” Ryan mutters into the phone. He hangs up in the middle of Spencer’s echoing laughter and gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him for good measure.
The university has a stupid Masters program, Ryan decides, as he climbs the steps to room 205. He shouldn’t be wasting his time in a class that will no doubt spend the entire semester talking about Twilight and other crappy vampire rip offs.
In Ryan’s expert opinion, Young Adult Literature is a waste of time.
As he enters the room, Ryan sees that it’s already filled with about fifteen people. They all look like Education people. He can tell. There are too many happy faces for 7:30 on a Monday night. Ryan curses his lot in life - he hates the Elementary Education people; they always want to hug him - and sits down in one of the open seats next to a girl with long reddish-blond hair.
She smiles as he sits down and holds out her hand. “Hi, I’m Greta.” If she notices Ryan’s hesitation to extend his hand to a perfect stranger (really, what is it about these people and touching?), she doesn’t let on. She just shakes Ryan’s hand when he finally complies. “I haven’t seen you in any of the other Education classes,” she says.
“I’m not an Education major,” Ryan replies, and he’s already mentally preparing himself to spill his well-used explanation.
“Then why-?”
“Young Adult Literature is required for any Literature majors,” Ryan supplies. “It’s part of the university’s attempts to make a cross-curricular statement about education or something.”
Greta takes Ryan’s answer with grace. She smiles at him again, but doesn’t try to keep the conversation going. It’s probably pretty obvious to her that he doesn’t want to be here. It’s probably pretty obvious to everyone. Well, those who could tell a difference.
The reason that Ryan has been dreading this class is that he knows that it’s going to be full of teachers. He knows the world needs teachers, but honestly, those who do, do, and those who can’t, teach, and Ryan would like to not waste his time in a room full of people with the same I.Q. as their elementary age students. Plus, he knows the only reasons that these teachers are taking a graduate course is so they can get a pay raise.
Ryan shakes off his less-than-positive thoughts about his now fellow classmates as the professor enters the room. He’s wearing a suit and tie and laughs as a woman in the front row teases him about it.
“It freaks out the other professors when I dress up,” he says. “They stopped getting riled up at my choices of t-shirts, so I knew it was time to shake it up.”
The woman shakes her head, and the professor moves over toward the smart board and leans his briefcase up against the wall. He clears his throat and says, “Welcome to EDU 750, Young Adult Literature. If you’re in the wrong class, you should really think about staying, because I’ve been told I’m the most unique person you’ll ever meet.”
“You can’t be the most unique,” a voice calls out from the left side of the classroom, and when Ryan turns, he sees a man about his age with the biggest grin on his face, laughing. “Pete, unique lends itself to the connotation of the only. You can’t be the most only.”
“It’s Professor Wentz to you,” the professor shoots back, but it’s all in good humor.
Oh god, Ryan realizes, these people have probably known each other for years. It’s going to be complete hell. Call him old-fashioned, but Ryan likes for professors to wear a suit and tie out of respect and have appropriate aloofness and superiority toward students.
“As I was saying,” Wentz goes on, “I’m excited to teach this class. So often, Young Adult literature is overlooked, most likely because of the over-saturation of pseudo-Gothic romance novels that have developed thanks to the likes of Stephanie Meyers.”
There are a few chuckles, and Ryan can’t help but like this Wentz guy a little bit more than he had thought he would.
“We’re not here to read Meyers or Dessen or some of the more base level fiction. Instead, the point of this class is to explore ways that one could teach good fiction to young adults.” Wentz goes to his briefcase and pulls out a book. The cover is all blue except for a yellow star and stick figure of a girl. “Now, what is good literature?”
Just from looking at the book in the professor’s hands, Ryan knows that whatever that blue book is, it isn’t good literature.
Since no one else in the room is raising his or her hand, and since obviously Ryan is the one who knows the most about literature - having a degree in it and all - he raises his hand.
The professor’s face lights up. “Oh, you’re new. What’s your name?”
Ryan tries desperately to control the heat rising in his cheeks. “Ryan Ross.”
“Well, Ryan, what do you think makes good literature?”
Ryan was born for this question. He paid $200,000 to make sure that he could answer it correctly and without hesitation. “Good literature is literature that is part of the canonical list - meaning that the authors are well-respected and the books have been approved as worthy of study by various critical experts.”
There’s a murmur in the class, and Wentz raises an eyebrow. “So Jane Eyre?”
“Is good literature,” Ryan says. “Bronte is well-known. She is frequently studied, and her books have lasted for nearly two hundred years.”
“I’d like to take a counter-argument,” a voice says. It’s the same guy that argued Wentz over the word “unique”, and now that Ryan looks at him more closely, he sees that there’s a know-it-all vibe trying to burst through those comically large brown eyes. “Personally, I find Jane Eyre dull, dangerously condoning traditional gender roles while hiding behind a screen of feminism, and two-hundred pages too long.”
Wentz claps his hands together. “Excellent, Brendon. What is good literature in your opinion?”
Brendon shrugs. “I think that good literature is all dependant on what you can make out of the words.” He points to the book in Wentz’s hands. “Take Stargirl, for instance. It’s written with simplistic language, but I can use it with my students to talk about conformity and individuality. To me, that makes a book “good” or worth my time.”
The professor nods. “So is a book “good” because of what the reader takes away from it or because of the author’s craft?”
“While both are valid, the author’s craft is more significant,” Ryan says. He doesn’t want to end on the sour note of Jane Eyre. “Without stylistic integrity there is no merit for study.”
“And without a relational element with the reader, the words have no meaning,” Brendon fires back.
“You can’t just pick out any book and hope that someone will relate to it,” Ryan argues. “There’s a reason for canonical literature - it’s because we know that the works are worthy of someone’s time.”
“Who is this ‘we’? Because the ‘we’ certainly does not mean the students who are reading the books. Do you think any kid really wants to read Moby Dick?” Ryan starts a little at that, because he actually liked reading Moby Dick. “Without taking the student into consideration when choosing a book, you’re turning education into a banking system,” Brendon says. “You tell the kid to like Walt Whitman and they’ll spit your words back out at you verbatim two weeks later.”
By now, Ryan is flushing - all attempts to keep his red cheeks under control thrown away. It’s not fair for education majors to bring education into arguments about literature.
Thankfully, Wentz, who is grinning brightly, breaks up the argument. “This is an excellent transition into our first author of study,” he says, and Ryan tunes out. He doesn’t speak up for the rest of the class, merely grabs a sheet of paper with the book list on it when the class ends and heads out the door before some public school teacher can make him look like a jackass again.
---
“How was class?” Spencer asks when Ryan closes the door to their apartment. Spencer is sitting on their slightly-worn couch, feet up against the saved-from-the-dumpster coffee table, and is eating what Ryan bets is the last of the boxed mac-n-cheese.
“Stupid,” Ryan says. He throws himself down on the couch next to Spencer, frowning when he sees that Spencer’s watching the Disney Channel again, but he’s too lazy to fight for the remote. “I got shown up by some holier than thou teacher who was acting like he was in the middle of a goddamn Lifetime movie.”
Spencer snorts. “Are you the only non-Education person there?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t really talk to anyone,” Ryan admits.
“Well, it’s good that you’re trying to make the most of the situation,” Spencer says sarcastically, smacking Ryan’s hand away as he tries to sneak a couple of noodles from out of the bowl. “Get your own food.”
“That is my food you’re eating,” Ryan points out, and Spencer shrugs.
“It’s good.”
“I’m so happy for you,” Ryan says, huffing as he pulls out the reading list from his back pocket, smoothing away the crumbled wrinkles. “I have to go buy these stupid teeny-bopper books before the next class.”
Spencer grabs the sheet from Ryan’s hands, and Ryan uses Spencer distraction to steal a bite of fake-cheesy goodness.
“Some of these books aren’t bad,” Spencer says, yanking his bowl back, leaving a disappointed Ryan in its wake. “You like Vonnegut. And you like Atwood. Last week you were telling me you were going to pick up her new novel.”
Ryan grabs the paper back. “I’ll admit that there are good books, but there are also bad ones. Like graphic novels? How the fuck are graphic novels educational? I’d like to see Brendon explain that to me.”
“Who?”
“No one,” Ryan says. It doesn’t really matter.
---
The next class doesn’t start out too badly. Wentz goes around the room, asking everyone to share their favorite book from their youth. There’s a pretty big variety, though Ryan had no idea Judy Blume had written so many books. When his turn comes, Ryan says the first book that comes into his mind - “Diary by Chuck Palahniuk,” he answers. Wentz nods and moves on to the next person, who cites some book that Ryan’s never heard of.
He pretty much zones out on many of the people’s choices until it’s Brendon’s turn. He’ll probably pick some mainstream novel that lends itself to movie franchises and screened t-shirts at Hot Topic, but the other man surprises him. “I’m a sucker for the classics,” Brendon says. “Growing up, I always loved Catcher in the Rye by Salinger.”
Wentz, obviously happy with the choices, starts to write down common themes from the book choices the class had thrown out. Around Ryan, the other students are diligently taking notes. Ryan jots down something now and then, but he doesn’t really see how this will ever be useful to him. It’s geared toward kids. Still, though, he pays attention.
“So we have ‘growing up/coming of age’, obviously,” Professor Wentz says. “We can fit a good amount of your books under that category.” He writes several titles under the heading, including Brendon’s choice. “What else is there?”
Both Ryan and Brendon raise their hands, but Brendon’s is accompanied by an almost frantic waving, and Ryan can just imagine Brendon’s students acting exactly the same way. Typical.
“Ryan,” Wentz says.
“Several of the novels deal with isolation,” he says.
Wentz nods as he writes the word on the smart board. “Brendon, could you tell me which novels would deal with that theme?”
“Well, Catcher in the Rye, obviously,” Brendon says. “Holden feels as though he doesn’t fit in with any age group, social class, or anything, really. And…” He hesitates for a moment. “Diary deals with a woman who is separated from the rest of her neighbors due to a mystical plot.”
“Great,” Wentz says, writing the titles down. The rest of the novels are placed in other themes, and Ryan watches as the professor crosses out titles that are in more than one theme. By the time all the books are placed, each theme only has two novels.
“You’re probably wondering why we’re doing this,” Wentz says, and Ryan hadn’t really. He’s always been of the school of thought that whatever the professor says is most likely valuable to his final grade, but some people around the class are nodding or looking puzzled. “It’s a good study in theme, yes, but I wanted to find a fun way to put you into your groups for your semester long research project.”
Groups? The word makes Ryan cringe. He hates group work. Literature is not meant to be a community-based activity. It’s solitary. It’s why Ryan likes it. He can just hole himself up in a corner with a good book, and in the Literature department, that is seen as normal. Apparently, the Education department has a different view on the matter.
“Whichever book is paired with yours underneath the theme heading is your partner for the semester,” Wentz continues. “I’d like you to get with your partner now, take a second to get to know each other if you don’t already, and I’ll be around to talk to you about your topics.”
Dread fills Ryan. Fuck. The book in the same category as his is Brendon’s. Damn him for bringing up the theme of isolation. If only he had spoken up and said something about destiny, he could be paired with that nice-looking nerdy girl who had named her favorite book as The Once and Future King.
But now people are moving to get to their partners. Ryan groans and picks up his stuff to make his way across the room. As he gets closer, Brendon smiles, apparently unaware that Ryan has dubbed him as his arch-nemesis of the class.
“Hey,” Brendon says, and he holds his hand out. Seriously, don’t these people know that germs are spread through human contact? “I’m not sure if you caught my name, but I’m Brendon. You’re Ryan, right?” Ryan nods and gives in, shaking Brendon’s hand.
“You teach?” Ryan asks, even though he knows the answer already.
Brendon nods. “7th grade,” he says, and a fond look passes his face. “They’re absolute terrors. 7th grade is without a doubt the worst age for human existence.”
Ryan surprises himself with a laugh. “Why would you teach them, then?”
“Because I love them, regardless of that fact. Plus, by the end of the year, they’re back to being sweet again. It’s just the hormones.” Brendon looks amused, as if hormones are just silly things that are to be dealt with in a span of several months. “What about you?”
“I’m working on my Masters degree in Contemporary Literature,” Ryan says. It sounds impressive, he knows, but Brendon just nods, like he knows just how much work Ryan’s had to go through.
“Cool.”
Before Ryan can explain to Brendon just how cool it really is, Wentz rounds to their desks to talk with them.
“This will be a good group,” he says, “I can tell. Two really strong personalities.” The professor looks excited about the possibilities that come from that combination, but Ryan can’t help but imagine himself hitting Brendon over the head with a compilation of Frost poems. “So, what are your ideas for your project?”
Ryan frowns. He thought that they were going to be assigned a topic. That’s…how school works.
Brendon, however, doesn’t seem to be phased. “We haven’t really discussed anything yet, but I was thinking that Ryan and I could do a sort of approach to the topic of ‘good’ literature like we did last week. Since Ryan values the canon and I value relational approaches, I thought we could research what the experts say on the matter.”
Even though they hadn’t talked about it, Ryan likes the idea. It’ll give him a chance to do individual work - finding the proper support to make his viewpoint verified -and prove that he was right all along.
Wentz nods. “That could be interesting,” he says. “So you will approach the topic from the one side, Ryan from the other, and you’ll come together to make a final assessment.” He hums. “Yes, I think that would be very interesting. You’ll, of course, have to have a practical element to it.”
Again, Ryan is lost, but thankfully Brendon swoops in. “Since Ryan doesn’t have a class of his own, I’ll talk to my principal and see if she would be okay with him coming in for a little to team-teach.”
“Wait, what?” Ryan can’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth, probably because they’re infused with too much blind panic. “I have to teach?”
Wentz smiles almost sympathetically at him. “Since this is an Education course, it’s required to have at least twenty hours of classroom time,” he says. “Normally, we would assign you to a teacher and school, but if Brendon’s offering, you can just buddy up with him.”
Ryan gapes at them both for a minute. He never signed up for being around crazy, hormonal teenagers. And, oh God, Ryan bets that Brendon works in some inner city school where he helps the students overcome their pain by making journal entries or some shit.
It takes him a moment to pull himself out of his hysteria before he realizes that Wentz has moved on.
Brendon pulls out a sheet of paper and scribbles down some information. “Here is my cell number, email, and information about my school. Let me talk to my principal and I’ll get back to you when I find out if you shadowing will be okay.”
Ryan nods, still in a daze. He is not okay with this whole teaching thing, but he allows Brendon to put his information in his phone, call himself, and save the information with a smile and a “This is going to be so great. I can’t wait for my kids to meet you.”
---
Ryan drags Spencer out to a bar that Friday night because “I really just need to get drunk right now, damnit.” Spencer, always the good friend, just grabs his car keys, says he’ll be the D.D., and drives them to the nearest bar.
Because it’s the closest bar and also the cheapest in the area, Ryan can’t complain too much about the ambiance, but really, he wishes people would just admit that karaoke with alcohol is a bad combination. When he voices this opinion to Spencer over his fourth beer of the night, Spencer just snorts and says, “They still sound better than you, Ross” and orders another Coke.
“We should have forced Ian to drive us,” Ryan says. “It’s no fun to drink by myself.”
“If you’ll cough up money for a cab, I guess I could trouble myself to drink a couple of shots,” Spencer says, smile playing on his face, and Ryan smacks his upper arm.
“I’m just a poor grad student,” Ryan laments. “My pockets are only as deep as your thoughts.”
Spencer scoffs in mock-hurt and orders a shot of tequila. “Just for that,” Spencer says, “you’re going to have to call someone later to pick us up.”
It doesn’t really bother Ryan. Spencer has had a hard week, too. Who knew that being a grown up could be so stressful? Ryan has told Spencer time and time again to just stay in school for as long as he can to prolong adolescence, but Spencer has always been far too damn responsible.
“You can drink as much as you want as long as you promise me that you won’t sing,” Ryan says, and Spencer makes Ryan swear the same thing too before they shake on it.
“Come on,” Spencer says, “let’s go find a table.” He leads them through the slightly-smoky bar until they find an empty booth. By the time they sit down, Ryan is feeling good. He has almost forgotten about the fact that he’s going to have to get up in front of a group of twelve year olds - who really, with the current trend of over-information are like sixteen year olds - and teach them something.
“Spencer,” Ryan says forlornly into his beer, “I’m going to be an awful teacher.” He’s never given it much thought before. Teaching always looked so easy. You just followed along with the teacher’s manual, right? But now, the thought of having to get up in front of a class and take control of the direction is overwhelming.
Spencer, however, seems to have missed the memo on being a good friend, because he just takes a sip from his completely fruity-looking drink and says, “You really will be.”
“Thanks,” Ryan says, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Just speaking the truth,” Spencer says. “You have a chronic need to prove your intelligence to everyone. How the hell are you going to make literature approachable to kids?”
Ryan hadn’t even thought about that. “God, I need another drink,” he says, standing up to head toward the bar. “You want anything?” Spencer holds up a finger, probably indicating that he wants another one of his far-too-sweet drinks, but fuck him, Ryan’s coming back with two beers.
When he gets to the bar, it’s a lot more crowded than it was just a couple of minutes ago, and it takes him nearly five minutes to get the bartender’s attention. When he finally does get his beers, he swings around quickly to get back to the booth and almost knocks straight into someone.
“Shit,” he says, beer sloshing over the sides of the cup. “I didn’t see you there, man, sorry.”
“It’s okay,” a familiar voice says, and when Ryan looks up, he sees Brendon smiling back at him. “Hard week?”
Ryan shrugs, almost forgetting the beers as more liquid drips over his fingers. “What about you. I didn’t know teachers knew how to drink.”
Brendon laughs. “You obviously didn’t go to public school,” he says. He looks around for a moment, scooping out behind Ryan. “You here with your girlfriend?”
If it were anyone else but the middle school teacher with whom Ryan is going to have to write a paper with, Ryan would say that Brendon was flirting. “I’m just here with my roommate, Spencer,” Ryan says. “You want to join us?”
If Brendon says yes, Ryan is going to have to give Spencer a very brief but stern talk about how to act so he doesn’t throw Ryan under a bus or anything.
Brendon shakes his head, though, saving Ryan the trouble. “I’m actually here on a sort-of date.”
Ryan can feel his eyebrows shoot up. “How can it be a sort-of date?” he asks.
“Well,” Brendon says, leaning closer to Ryan, as if his words are a secret. “I think he likes me far more than I like him. So I have to give the awkward “let’s just be friends” speech tonight.” Brendon’s choice of pronoun doesn’t escape Ryan, though it does surprise him. He doesn’t know why, but Ryan has always assumed that every teacher is straight. And married. They also, for some reason in his mind, all do the morning crossword puzzle and watch Jeopardy at night.
Ryan doesn’t let his surprise show, though. Even if Brendon is his now downgraded to a mild annoyance of a classmate, he’s kind of funny, and Ryan doesn’t want to come off as a complete douchebag or anything. “If you need an escape, my friend and I are sitting right over there,” Ryan says, pointing to his booth where Spencer is not-so-subtly staring at them, looking impatient for his next drink.
“Thanks,” Brendon says, smile genuine. “Wish me luck, Ryan.” He moves fluidly through the crowd, and Ryan watches as he stops in front of an attractive guy who lights up when Brendon sits down. Poor guy. He won’t even see it coming.
When Ryan gets back to his own booth, Spencer makes a quick grab for his drink. “I’m parched,” he says, taking a deep gulp from his beer. It only takes a moment of Ryan settling down in his booth before Spencer puts his beer aside and asks, eyes sparkling, “So, who was the hottie?”
Ryan rolls his eyes, because this is so typical Spencer that Ryan could field the rest of this conversation with his eyes closed. “He’s my partner for the education thing,” Ryan says.
“Don’t go having any kinky sex in his classroom or anything,” Spencer says. “There are cameras everywhere nowadays.”
And that, Ryan thinks with fond amusement, is why Spencer is his best friend.
---
Brendon calls Ryan on a Monday night to tell him that the principal okayed everything, and Ryan promptly freaks out. Really, if Brendon were that concerned about people’s relationships and emotions and shit like that, he should have just waited until class tomorrow to tell Ryan about this. Now he has a whole twenty-four hours to freak out before Brendon can calm him down with whatever techniques he uses for pubescent boys who have just discovered that the next five years of their life will be living hell.
In order to combat his overwhelming anxiety, Spencer calls Jon and has him bring over as many inspirational teaching movies as he can find.
“Jon says he’ll be here in twenty minutes,” Spencer says, “but he also says that you still owe him for spilling your drink in his car from when he picked us up from that bar.”
Ryan just waves Spencer off. He has more important matters now than that misguided attempt to try and sober up with a coffee from McDonalds at two o’clock in the morning.
“I don’t know why you’re freaking out, Ryan. Yeah, you’re going to suck, but you love being superior to people. You’ll have a blast.”
“Not helping, Spencer,” Ryan growls, and he throws a handful of goldfish at his roommate, mindful that it’s Spencer’s week to clean the apartment. He does regret wasting the cheddary treats, though.
By the time that Jon gets over, Ryan is pacing the room. “I don’t even know what’s expected of me.”
“Calm down, it’s not like you’re going to be thrown into a classroom first thing,” Jon reasons, and that makes Ryan stop for a moment, because of course he isn’t going to have to teach first thing. He doesn’t know why he hadn’t thought about that.
“You’re right,” Ryan says, and now that he’s thinking straight, everything is making sense in the world again. “Plus, it’s not like teaching is that hard. How many movies are there about teachers who change peoples’ lives?” He looks at the stack of movies in Jon’s arms. “See, it’s not like Modernist Literary Theory.”
Ryan watches as Spencer and Jon share a confused look, and his nerves die down. It’s okay, he’s still smart. He still has it.
“So, you want to watch Dead Poet’s Society?” Jon asks.
Spencer makes a face. “I hate that “O, Captain, my Captain” scene. It’s too cheesy. Let’s watch Freedom Writers.”
“Oh yeah, because that’s not cheesy,” Jon says.
“Whatever,” Ryan says. “Fuck these movies. I’m over being nervous. It was stupid. Let’s just watch something awesome like David Lynch.”
There’s that look between Spencer and Jon again, and Ryan grins. He doesn’t know why he was worried about anything.
----
During the next class, Wentz starts to delve into popular Y.A. authors, but as Ryan is learning to understand it now, he doesn’t mean those vampire books that line the shelves at Barnes and Noble.
“There are books that students will want to read because they seem hip,” Wentz says as he holds up a book with a picture of a full moon on it, “and there are books that students will read because you, the teacher, decides there’s some value to it.” This time, he holds up a copy of The Scarlett Letter. “Both choices are valuable. Can anyone tell me why?”
Several hands go up, and the professor calls on Greta. Her voice is sure as she talks, and after just two sentences, Ryan realizes that she’s far more intelligent than he had first surmised. “According to Zimmerman and the proponents of Best Practices,” Greta says, “it’s more important to have students interested in literature than for them to read a set list of certain books. However, it is also important to guide student choice to a direction that encourages higher thought and critical thinking.”
“Excellent points, Greta,” Wentz says. Off of the professor’s endorsement, Ryan quickly jots down the name that Greta mentioned. He probably has something that Ryan could use in his paper. “What I want us to think about today is topical themes that one could utilize from present day modern Y.A. literature.”
Up at the front of the room, Ryan can see that the table has been laid out with the selection of books assigned for the class. Some of the novels, he’s already read, but there are some that he doesn’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole.
“I want you to count by threes, get into your groups, and then choose one of the novels to discuss. I want you to brainstorm ways you could approach the novel in an academic setting.”
Even though Ryan is well-versed in literary analysis and everything that goes along with that, he is way out of his league in this class when it comes to educational context. He’s never heard of the people that his classmates seem to quote on a daily basis. When he’s put into his group, consisting of four other people he hasn’t met yet, his brain sort of short-circuits off of all the names he’s hearing, and he hurries to jot them down. Freire, LaBrant, Rosenblatt, Kohn.
He’s never realized that there is so much thought that goes into education. Hell, now Ryan feels bad about saying that Arne Duncan was a good choice for Secretary of Education back when he was trying to chat up some girl at a literary event. He obviously doesn’t know shit. Who knew the Race to the Top was such a shit idea in reality?
The book that his group is assigned is something that Ryan’s never read before and hasn’t gotten to in his reading list yet, so he’s pretty much useless. He doesn’t know anything about educational theory and he doesn’t know anything about this author, whose last name he can’t pronounce.
After awhile, Ryan just zones out, trying not to feel like too much of a failure. The seconds seem to tick by more slowly than ever, and Ryan is too worked up about his own sudden ineptness that he doesn’t see Brendon looking at him with a concerned look on his face.
---
Ryan is on his way to his car, walking slowly across the parking lot and feeling like a failure when suddenly a warm body knocks into him.
“Hey,” Brendon says, catching his breath, at Ryan’s side. He’s grinning, but Ryan can barely make it out in the dim light of the parking lot and he can’t help but wonder how much brighter it would look outside of dingy bars and fluorescent-lit classrooms. “I’m glad I caught you before you left.”
“Um, yeah,” Ryan says. All he wants to do at this moment is go back to his apartment and email his friend William from undergrad, who always thought that Ryan was the smartest person he’d ever met. “You want to talk about the project or something? I guess we need to set up a time for me to come to your school.”
“Well, yes, but that’s not really why I ran to catch you.” Brendon’s smile softens a little. “You seem like you could use a pick-me-up,” he says. “How about I take you out to some organic frozen yogurt?”
Honestly, Ryan would probably prefer a stiff drink, but for some reason, he finds it impossible to tell Brendon no. “I, uh, yeah. Sure,” Ryan mutters.
“I’m going to take your lack of enthusiasm as proof that you’ve never experienced good frozen yogurt,” Brendon says, and he starts to lead Ryan to his car. “I’ll drop you off back here when we’re done. Come on, get in.”
There was a time when Ryan never hesitated to get into the cars of attractive men and let them drive him wherever - especially when wherever usually meant a place to fool around - but Ryan’s grown up a lot since his wild days of undergrad. Still, there is very little that is threatening about Brendon’s purple mini-van, especially since it has a bumper sticker on the back of the van that says Be Nice to Books and Stop - Grammar Time!.
“I’m sorry it’s a little messy,” Brendon says, leaning over to clear off the passenger seat before Ryan slides in. “I can never find the time to clean my car out.”
Ryan just shrugs. It’s not like he can talk. He’s pretty sure he and Spencer still have a half eaten cake buried somewhere in the back of his refrigerator from a month ago. “At least you have decent taste in music,” he says, nodding along to some Indie sounding band that he will, for the next twenty minutes, pretend that he knows.
“Yeah, well, my Justin Beiber cd was stolen by a group of twelve-year-olds,” Brendon jokes. “The yogurt place is just off-campus. And you absolutely have to try the pomegranate flavor.”
“Just vanilla for me,” Ryan says.
“Live a little, Ross,” Brendon says, tapping his fingers along with the music for a moment before pulling a sharp turn into a parking spot that seems to have come out of nowhere. “See? We’re here already.”
Ryan leaves the car with shaky legs, but manages to make it inside the yogurt shop where Brendon somehow convinces him to mix kiwi and Fruity Pebbles.
“I now have a working theory,” Ryan says as he and Brendon settle down into a booth by the window and Brendon takes a giant bite of his yogurt, which is overflowing with Captain Crunch and Oreos, “that you are a middle school teacher just so you have an excuse to eat as much sugar as they do.”
Brendon’s grin is marred by black Oreo dust between his teeth, but for some reason, that only make him look endearing. “You caught me,” Brendon says. “I actually could care less about helping students realize their potential. I’m just in it for the sugar rush.”
Ryan can only imagine just how much sugar one would need to keep up with a class full of middle schoolers, and when he asks Brendon, “Your kids are going to hate me, won’t they?” he can’t seem to keep the insecurity out of his voice.
“Of course they won’t,” Brendon says. He reaches across the table and lays what Ryan supposes is a comforting hand on his forearm, but Ryan pulls his arm away. Brendon doesn’t seem to notice. “My kids will love you. They’re always far better behaved for outside people than they are for me. Or for-” he shudders “-substitutes.”
“I know nothing about education,” Ryan admits. “I know literature, sure, but kids? Fuck, every time my best friend’s niece sees me she won’t stop crying.”
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Brendon says. “When I first started out, I didn’t know anything about education either. I was just an English major who decided he wanted to teach and was thrown into a mentorship program at Woodmountain Middle. I won’t lie to you and tell you that it’s easy, but Ryan, it’s the best decision I ever made.”
Though Ryan doubts that the decision to take Y.A. Literature - which wasn’t even his decision - will be the best thing that ever happens to him, he can’t deny the way that Brendon’s words calm him down, just a little.
When Brendon drops him back off at his car, stomach full of surprisingly delicious yogurt, Ryan promises to meet Brendon at his school later that week and only feels a little pang of anxiety.
Part Two
Author: ivesia19
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan (Spencer/Haley; mentioned Brendon/Dallon)
POV: 3rd limited (Ryan)
Summary: The one where Ryan is a pretentious graduate student, and Brendon is a Middle School teacher who teaches him a thing or two.
Disclaimer: False. Fake. Fiction. Other “f” words.
Beta: Thank you to the wonderful kaytvengeance, who not only helped me with this story but also made me laugh out loud by the cultural differences of goldfish snacks.
Author Notes: The opinions expressed by Ryan at the beginning of this story regarding the ineptitude of those who choose to become teachers are not my own. Public education is very near and dear to my heart. Hence this fic. (also, this is for all the people who wanted a return of teacher!Brendon!)
Ryan Ross does not understand why he has to be here. “I’m getting my Masters in Contemporary Literature,” Ryan grumbles into his cell phone, complaining to his roommate again. “I just don’t see why I have to take Y.A. Lit. in order to graduate.”
Spencer sighs audibly through the phone. “Look, Ryan, you’ve been bitching about this since your advisor signed you up, but there’s nothing I can do about it, so you need to stop complaining and get your ass inside the building. I know you’re just hiding in your car, trying to convince yourself that you can skip and go to Starbucks.”
Ryan frowns and makes an offended noise. He would never go to Starbucks. Not after that cappuccino incident.
He can’t deny, however, that he is sitting inside his car, staring at the building that holds the last class he needs to pass to get his Masters over and done with. What he’ll do with a Masters in Contemporary Literature, Ryan doesn’t know, but he’s getting sick of academia.
“Fuck you, Spencer,” Ryan mutters into the phone. He hangs up in the middle of Spencer’s echoing laughter and gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him for good measure.
The university has a stupid Masters program, Ryan decides, as he climbs the steps to room 205. He shouldn’t be wasting his time in a class that will no doubt spend the entire semester talking about Twilight and other crappy vampire rip offs.
In Ryan’s expert opinion, Young Adult Literature is a waste of time.
As he enters the room, Ryan sees that it’s already filled with about fifteen people. They all look like Education people. He can tell. There are too many happy faces for 7:30 on a Monday night. Ryan curses his lot in life - he hates the Elementary Education people; they always want to hug him - and sits down in one of the open seats next to a girl with long reddish-blond hair.
She smiles as he sits down and holds out her hand. “Hi, I’m Greta.” If she notices Ryan’s hesitation to extend his hand to a perfect stranger (really, what is it about these people and touching?), she doesn’t let on. She just shakes Ryan’s hand when he finally complies. “I haven’t seen you in any of the other Education classes,” she says.
“I’m not an Education major,” Ryan replies, and he’s already mentally preparing himself to spill his well-used explanation.
“Then why-?”
“Young Adult Literature is required for any Literature majors,” Ryan supplies. “It’s part of the university’s attempts to make a cross-curricular statement about education or something.”
Greta takes Ryan’s answer with grace. She smiles at him again, but doesn’t try to keep the conversation going. It’s probably pretty obvious to her that he doesn’t want to be here. It’s probably pretty obvious to everyone. Well, those who could tell a difference.
The reason that Ryan has been dreading this class is that he knows that it’s going to be full of teachers. He knows the world needs teachers, but honestly, those who do, do, and those who can’t, teach, and Ryan would like to not waste his time in a room full of people with the same I.Q. as their elementary age students. Plus, he knows the only reasons that these teachers are taking a graduate course is so they can get a pay raise.
Ryan shakes off his less-than-positive thoughts about his now fellow classmates as the professor enters the room. He’s wearing a suit and tie and laughs as a woman in the front row teases him about it.
“It freaks out the other professors when I dress up,” he says. “They stopped getting riled up at my choices of t-shirts, so I knew it was time to shake it up.”
The woman shakes her head, and the professor moves over toward the smart board and leans his briefcase up against the wall. He clears his throat and says, “Welcome to EDU 750, Young Adult Literature. If you’re in the wrong class, you should really think about staying, because I’ve been told I’m the most unique person you’ll ever meet.”
“You can’t be the most unique,” a voice calls out from the left side of the classroom, and when Ryan turns, he sees a man about his age with the biggest grin on his face, laughing. “Pete, unique lends itself to the connotation of the only. You can’t be the most only.”
“It’s Professor Wentz to you,” the professor shoots back, but it’s all in good humor.
Oh god, Ryan realizes, these people have probably known each other for years. It’s going to be complete hell. Call him old-fashioned, but Ryan likes for professors to wear a suit and tie out of respect and have appropriate aloofness and superiority toward students.
“As I was saying,” Wentz goes on, “I’m excited to teach this class. So often, Young Adult literature is overlooked, most likely because of the over-saturation of pseudo-Gothic romance novels that have developed thanks to the likes of Stephanie Meyers.”
There are a few chuckles, and Ryan can’t help but like this Wentz guy a little bit more than he had thought he would.
“We’re not here to read Meyers or Dessen or some of the more base level fiction. Instead, the point of this class is to explore ways that one could teach good fiction to young adults.” Wentz goes to his briefcase and pulls out a book. The cover is all blue except for a yellow star and stick figure of a girl. “Now, what is good literature?”
Just from looking at the book in the professor’s hands, Ryan knows that whatever that blue book is, it isn’t good literature.
Since no one else in the room is raising his or her hand, and since obviously Ryan is the one who knows the most about literature - having a degree in it and all - he raises his hand.
The professor’s face lights up. “Oh, you’re new. What’s your name?”
Ryan tries desperately to control the heat rising in his cheeks. “Ryan Ross.”
“Well, Ryan, what do you think makes good literature?”
Ryan was born for this question. He paid $200,000 to make sure that he could answer it correctly and without hesitation. “Good literature is literature that is part of the canonical list - meaning that the authors are well-respected and the books have been approved as worthy of study by various critical experts.”
There’s a murmur in the class, and Wentz raises an eyebrow. “So Jane Eyre?”
“Is good literature,” Ryan says. “Bronte is well-known. She is frequently studied, and her books have lasted for nearly two hundred years.”
“I’d like to take a counter-argument,” a voice says. It’s the same guy that argued Wentz over the word “unique”, and now that Ryan looks at him more closely, he sees that there’s a know-it-all vibe trying to burst through those comically large brown eyes. “Personally, I find Jane Eyre dull, dangerously condoning traditional gender roles while hiding behind a screen of feminism, and two-hundred pages too long.”
Wentz claps his hands together. “Excellent, Brendon. What is good literature in your opinion?”
Brendon shrugs. “I think that good literature is all dependant on what you can make out of the words.” He points to the book in Wentz’s hands. “Take Stargirl, for instance. It’s written with simplistic language, but I can use it with my students to talk about conformity and individuality. To me, that makes a book “good” or worth my time.”
The professor nods. “So is a book “good” because of what the reader takes away from it or because of the author’s craft?”
“While both are valid, the author’s craft is more significant,” Ryan says. He doesn’t want to end on the sour note of Jane Eyre. “Without stylistic integrity there is no merit for study.”
“And without a relational element with the reader, the words have no meaning,” Brendon fires back.
“You can’t just pick out any book and hope that someone will relate to it,” Ryan argues. “There’s a reason for canonical literature - it’s because we know that the works are worthy of someone’s time.”
“Who is this ‘we’? Because the ‘we’ certainly does not mean the students who are reading the books. Do you think any kid really wants to read Moby Dick?” Ryan starts a little at that, because he actually liked reading Moby Dick. “Without taking the student into consideration when choosing a book, you’re turning education into a banking system,” Brendon says. “You tell the kid to like Walt Whitman and they’ll spit your words back out at you verbatim two weeks later.”
By now, Ryan is flushing - all attempts to keep his red cheeks under control thrown away. It’s not fair for education majors to bring education into arguments about literature.
Thankfully, Wentz, who is grinning brightly, breaks up the argument. “This is an excellent transition into our first author of study,” he says, and Ryan tunes out. He doesn’t speak up for the rest of the class, merely grabs a sheet of paper with the book list on it when the class ends and heads out the door before some public school teacher can make him look like a jackass again.
---
“How was class?” Spencer asks when Ryan closes the door to their apartment. Spencer is sitting on their slightly-worn couch, feet up against the saved-from-the-dumpster coffee table, and is eating what Ryan bets is the last of the boxed mac-n-cheese.
“Stupid,” Ryan says. He throws himself down on the couch next to Spencer, frowning when he sees that Spencer’s watching the Disney Channel again, but he’s too lazy to fight for the remote. “I got shown up by some holier than thou teacher who was acting like he was in the middle of a goddamn Lifetime movie.”
Spencer snorts. “Are you the only non-Education person there?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t really talk to anyone,” Ryan admits.
“Well, it’s good that you’re trying to make the most of the situation,” Spencer says sarcastically, smacking Ryan’s hand away as he tries to sneak a couple of noodles from out of the bowl. “Get your own food.”
“That is my food you’re eating,” Ryan points out, and Spencer shrugs.
“It’s good.”
“I’m so happy for you,” Ryan says, huffing as he pulls out the reading list from his back pocket, smoothing away the crumbled wrinkles. “I have to go buy these stupid teeny-bopper books before the next class.”
Spencer grabs the sheet from Ryan’s hands, and Ryan uses Spencer distraction to steal a bite of fake-cheesy goodness.
“Some of these books aren’t bad,” Spencer says, yanking his bowl back, leaving a disappointed Ryan in its wake. “You like Vonnegut. And you like Atwood. Last week you were telling me you were going to pick up her new novel.”
Ryan grabs the paper back. “I’ll admit that there are good books, but there are also bad ones. Like graphic novels? How the fuck are graphic novels educational? I’d like to see Brendon explain that to me.”
“Who?”
“No one,” Ryan says. It doesn’t really matter.
---
The next class doesn’t start out too badly. Wentz goes around the room, asking everyone to share their favorite book from their youth. There’s a pretty big variety, though Ryan had no idea Judy Blume had written so many books. When his turn comes, Ryan says the first book that comes into his mind - “Diary by Chuck Palahniuk,” he answers. Wentz nods and moves on to the next person, who cites some book that Ryan’s never heard of.
He pretty much zones out on many of the people’s choices until it’s Brendon’s turn. He’ll probably pick some mainstream novel that lends itself to movie franchises and screened t-shirts at Hot Topic, but the other man surprises him. “I’m a sucker for the classics,” Brendon says. “Growing up, I always loved Catcher in the Rye by Salinger.”
Wentz, obviously happy with the choices, starts to write down common themes from the book choices the class had thrown out. Around Ryan, the other students are diligently taking notes. Ryan jots down something now and then, but he doesn’t really see how this will ever be useful to him. It’s geared toward kids. Still, though, he pays attention.
“So we have ‘growing up/coming of age’, obviously,” Professor Wentz says. “We can fit a good amount of your books under that category.” He writes several titles under the heading, including Brendon’s choice. “What else is there?”
Both Ryan and Brendon raise their hands, but Brendon’s is accompanied by an almost frantic waving, and Ryan can just imagine Brendon’s students acting exactly the same way. Typical.
“Ryan,” Wentz says.
“Several of the novels deal with isolation,” he says.
Wentz nods as he writes the word on the smart board. “Brendon, could you tell me which novels would deal with that theme?”
“Well, Catcher in the Rye, obviously,” Brendon says. “Holden feels as though he doesn’t fit in with any age group, social class, or anything, really. And…” He hesitates for a moment. “Diary deals with a woman who is separated from the rest of her neighbors due to a mystical plot.”
“Great,” Wentz says, writing the titles down. The rest of the novels are placed in other themes, and Ryan watches as the professor crosses out titles that are in more than one theme. By the time all the books are placed, each theme only has two novels.
“You’re probably wondering why we’re doing this,” Wentz says, and Ryan hadn’t really. He’s always been of the school of thought that whatever the professor says is most likely valuable to his final grade, but some people around the class are nodding or looking puzzled. “It’s a good study in theme, yes, but I wanted to find a fun way to put you into your groups for your semester long research project.”
Groups? The word makes Ryan cringe. He hates group work. Literature is not meant to be a community-based activity. It’s solitary. It’s why Ryan likes it. He can just hole himself up in a corner with a good book, and in the Literature department, that is seen as normal. Apparently, the Education department has a different view on the matter.
“Whichever book is paired with yours underneath the theme heading is your partner for the semester,” Wentz continues. “I’d like you to get with your partner now, take a second to get to know each other if you don’t already, and I’ll be around to talk to you about your topics.”
Dread fills Ryan. Fuck. The book in the same category as his is Brendon’s. Damn him for bringing up the theme of isolation. If only he had spoken up and said something about destiny, he could be paired with that nice-looking nerdy girl who had named her favorite book as The Once and Future King.
But now people are moving to get to their partners. Ryan groans and picks up his stuff to make his way across the room. As he gets closer, Brendon smiles, apparently unaware that Ryan has dubbed him as his arch-nemesis of the class.
“Hey,” Brendon says, and he holds his hand out. Seriously, don’t these people know that germs are spread through human contact? “I’m not sure if you caught my name, but I’m Brendon. You’re Ryan, right?” Ryan nods and gives in, shaking Brendon’s hand.
“You teach?” Ryan asks, even though he knows the answer already.
Brendon nods. “7th grade,” he says, and a fond look passes his face. “They’re absolute terrors. 7th grade is without a doubt the worst age for human existence.”
Ryan surprises himself with a laugh. “Why would you teach them, then?”
“Because I love them, regardless of that fact. Plus, by the end of the year, they’re back to being sweet again. It’s just the hormones.” Brendon looks amused, as if hormones are just silly things that are to be dealt with in a span of several months. “What about you?”
“I’m working on my Masters degree in Contemporary Literature,” Ryan says. It sounds impressive, he knows, but Brendon just nods, like he knows just how much work Ryan’s had to go through.
“Cool.”
Before Ryan can explain to Brendon just how cool it really is, Wentz rounds to their desks to talk with them.
“This will be a good group,” he says, “I can tell. Two really strong personalities.” The professor looks excited about the possibilities that come from that combination, but Ryan can’t help but imagine himself hitting Brendon over the head with a compilation of Frost poems. “So, what are your ideas for your project?”
Ryan frowns. He thought that they were going to be assigned a topic. That’s…how school works.
Brendon, however, doesn’t seem to be phased. “We haven’t really discussed anything yet, but I was thinking that Ryan and I could do a sort of approach to the topic of ‘good’ literature like we did last week. Since Ryan values the canon and I value relational approaches, I thought we could research what the experts say on the matter.”
Even though they hadn’t talked about it, Ryan likes the idea. It’ll give him a chance to do individual work - finding the proper support to make his viewpoint verified -and prove that he was right all along.
Wentz nods. “That could be interesting,” he says. “So you will approach the topic from the one side, Ryan from the other, and you’ll come together to make a final assessment.” He hums. “Yes, I think that would be very interesting. You’ll, of course, have to have a practical element to it.”
Again, Ryan is lost, but thankfully Brendon swoops in. “Since Ryan doesn’t have a class of his own, I’ll talk to my principal and see if she would be okay with him coming in for a little to team-teach.”
“Wait, what?” Ryan can’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth, probably because they’re infused with too much blind panic. “I have to teach?”
Wentz smiles almost sympathetically at him. “Since this is an Education course, it’s required to have at least twenty hours of classroom time,” he says. “Normally, we would assign you to a teacher and school, but if Brendon’s offering, you can just buddy up with him.”
Ryan gapes at them both for a minute. He never signed up for being around crazy, hormonal teenagers. And, oh God, Ryan bets that Brendon works in some inner city school where he helps the students overcome their pain by making journal entries or some shit.
It takes him a moment to pull himself out of his hysteria before he realizes that Wentz has moved on.
Brendon pulls out a sheet of paper and scribbles down some information. “Here is my cell number, email, and information about my school. Let me talk to my principal and I’ll get back to you when I find out if you shadowing will be okay.”
Ryan nods, still in a daze. He is not okay with this whole teaching thing, but he allows Brendon to put his information in his phone, call himself, and save the information with a smile and a “This is going to be so great. I can’t wait for my kids to meet you.”
---
Ryan drags Spencer out to a bar that Friday night because “I really just need to get drunk right now, damnit.” Spencer, always the good friend, just grabs his car keys, says he’ll be the D.D., and drives them to the nearest bar.
Because it’s the closest bar and also the cheapest in the area, Ryan can’t complain too much about the ambiance, but really, he wishes people would just admit that karaoke with alcohol is a bad combination. When he voices this opinion to Spencer over his fourth beer of the night, Spencer just snorts and says, “They still sound better than you, Ross” and orders another Coke.
“We should have forced Ian to drive us,” Ryan says. “It’s no fun to drink by myself.”
“If you’ll cough up money for a cab, I guess I could trouble myself to drink a couple of shots,” Spencer says, smile playing on his face, and Ryan smacks his upper arm.
“I’m just a poor grad student,” Ryan laments. “My pockets are only as deep as your thoughts.”
Spencer scoffs in mock-hurt and orders a shot of tequila. “Just for that,” Spencer says, “you’re going to have to call someone later to pick us up.”
It doesn’t really bother Ryan. Spencer has had a hard week, too. Who knew that being a grown up could be so stressful? Ryan has told Spencer time and time again to just stay in school for as long as he can to prolong adolescence, but Spencer has always been far too damn responsible.
“You can drink as much as you want as long as you promise me that you won’t sing,” Ryan says, and Spencer makes Ryan swear the same thing too before they shake on it.
“Come on,” Spencer says, “let’s go find a table.” He leads them through the slightly-smoky bar until they find an empty booth. By the time they sit down, Ryan is feeling good. He has almost forgotten about the fact that he’s going to have to get up in front of a group of twelve year olds - who really, with the current trend of over-information are like sixteen year olds - and teach them something.
“Spencer,” Ryan says forlornly into his beer, “I’m going to be an awful teacher.” He’s never given it much thought before. Teaching always looked so easy. You just followed along with the teacher’s manual, right? But now, the thought of having to get up in front of a class and take control of the direction is overwhelming.
Spencer, however, seems to have missed the memo on being a good friend, because he just takes a sip from his completely fruity-looking drink and says, “You really will be.”
“Thanks,” Ryan says, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Just speaking the truth,” Spencer says. “You have a chronic need to prove your intelligence to everyone. How the hell are you going to make literature approachable to kids?”
Ryan hadn’t even thought about that. “God, I need another drink,” he says, standing up to head toward the bar. “You want anything?” Spencer holds up a finger, probably indicating that he wants another one of his far-too-sweet drinks, but fuck him, Ryan’s coming back with two beers.
When he gets to the bar, it’s a lot more crowded than it was just a couple of minutes ago, and it takes him nearly five minutes to get the bartender’s attention. When he finally does get his beers, he swings around quickly to get back to the booth and almost knocks straight into someone.
“Shit,” he says, beer sloshing over the sides of the cup. “I didn’t see you there, man, sorry.”
“It’s okay,” a familiar voice says, and when Ryan looks up, he sees Brendon smiling back at him. “Hard week?”
Ryan shrugs, almost forgetting the beers as more liquid drips over his fingers. “What about you. I didn’t know teachers knew how to drink.”
Brendon laughs. “You obviously didn’t go to public school,” he says. He looks around for a moment, scooping out behind Ryan. “You here with your girlfriend?”
If it were anyone else but the middle school teacher with whom Ryan is going to have to write a paper with, Ryan would say that Brendon was flirting. “I’m just here with my roommate, Spencer,” Ryan says. “You want to join us?”
If Brendon says yes, Ryan is going to have to give Spencer a very brief but stern talk about how to act so he doesn’t throw Ryan under a bus or anything.
Brendon shakes his head, though, saving Ryan the trouble. “I’m actually here on a sort-of date.”
Ryan can feel his eyebrows shoot up. “How can it be a sort-of date?” he asks.
“Well,” Brendon says, leaning closer to Ryan, as if his words are a secret. “I think he likes me far more than I like him. So I have to give the awkward “let’s just be friends” speech tonight.” Brendon’s choice of pronoun doesn’t escape Ryan, though it does surprise him. He doesn’t know why, but Ryan has always assumed that every teacher is straight. And married. They also, for some reason in his mind, all do the morning crossword puzzle and watch Jeopardy at night.
Ryan doesn’t let his surprise show, though. Even if Brendon is his now downgraded to a mild annoyance of a classmate, he’s kind of funny, and Ryan doesn’t want to come off as a complete douchebag or anything. “If you need an escape, my friend and I are sitting right over there,” Ryan says, pointing to his booth where Spencer is not-so-subtly staring at them, looking impatient for his next drink.
“Thanks,” Brendon says, smile genuine. “Wish me luck, Ryan.” He moves fluidly through the crowd, and Ryan watches as he stops in front of an attractive guy who lights up when Brendon sits down. Poor guy. He won’t even see it coming.
When Ryan gets back to his own booth, Spencer makes a quick grab for his drink. “I’m parched,” he says, taking a deep gulp from his beer. It only takes a moment of Ryan settling down in his booth before Spencer puts his beer aside and asks, eyes sparkling, “So, who was the hottie?”
Ryan rolls his eyes, because this is so typical Spencer that Ryan could field the rest of this conversation with his eyes closed. “He’s my partner for the education thing,” Ryan says.
“Don’t go having any kinky sex in his classroom or anything,” Spencer says. “There are cameras everywhere nowadays.”
And that, Ryan thinks with fond amusement, is why Spencer is his best friend.
---
Brendon calls Ryan on a Monday night to tell him that the principal okayed everything, and Ryan promptly freaks out. Really, if Brendon were that concerned about people’s relationships and emotions and shit like that, he should have just waited until class tomorrow to tell Ryan about this. Now he has a whole twenty-four hours to freak out before Brendon can calm him down with whatever techniques he uses for pubescent boys who have just discovered that the next five years of their life will be living hell.
In order to combat his overwhelming anxiety, Spencer calls Jon and has him bring over as many inspirational teaching movies as he can find.
“Jon says he’ll be here in twenty minutes,” Spencer says, “but he also says that you still owe him for spilling your drink in his car from when he picked us up from that bar.”
Ryan just waves Spencer off. He has more important matters now than that misguided attempt to try and sober up with a coffee from McDonalds at two o’clock in the morning.
“I don’t know why you’re freaking out, Ryan. Yeah, you’re going to suck, but you love being superior to people. You’ll have a blast.”
“Not helping, Spencer,” Ryan growls, and he throws a handful of goldfish at his roommate, mindful that it’s Spencer’s week to clean the apartment. He does regret wasting the cheddary treats, though.
By the time that Jon gets over, Ryan is pacing the room. “I don’t even know what’s expected of me.”
“Calm down, it’s not like you’re going to be thrown into a classroom first thing,” Jon reasons, and that makes Ryan stop for a moment, because of course he isn’t going to have to teach first thing. He doesn’t know why he hadn’t thought about that.
“You’re right,” Ryan says, and now that he’s thinking straight, everything is making sense in the world again. “Plus, it’s not like teaching is that hard. How many movies are there about teachers who change peoples’ lives?” He looks at the stack of movies in Jon’s arms. “See, it’s not like Modernist Literary Theory.”
Ryan watches as Spencer and Jon share a confused look, and his nerves die down. It’s okay, he’s still smart. He still has it.
“So, you want to watch Dead Poet’s Society?” Jon asks.
Spencer makes a face. “I hate that “O, Captain, my Captain” scene. It’s too cheesy. Let’s watch Freedom Writers.”
“Oh yeah, because that’s not cheesy,” Jon says.
“Whatever,” Ryan says. “Fuck these movies. I’m over being nervous. It was stupid. Let’s just watch something awesome like David Lynch.”
There’s that look between Spencer and Jon again, and Ryan grins. He doesn’t know why he was worried about anything.
----
During the next class, Wentz starts to delve into popular Y.A. authors, but as Ryan is learning to understand it now, he doesn’t mean those vampire books that line the shelves at Barnes and Noble.
“There are books that students will want to read because they seem hip,” Wentz says as he holds up a book with a picture of a full moon on it, “and there are books that students will read because you, the teacher, decides there’s some value to it.” This time, he holds up a copy of The Scarlett Letter. “Both choices are valuable. Can anyone tell me why?”
Several hands go up, and the professor calls on Greta. Her voice is sure as she talks, and after just two sentences, Ryan realizes that she’s far more intelligent than he had first surmised. “According to Zimmerman and the proponents of Best Practices,” Greta says, “it’s more important to have students interested in literature than for them to read a set list of certain books. However, it is also important to guide student choice to a direction that encourages higher thought and critical thinking.”
“Excellent points, Greta,” Wentz says. Off of the professor’s endorsement, Ryan quickly jots down the name that Greta mentioned. He probably has something that Ryan could use in his paper. “What I want us to think about today is topical themes that one could utilize from present day modern Y.A. literature.”
Up at the front of the room, Ryan can see that the table has been laid out with the selection of books assigned for the class. Some of the novels, he’s already read, but there are some that he doesn’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole.
“I want you to count by threes, get into your groups, and then choose one of the novels to discuss. I want you to brainstorm ways you could approach the novel in an academic setting.”
Even though Ryan is well-versed in literary analysis and everything that goes along with that, he is way out of his league in this class when it comes to educational context. He’s never heard of the people that his classmates seem to quote on a daily basis. When he’s put into his group, consisting of four other people he hasn’t met yet, his brain sort of short-circuits off of all the names he’s hearing, and he hurries to jot them down. Freire, LaBrant, Rosenblatt, Kohn.
He’s never realized that there is so much thought that goes into education. Hell, now Ryan feels bad about saying that Arne Duncan was a good choice for Secretary of Education back when he was trying to chat up some girl at a literary event. He obviously doesn’t know shit. Who knew the Race to the Top was such a shit idea in reality?
The book that his group is assigned is something that Ryan’s never read before and hasn’t gotten to in his reading list yet, so he’s pretty much useless. He doesn’t know anything about educational theory and he doesn’t know anything about this author, whose last name he can’t pronounce.
After awhile, Ryan just zones out, trying not to feel like too much of a failure. The seconds seem to tick by more slowly than ever, and Ryan is too worked up about his own sudden ineptness that he doesn’t see Brendon looking at him with a concerned look on his face.
---
Ryan is on his way to his car, walking slowly across the parking lot and feeling like a failure when suddenly a warm body knocks into him.
“Hey,” Brendon says, catching his breath, at Ryan’s side. He’s grinning, but Ryan can barely make it out in the dim light of the parking lot and he can’t help but wonder how much brighter it would look outside of dingy bars and fluorescent-lit classrooms. “I’m glad I caught you before you left.”
“Um, yeah,” Ryan says. All he wants to do at this moment is go back to his apartment and email his friend William from undergrad, who always thought that Ryan was the smartest person he’d ever met. “You want to talk about the project or something? I guess we need to set up a time for me to come to your school.”
“Well, yes, but that’s not really why I ran to catch you.” Brendon’s smile softens a little. “You seem like you could use a pick-me-up,” he says. “How about I take you out to some organic frozen yogurt?”
Honestly, Ryan would probably prefer a stiff drink, but for some reason, he finds it impossible to tell Brendon no. “I, uh, yeah. Sure,” Ryan mutters.
“I’m going to take your lack of enthusiasm as proof that you’ve never experienced good frozen yogurt,” Brendon says, and he starts to lead Ryan to his car. “I’ll drop you off back here when we’re done. Come on, get in.”
There was a time when Ryan never hesitated to get into the cars of attractive men and let them drive him wherever - especially when wherever usually meant a place to fool around - but Ryan’s grown up a lot since his wild days of undergrad. Still, there is very little that is threatening about Brendon’s purple mini-van, especially since it has a bumper sticker on the back of the van that says Be Nice to Books and Stop - Grammar Time!.
“I’m sorry it’s a little messy,” Brendon says, leaning over to clear off the passenger seat before Ryan slides in. “I can never find the time to clean my car out.”
Ryan just shrugs. It’s not like he can talk. He’s pretty sure he and Spencer still have a half eaten cake buried somewhere in the back of his refrigerator from a month ago. “At least you have decent taste in music,” he says, nodding along to some Indie sounding band that he will, for the next twenty minutes, pretend that he knows.
“Yeah, well, my Justin Beiber cd was stolen by a group of twelve-year-olds,” Brendon jokes. “The yogurt place is just off-campus. And you absolutely have to try the pomegranate flavor.”
“Just vanilla for me,” Ryan says.
“Live a little, Ross,” Brendon says, tapping his fingers along with the music for a moment before pulling a sharp turn into a parking spot that seems to have come out of nowhere. “See? We’re here already.”
Ryan leaves the car with shaky legs, but manages to make it inside the yogurt shop where Brendon somehow convinces him to mix kiwi and Fruity Pebbles.
“I now have a working theory,” Ryan says as he and Brendon settle down into a booth by the window and Brendon takes a giant bite of his yogurt, which is overflowing with Captain Crunch and Oreos, “that you are a middle school teacher just so you have an excuse to eat as much sugar as they do.”
Brendon’s grin is marred by black Oreo dust between his teeth, but for some reason, that only make him look endearing. “You caught me,” Brendon says. “I actually could care less about helping students realize their potential. I’m just in it for the sugar rush.”
Ryan can only imagine just how much sugar one would need to keep up with a class full of middle schoolers, and when he asks Brendon, “Your kids are going to hate me, won’t they?” he can’t seem to keep the insecurity out of his voice.
“Of course they won’t,” Brendon says. He reaches across the table and lays what Ryan supposes is a comforting hand on his forearm, but Ryan pulls his arm away. Brendon doesn’t seem to notice. “My kids will love you. They’re always far better behaved for outside people than they are for me. Or for-” he shudders “-substitutes.”
“I know nothing about education,” Ryan admits. “I know literature, sure, but kids? Fuck, every time my best friend’s niece sees me she won’t stop crying.”
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Brendon says. “When I first started out, I didn’t know anything about education either. I was just an English major who decided he wanted to teach and was thrown into a mentorship program at Woodmountain Middle. I won’t lie to you and tell you that it’s easy, but Ryan, it’s the best decision I ever made.”
Though Ryan doubts that the decision to take Y.A. Literature - which wasn’t even his decision - will be the best thing that ever happens to him, he can’t deny the way that Brendon’s words calm him down, just a little.
When Brendon drops him back off at his car, stomach full of surprisingly delicious yogurt, Ryan promises to meet Brendon at his school later that week and only feels a little pang of anxiety.
Part Two