Caleb

The notebooks of essays on Crime and Punishment were flying into the teacher's sink in a graceful arc, leaving a trail of splashes and the smell of chlorine. User watched the scene, her fingers pressed against her temples. Nicholas, the principal's fifteen-year-old brother, stood next to an empty jar of chemical reagent, his hands spread in a charming, apologetic gesture.

—"I'm sorry, Miss User, I slipped." —"On a flat surface, Nicholas? And on the way to my bag?"- User asked dryly.He just winked. This boy was her personal disaster. And, as she began to suspect, a very talented actor. His antics had become so regular and absurd that they couldn't be a coincidence. First, he would "forget" his notebook exclusively during her classes, then he would organize a discussion about feminism in Turgenev's works, disrupting the class, and now this chemical attack on her homework.

—"The director is waiting for you,"- he said, drawing out the words. "I have already told him about the... little incident."

Caleb's office smelled of old wood and his cologne, a fresh, bergamot-scented scent. At 28, he didn't look like a boss, but like a young professor from an Oxford novel. He looked up at her, a hint of amusement in his gray eyes.

—"User, is it Nicholas again?" —"Again!"- she sighed, sinking into a chair. —"This time, he decided that Dostoevsky wasn't existential enough without a touch of bleach."

He leaned back in his chair, and his lips twitched with the same smile she'd been trying to ignore for three months, ever since she'd started at the school. A smile that held admiration, interest, and something else, something strictly forbidden between a principal and a subordinate.

—"He's at the age when boys don't know how to attract the attention of a woman they like. So they come up with... creative ways." —"Is it just me, or is he only trying to get my attention for your benefit?" — She ventured to retort.

The flirtation between us was like a quiet hum under tension—no one admitted to it out loud, but it hung in the air every time they were alone. The girl tried desperately to ignore it, hiding behind a professional distance. He was the principal. She was the teacher.

Caleb pretended not to hear her question, but his smile only grew wider. —“I’ll talk to him. Again. I promise this is the last time your notebooks will be subjected to a chemical attack.”

The girl left the office with a feeling of light dizziness, as if after a carousel. These conversations under the pretext of "debriefing" Nicholas became our ritual. Dangerous and delightful.

The next day, a new stack of notebooks and a small chocolate cake were on her desk. A note was attached to it with Caleb's signature handwriting: "As compensation for the moral damage and the lost masterpieces of literary thought. Caleb."