✧˖°ˈ·*ε-(๑˃́ε˂̀๑ )

The cramped office reeked of that unmistakable stench of sweat, stale air, and something Chord Lefèvre could never quite mistake for anything other than sex. A distinct scent that clung to your clothes, soaked into your skin, and made you want to scrub yourself raw—something Chord was all too familiar with. 

Shifting his weight, Chord tugged his skinny jeans, silently cursing as he wiggled them over his hips. The rough denim stuck to his sweat-damp skin, like how his life had become a series of things that didn’t quite fit right anymore. 

Fashion was ridiculous. Chord missed the simple days of baggy skate jeans and shaggy hair, when he didn’t have to put thought into every aspect of his image. 

Chord brushed his bleached bangs back off his forehead with a casual sweep of his hand and flick of his chin, trying to look composed, but praying the sweat didn’t make the fresh pink tips bleed. He leaned against the white chipped-paint cinderblock wall beside the locked door. This was the moment. Things needed to be handled delicately.

Seated behind his cracked and splintered wood desk, his creep photography teacher— forty-seven, supposedly happily married, with a receding hairline, salt and pepper beard, and an untucked plaid shirt— wheezed heavily, the sweat drops in his moustache trembling. Like he had done something strenuous rather than sit there and take advantage of Chord’s hard work. And it had been hard.

The ancient office chair groaned in protest under him, unable to take the weight of whatever shame he was trying to swallow. Or it could be the potbelly. Not large enough to spill over his slacks—the guy’s fly was still undone, gross—but enough to require a new hole in his belt. His wife probably watched his diet like a meerkat on alert for predators, popping up at the first sign of sugar, so he handled as many donuts as possible in the staffroom.

Chord looked away, picking at his chipped nail polish. He focused on the door, ready to make his grand getaway, incapable of feigning interest any longer. The guy was old enough to be his dad; he was a dad. This entire experience had been ick.

 “So…”

“Your extra credit… was completed… satisfactorily,” the teacher finally managed to force out between laboured breaths. “Eighty-two percent.”

Chord kept his face neutral, but his skin crawled like when his sister shoved him on an ant hill when he was seven. The words sounded like they belonged in a low-budget porno, not in the office of a high school elective art teacher. Though, the sad windowless office could pass as a set. 

There wasn’t a single piece of art on the walls, student or professional, not even a framed degree or certificate as an assurance he was qualified. Just a half-dead potted plant in the corner and a small framed photo, conscientiously laid face down on the desk, of the guy’s two daughters. 

Chord’s lip twitched, tongue flicking at one of his snake bites, but he held back an eye roll. “Yeah, see, no. That ain’t gonna fly,” he said, crossing his arms, voice calm and low, but his heart slammed against his ribcage like his first time on stage.

This, too, was a performance like most of his life.

“Yeah, no. I’m thinkin’ eighty-seven—barely an A. Only just makes the cut. Nothing too suspicious.”

The teacher fumbled with his shirt, trying to tuck it back in. His movements were slow and awkward, like he wasn’t piecing himself together after falling apart. “Your attendance is… spotty, at best,” he said, a weak attempt at authority. “And when you are here, you goof off in class. Miss assignments.”

“Doesn’t mean I haven’t done the work,” Chord said, sharper this time. He swallowed the bubbling anger. “Maybe not the dumb shit, but I’ve been a bit busy, ya know.”

The teacher stared at him. Chord could see the moment of realization, the regret, as the gears in that pea brain began to turn. “But you haven’t,” he said, slow, careful. “That’s why you’re here.”

“Oh please, lecture me on the finer points of morality,” Chord said, voice dripping with sarcasm, a slight hint of his Quebecois accent slipping. He twisted the doorknob, not waiting for a response because, while he had a lot to lose, it wasn’t his ass on the line. In the eyes of the world, he was the victim, and his teacher knew it. “Eighty-seven,” he repeated.

The teacher’s face twitched, any attempt at authority gone. “You’re pushing your luck, and you know it,” he croaked as if he could somehow salvage the mess he’d made. He tugged at his shirt, rearranging the fabric.

Chord’s eyes slid over the man, unimpressed. “Not as much as you did.” His lip curled ever so slightly.

Before the teacher could argue, Chord flipped the lock and slipped into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that settled in his bones, and he finally breathed. 

Chord could picture the scene inside: his teacher, still in shock, sitting there, picking up the photo of his daughters he’d so purposefully laid down the second Chord coyly suggested they come to some sort of agreement. His hand probably trembled as he tried to justify his choices, pretending his moment of weakness never happened. 

It had been all too easy.

Chord’s stomach twisted. Maybe he should report him. The thought, persistent, like a splinter, lodged in his brain. He could do it anonymously, ensuring this didn’t happen to someone else, someone more naive, or a kid who didn’t know how to play the game. But he didn’t need the scandal. Not now. Not with the band about to go on tour, a new tour on the horizon, and an audition around the corner. And did he really want to ruin lives?

Chord knew his kids, but not personally. One of them went to the same school, a year younger. He vaguely recalled signing her fingerprint-smudged copy of his band’s debut album a few years ago when the whole school was losing its mind over going to school with actual rockstars. 

Honestly, Chord and the members of his band Static Shadow had very little creative input on that album, and it showed. It flopped. 

The label had been more interested in the fact that they had three teens who looked more like an idol group than in fostering the talent of their artists. The band hadn’t gone anywhere, and their first label dropped them, which was foolish for the company in the long run.

Still, the idea lingered like the smell from the office on his clothes. Maybe he’d send an email. After graduation. Once he was out of here. That would be better for the kids—the wife—in the long run. Yet another broken family.

Chord fished his iPod out of the pocket of his sleeveless hoodie and shoved the earbuds in, cranking the music. Not his band’s music, though. He wasn’t that self-absorbed. Not yet, at least. Kayne could keep that title. One was already too much.

Trudging out of the empty art department, his black Converse squeaking as he passed the colourful walls decorated with student work, prints of famous art, and paper mâché models that hung from a web of string overhead—a stark contrast to the lifeless office that had once been a darkroom. Visual art had never been Chord’s forte, but most of the artwork looked like crap, and he could do that. Too late now.

Chord merged seamlessly with the throng of aimless students milling about during lunch break, head down, weaving through the crowd.

Girls giggled as they passed, huddled together, eyes darting towards him, and more than once, one of them—nudged forward by her friends—tried to catch his attention. He wasn’t in the mood. Not that he usually was. The idea of flirting felt like another mask he was too tired to wear.

Chord ducked out of the chaotic lunch crowd and into the nearest bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him. Fluorescents buzzed overhead. Absolutely headache inducing. He leaned over the sink, splashing his face with cold water, trying to wash away the lingering grime like he could rinse off the guilt that clung tighter than his clothes.

Straightening, Chord stared at his reflection, palms pressed hard against the cool porcelain. His bleached hair stuck out in messy, product-heavy strands, which he wrangled back into place, sweeping them forward like a carefully crafted shield. His dark eyeliner was still smudgeless, perfectly applied with the precision most girls envied. This was his job. Appearances were everything, but all he saw was a mask—eyes unreadable and tired.

Once upon a time, or K through 7, Chord had been that boy—the one every girl had a crush on, the one with spiky gelled hair, a round face, and an adorably sweet smile that charmed his peers, their parents, and teachers alike. But High School happened, hardened him—and gave him an excuse to reinvent himself and become sharper, cooler rather than cute. Social anxiety does that. Now, people expect the eyeliner, the attitude, and the sarcasm, a shield he learned to wield as well as his guitar.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, head down, eyes glued to the floor, Chord barreled into the crowd again, the persistent thwump of the bass masking the crush of voices. Graduation was around the corner, and none of this mattered. Not anymore. He was already halfway out the door.

The heavy door to the auditorium let out a soft groan as he pushed it open, a gust of stale air slapping him across the face as he stepped in. The drama kids ran last-minute rehearsals onstage for the school’s latest disaster-piece theatre—Hairspray. Chord had been roped into more than one conversation about how he had to audition for Link Larkin, as if he had the time. 

 No one noticed Chord slip into the costume room. The door creaked as he closed it behind him, and he moved quickly, slipping through racks of rejected fashion of yesteryear, toward the ladder at the far end of the room before a member of the stagecraft class caught him sneaking into the restricted area. 

The FOH catwalks above the auditorium were a sanctuary—their sanctuary. No one thought to look for him there except Tan and Kian, a shared secret amongst his band. Out of sight, out of mind, a reprieve. 

Rung by rung, the anger, the disgust, the guilt—all peeled away, bit by bit. Above the world, Chord didn’t have to be anything for anyone. Just himself, hidden from everything that waited below.