School

An hour later, her muscles still screaming, Chantell pulled into the school car park.

​It was mostly empty, apart from a few staff cars and a couple of students hanging around near the far kerb.

​"Yo, Miss L! How's it hanging?" one of them shouted.

​It was Kieron, perched on the bonnet of his car. His girlfriend was practically draped over him the two of them looking like they had stepped straight out of a glossy magazine. She was striking, with long, sun-bleached blond hair falling over a skin-tight pastel-pink top and crisp white trousers. Kieron was the quintessential jock: broad-shouldered, effortlessly confident, and entirely aware of the picture they painted together.

​"Good, Kieron. You?" Chantell called back.

​"You know, Miss L. Living the dream."

​"You'd better be in the drama room tomorrow. I want to hear you audition for the part of Sweeney Todd."

​Kieron groaned. "I'm not singing, Miss L."

​"You'd better," she replied, stepping toward the boot. "It counts toward your final grade."

​"Miss L!"

---

​Twenty minutes later after convincing Kieron and another jock to haul the ridiculously heavy barber's chair through the back doors and up onto the stage Chantell finally stood back and admired their handiwork.

​"Thanks, lads. I'll make sure your help goes toward your final grade."

​Kieron wiped his brow and stared at her. "Miss L, that's blackmail."

​"It's called extra credit, Kieron," she smiled sweetly. "Now, go home."

Left alone in the quiet expanse of the hall, Chantell walked over to the edge of the stage. The red leather chair sat squarely under the low glow of the overhead house lights, looking equal parts grand and sinister.

​She climbed the stage steps, smoothed her sensible navy skirt, and sat back into the deep cushion. It was surprisingly comfortable. Sweeping her long, bright red hair back, she let it drape over the top of the leather headrest, resting her heels against the heavy footrest and arching her back slightly just to see how the angle felt.

​At twenty-five, Chantell knew she cut an attractive figure. She was trim and naturally lean, keeping fit came easy to her, even if her wardrobe had to stay carefully curated for her teaching job. Today's high-necked blouse and knee-length skirt kept things strictly professional for school grounds, but off the clock, unmarried and thoroughly enjoying her twenties, she certainly wasn't short of admirers.

​She turned her head slightly, catching her reflection in the darkened glass of the drama room doors. Staring out across the empty auditorium, she allowed herself a small, wicked grin, trying to imagine the silhouette a actor would make sitting right here.

​Then, inevitably, her mind drifted straight back to the lawn and Ian's crooked smile as he rolled up his sleeves. Her hand drifted lower as a warm, restless sensation spread through her, settling low in her belly.

​"Shall I come back?" ​The low, raspy voice drifted from the dim gloom of the back rows.

"Ian?" Chantell spluttered, quickly snatching her hand away as she squinted towards the shadowy aisle, trying to pinpoint where the voice had come from.

​"Yeah." He stepped into the warm glow of the stage lights.

Between his dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and that flashing, crooked smile, he looked dangerously out of place in a high school hall.

​Chantell was suddenly intensely aware that she was still draped over the chair. "You followed me?" she asked, sitting up straight secretly hoping that was exactly what he'd done.

​"No." He stopped right at the foot of the stage, leaning casually against the wooden trim. He was back in his black leather jacket, and it fitted his broad frame far too well. "My cousin, Jared, is a student here."

​"Is he?"

​"Yeah."

​"Oh... Oh. Right." She stepped carefully down the stage stairs, paying close attention to every step so she wouldn't trip over her own heels. "That still doesn't explain why you're in my theatre."

​"Well, Miss... I wanted to see how Dad's chair looked on stage," he said.

​The lazy, low way he drawled 'Miss' sent a sudden spark of heat straight down her spine.

​"A... and how does it look?" she asked, her voice breathy.

​Ian's blue eyes locked onto hers, his smile widening slightly. "Well... a lot better with you draped over it."

"Well, you want to try the chair out?" she asked, stepping aside from the stairs.

Ian looked at it. The red leather, the chrome armrests, the way it sat beneath the stage lights. For a moment, his crooked smile faded.

"Nah. Spent too much time having my hair cut by Dad in that chair."

"Oh. Okay." Chantell felt a small pang of disappointment, though she couldn't quite explain why. She'd only been offering him a seat, after all.

"So, your cousin," she said, moving on quickly. "What homeroom is he in?"

---

Thursday afternoon, Chantell was summoned to Principal Fasce's office.

She arrived with a notebook tucked beneath her arm and a hopeful expression that lasted precisely until she saw his face.

"I've spoken to the parents again," Fasce began.

"And?"

"We have a compromise."

Chantell lowered herself into the chair opposite his desk. "I'm listening."

"You can go ahead with the production, provided there is no murder and no blood."

She stared at him. "I'm sorry. What?"

"No murder. No blood. That's what the parents have agreed to."

"But the murders are the plot!"

"I know, Chantell."

"Then you understand the problem."

"I understand that we have parents who don't want their children watching a murderous barber turn people into pies."

"It's called dramatic irony, Principal Fasce."

"I don't think that will help."

She dropped her notebook onto her lap and rubbed her forehead. "So what exactly am I supposed to do? Have Sweeney Todd open a respectable barbershop, give everyone a nice haircut, and send them home with a complimentary comb?"

Fasce's mouth twitched, though he quickly suppressed it. "I'm not asking you to make it a comedy."

"Then what are you asking me to do?"

"Find a way to preserve the educational value of the production without showing the things the parents have objected to."

Chantell looked at him for a long moment. "You realize you've just asked me to remove the engine from a car and told me to get it running by Friday?"

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

She gathered her notebook and stood.

"Chantell?"

She paused at the door.

"I know this isn't what you wanted. But you fought for this production, and I believe you can make it work."

She gave him a tight smile. "I'll try. But if I end up staging Sweeney Todd's Excellent Haircare Emporium, I'm putting your name on the programme."

"Just get the programme approved first."

She left before he could see her smile.

"You're joking, right?" Michael Hower said.

---

It was Monday morning, and the class had only just settled into their seats when they'd been handed Chantell's latest draft of the play.

Michael stared down at the pages. "It says Sweeney Todd doesn't go to prison, but... goes on holiday."

"It's a working draft," Chantell replied smoothly.

"A holiday?" Davis looked up from his copy. "What about the Judge?"

"He's still in it."

"Does Sweeney kill him?"

"No."

"Does he threaten him?"

"No."

"Does he at least give him a stern talking-to?"

Chantell hesitated. "There's a strongly worded letter."

Michael slowly lowered his script. Davis threw his arms into the air.

"What about this?" Davis read aloud. "Sweeney brings in the man who he believes", he gave an exaggerated few coughs, "sent his wife to live on an island."

"She needed a change of scenery," Chantell said.

"Miss Lovelace, has Fasce even read Sweeney Todd?"

"Principal Fasce is very supportive of the arts."

"That wasn't my question."

"Next question, Davis."

Michael flipped through the pages. "Hang on. Mrs. Lovett doesn't make pies out of the people Sweeney kills?"

"No."

"Because he doesn't kill anyone?"

"Correct."

"So what goes in the pies?"

"Meat."

"What sort of meat?"

"Ordinary meat, Michael."

"Then why does the script say the customers are suspiciously happy with the new recipe?"

"Because Mrs. Lovett has improved her seasoning."

Davis looked at Michael. Michael looked at Davis. Neither of them spoke for several seconds.

"Miss," Michael said carefully, "the whole point is that the customers are eating people without knowing it."

"They don't need to know that."

"They can't eat people if there aren't any dead people!"

"Which is why," Chantell said, tapping the desk with her pen, "Mrs. Lovett has developed a new and entirely legitimate pie recipe."

"What's it called?" Davis asked.

"Mrs. Lovett's Famous London Meat Pie."

"That's the least suspicious name I've ever heard."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment."

Chantell ignored him and turned to the next page. "Now, if we're all finished, I'd like to discuss the revised ending."

Michael groaned. "Oh, there's an ending?"

"Yes, Michael. It's a play. They tend to have those."

He read the final paragraph aloud: "'Sweeney and Mrs. Lovett put their differences aside, agree that revenge is unhealthy, and open a joint barbershop and bakery.'"

Davis slowly closed his script. "That's not Sweeney Todd."

"It's an adaptation."

"It's a bloody small-business partnership!"

---

​"Tell you what. We've got ten weeks to put together a proper, family-friendly draft. There'll be singing, and everyone auditions, boys and girls, no exceptions. Then we've got to build the set, rehearse, sort out costumes, and perform it in front of the school board and parents."

​As she spoke, Chantell turned to look directly at Kieron.

​He sank a little lower in his chair. "Oh, don't even think about it, Miss."

"Everyone auditions Kieron"

"You can't force me"

​"Wouldn't dream of it, Kieron."

​"But you're looking right at me!"

​"Funny that."

​A few students sniggered.

​"Fine," Michael said, sounding thoroughly defeated. "I'll do the rewrite, but I'm keeping the blood and the Judge."

​Chantell considered him for a moment. "Fine. Just try to keep it tasteful."

​Michael stared at her. "Miss, we're rewriting Sweeney Todd. Tasteful went out the window about three drafts ago."

​"I can't do it," Kieron whined after the rest of the class had filed out.

​"Why?"

​Chantell leaned back in her desk chair, the fabric of her blouse catching slightly as she shifted. She noticed his eyes wander for a fraction of a second.

​"Eyes up here, lad."

​"Sorry, Miss." Kieron shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat.

​She was used to it. Hormonal teenagers were hardly a new phenomenon, boys and girls alike, but there was zero interest on her end. She was their teacher, and the boundary line was drawn in thick black permanent marker. End of story.

​"Now, why can't you do it?"

​"It's the final game, Miss."

​"What, on the same night?"

​"Yeah. We're playing the Westbrook Wildcats. If we beat them, we could make state."

​Chantell's stern expression softened slightly. She actually understood what that meant to a seventeen-year-old jock whose entire universe revolved around the gridiron.

​"I get it, Kieron. I really do. But your education matters, too. And your voice is amazing don't you remember the Christmas Carol play?"

"Yeah, but, Miss, that was last year."

"And this counts towards your final grade, you know. Without passing your classes, you won't be playing football at all."

Kieron slumped in his chair. "That's not fair, Miss."

---

The school cafeteria was filled with the usual afternoon din of clattering cutlery and student chatter. Chantell sat across from Sarah, the school's maths teacher. Although they were roughly the same age, their work wardrobes couldn't have been more different. Where Chantell stuck to sensible skirts and modest blouses, Sarah pushed the faculty dress code to its absolute limit with bright colours, figure-hugging outfits, and stylish heels.

"So, what are you going to do?" Sarah asked, stirring her coffee.

"I don't know." Chantell sighed, resting her chin in her hand. "Kieron's the best singer I have. Well, had."

"And Coach Kilroy won't change his mind?"

"No. He practically blackmailed Fasce earlier."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Fucking footballers. You know he did the exact same thing to me last term when I tried to flunk him. Bless the lad. He's great with a football, but absolutely hopeless at maths."

---

"Who's the hunk?" Sarah whispered into Chantell's ear.

They were standing on the front steps, coffees in hand, watching the students file out at the end of the school day.

Chantell frowned. "What hunk?"

Sarah gave her a knowing look and nodded toward the car park.

Chantell turned.

Ian was walking toward the main doors, hands tucked into the pockets of his battered leather jacket, his untidy dark hair falling across his forehead. He looked completely at ease, as though he hadn't a care in the world.

Typical.

Either he hadn't noticed her standing on the steps, or he was doing a damn good job of pretending he hadn't. His gaze remained fixed on the entrance as he approached, his expression unreadable.

Chantell felt an unwelcome flutter in her stomach.

The last thing she needed today was Ian turning up and making it difficult to remember what she was supposed to be doing. She had a production to organize, a principal to appease, parents to keep happy, and a football coach who seemed determined to make her life miserable.

She really didn't need a handsome man in a leather jacket complicating matters.

"Chantell?" Sarah murmured.

"What?"

"You're staring."

"I am not."

Sarah took a leisurely sip of coffee. "I didn't say who you were staring at."

Chantell shot her a look. "Don't start."

"Start what? I only asked who he is."

"You haven't asked anything. You've been conducting an interrogation with your eyebrows."

Sarah grinned. "And you're avoiding the question."

Before Chantell could come up with a suitably cutting reply, Ian reached the bottom of the steps. His blue eyes lifted toward them, and for one brief moment, his gaze met Chantell's.

That crooked smile appeared.

"Miss."

Chantell's knees nearly buckled.

Beside her, Sarah stared openly as he walked past and headed down the hallway.

"You know him?" Sarah asked, practically gawking.

"Yeah. Do you remember Holly Jenkins?"

"The cheerleader?"

"Yup. That's her older brother. Ian."

Sarah rolled the name around her mouth thoughtfully. "Ian. I like that. It rolls right off the tongue... rather like something else would."

Chantell turned to her, appalled. "You're impossible!"

"I'm told it's one of my better qualities."

"What happened to Dale? Or was it Dell? Duck?"

"Derek," Sarah corrected with a dismissive wave. "He ran his course."

"What do you mean, he ran his course?"

"I got bored." Sarah shrugged, taking another sip of coffee as though she'd just explained why she'd changed brands of shampoo.

---

Inside the auditorium, Chantell was beginning the painstaking task of constructing a trapdoor on stage when the double doors at the back of the hall squeaked open, then banged shut.

She didn't look up, keeping her attention fixed on the wooden frame.

"Need any help?" Ian's voice came from right behind her.

"Ow!" She startled, driving the screwdriver squarely into her thumb.

"You okay?"

"Yeah... just hurts like a bastard," she hissed, shaking out her hand.

"Miss..." His tone shifted, dropping into that lazy, gravelly drawl that made her knees turn to water and sent a sudden flush of heat pooling in her stomach. "Your language is appalling."

Chantell sucked in a breath and looked up at him. "I'm off the clock."

"What are you doing here?" she asked, sucking her bruised thumb to dull the sharp throb of pain.

"I came for Jared, but the little jerk had already gone home early. He could've texted me."

"Well, if he had, you wouldn't have had an excuse to be in a school after hours," she pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

Ian leaned casually against the wooden stage frame, his dark eyes locking onto hers as that slow, crooked grin spread across his face.

"I would," he murmured, his voice dropping lower. "I mean, your bottom looks really good in that skirt, Miss."

"Fuck off, Ian," she giggled, her thumb completely forgotten.

"I tell you what. Let's go out for some drinks tonight."

"Tonight?" Chantell gestured helplessly towards the pile of lumber, tools, and scripts scattered across the stage. "I can't. I've got a billion and one things to do."

"Okay, I'll bring the drinks here and help you," Ian suggested, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I'll even stretch to ordering a pizza or something."

"Well, that's sweet," Chantell said, shaking her head with a soft smile. "But there are two problems. One: once I start drinking, I don't stop. And two: no alcohol on school premises. The janitor goes fucking bananas."