Anonymous said: Question: why does the education system hate Steve so much?
There’s at least one, every year. A parent who is both a blessing and a curse, a teacher’s dream and an administrator’s nightmare, and from the very beginning, it’s clear as the crystal apple awarded to each teacher of the month that the parent who will be as unnameable as Voldemort in faculty meetings will be Captain Rogers.
Captain America, the school board says, is a complete fabrication. Captain Rogers is unpleasant at best. He has custody of eight children of scattered ages, their names utterly, hopelessly eccentric, who insist on being treated as inseparable pairs of twins in spite of their birth-dates all being disparate, who all test above their age but who he insists are placed in grades based on how they’ll fare socially- in terms of each other, not their peers. All of them have chronic health conditions, dietary requirements, and psychological trauma triggers, one is transgender and at least one other identifies as a special gender classification no one outside of the guidance office has ever heard of, and Captain Rogers has made it politely but abundantly clear that he has newspapers, talk shows and the ACLU on speed dial, along with more lawyers than can comfortably fit in one big black armored SUV.
The principal is terrified. The guidance counselor ends her vacation a week early. The early elementary teachers, including the preschool teachers, make jokes about a prayer circle. Kindergarten will, apparently, be given a year’s reprieve before they inherit the pair of children currently headed for pre-K like a pair of twin hurricanes simultaneously aimed at the eastern seaboard. They’ll get theirs next year, when Five and Six move up and the aptly named Seven and Eight join the rest of the brood as the second assault on pre-K.
And yet, when the kids are invited for a special open house on the tail end of the teacher workdays that precede the school year, just them, they seem… Almost conspicuously quiet.
Captain Rogers has a few questions, but the teachers find themselves being interviewed by the precociously self-aware One and Two, who, aside from a slight rasp in One’s voice, are damn near identical and easily pass for twins. They’re obviously extremely bright. The kids are wary, cliquish, but not openly hostile. One, Two and Triplet are small enough that they’ll blend in more easily than anticipated, and Little Six looks so much like his brother that the bathroom is their only anticipated problem. The biggest surprise is Sergeant Barnes.
Sergeant Barnes has Seven hooked to his left elbow on a child leash, carries Eight on his left hip and signs papers with his free hand. He huffs softly, blowing the air through his dark, wavy hair, and Triplet yanks Four away from the fire alarm by the back of her suspenders. He barely speaks above a murmur, but the loudest sound of the visit is a shrill, two-finger whistle that summons all of the kids to his side like-
Well. Like ducklings, if the mother duck were a sharp-eyed military sergeant.
"Sunshine? Can we get ice cream?" Four is heard on the way out.
"Ask the money," Barnes says.
"Stevie, can we get ice cream?"
"Building’s still standing and nobody’s in handcuffs," Rogers says, fishing the car keys out of his pocket. "That’s within mission parameters."
Seven and Eight will go to middle school in eight years. Hopefully, mission parameters will continue to hold.
Oh gosh I love this so much. But man, I can totally imagine the parent teacher meetings, the IEP meetings, all of the muttering about the Barnes-Rogers children, the inevitable sibling comparisons, careful planning of seating charts and crafting of emails…
Those teachers are in for a decade of fun. :)