The Kit Diaries Jun 7, 2009 3:04:09 GMT -5
Post by melon head. on Jun 7, 2009 3:04:09 GMT -5
This is a new fic that I'm planning on doing for a bit before I start my next big novella. The basic plot line: Olaf, the new drama teacher at the V.F.D. Training School, becomes besotted for the young Kit Snicket. These are Olaf's diary entries of his first, and last, year as a teacher as he tries to win Kit over. Along the way you'll see an assortment of familiar faces, all seen from Olaf's perspective- from a young Beatrice Taylor to an awkward Jacques Snicket. So sit back, relax and enjoy a perplexing year with the volunteers. Hmm... I should make that my slogan.
It was always about making my mother proud.
That's what my dad said, anyway. He was always telling me that my mother had higher expectations than anyone else he'd ever met. Their wedding was too shabby, my father's hair thinned to quickly, giving birth to me was too painful. I don't know what she expected giving birth to be like, but apparently the one she got wasn't right. That's why she and my father never had any more children. I used to be annoyed by this; I would have loved a little brother to wrestle with or a little sister to draw with. I soon grew out of this, though, as I realised that the less siblings you have, the more friends you get. They enjoy a house untainted by loud brothers and annoying sisters, and thus spend most of their time there. My mother had high expectations for my friends, too, and was left unsatisfied by most of them.
So when I told my parents I'd managed to get a job teaching drama at the V.F.D. Training School, I was not expecting much of a response from my mother. I was assuming she'd just tell me that teaching is only second-best after doing. I wasn't expecting her to squeal, delighted, and buy me a suit for my first day of work.
"You actually met her expectations," my father said, laughing. I watched him take a drag from his cigarette, something that has always disgusted me- his expression is ugly and the smoke smells awful. When I was young I'd cry if Dad ever lit a fire, simply because the smell drove me to near insanity.
So now, here I am, adjusting my cufflinks and bracing myself for my first day of work. I'm thankful I didn't give my mother the school number- she rang me four times before I left this morning wishing me luck. She kept telling me not to lose my temper and to treat each student with the same amount of respect. She told me to carry a handkerchief just in case, and comb my hair to left because it looks so much better. She made me promise I'd make an effort to memorise everyone's names, even if it meant staying up in bed with a list. As long as I fell asleep at a decent hour and got enough rest.
So I did what every good son would do. I assured her I'd be fine, told her I loved her, and then bolted from my apartment before she could call again. And now I'm wishing I hadn't because I'm so goddamn nervous.
Oh, well. Here goes nothing.