DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

PARENTING 101

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of introduction):

ICELAND — Emil Densen-Thomassen

DENMARK — Mikkel Densen

NORWAY — Bjørn Thomassen

SEALAND — Peter Oxenstierna

SWEDEN — Berwald Oxenstierna

FINLAND — Tino Väinämöinen

HONG KONG — Li Xiao Wang

CHINA — Yao Wang

RUSSIA — Ivan Braginsky

GERMANY — Ludwig Beilschmidt

PRUSSIA — Gilbert Beilschmidt

ROMANO — Lovino Vargas

SPAIN — Antonio Fernández Carriedo

CANADA — Mathieu Bonnefoi

FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi

AMERICA — Alfred Kirkland

ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland

ONE

PARENT-TEACHER INTERVIEWS

APH International Academy

Class 1, Year 2

10 October

A new school year, a new ensemble of guardians waiting to hear what I have to say about their six-year-olds. I've been preparing for today for a fortnight, and yet I still feel uncertain as I look down at the class list in front of me. It's not the students I fear, but the parents—always the parents—for what are children but impressionable reconstructions of their parents at this tender, young age? I know my class, and I'm nervous to see where some of them have come from.

Beilschmidt, Ludwig

Bonnefoi, Mathieu

Densen-Thomassen, Emil

Kirkland, Alfred

Oxenstierna, Peter

Vargas, Lovino

Wang, Li Xiao

These are the students who have Notes—capital "N"—in their files. Do I even want to meet the people who nurtured these unique little beings? I'll admit, I am curious.

As the clock ticks past 18:00, I take a deep, meditative breath, plaster a false smile to my face, and open the classroom door to begin.

I decide to start with Emil, a... um, nice boy, who's very clever if not attentive. I wouldn't call him cute, though. He's a pretty child, no doubt about that, but he's too aloof for cherub cuteness and usually looks unimpressed.I choose him, because he has two older brothers in years above him, so I've seen his parents at other school functions, even if I've never approached them. He also has two younger siblings, too small for school. But the whole family is in attendance tonight, waiting in the corridor. I momentarily worry about Mikkel and Bjørn leaving their brood unsupervised in the corridor—I'm a teacher; I know what unsupervised children get up to, especially when they're all under ten—but the trepidation is temporary. The boys are all quiet and occupied watching a cartoon, the two eldest wearing matching headphones; the younger one—just two-years-old—perched happily on the eldest's lap. Mikkel says something to the eldest in Danish, and he nods responsibly. I'm immediately impressed by the punctuality and organization of the couple, whose children all seem well-behaved. (Perhaps Emil is the problem middle-child of the family?) Bjørn brings the baby into the classroom, followed by Mikkel, who winks supportively at Emil. Emil sits down beside his brothers, looking as unimpressed as ever as he pulls ear-buds out of his pocket. It's an expression that he's inherited, I realize, the moment I'm introduced to Bjørn. Mikkel pumps my hand exuberantly; I try not to flinch at the pressure. I invite the couple to sit and then begin my preconceived speech:

"Thank-you for coming in tonight, Mr. Densen, Mr. Thomassen. It's really so important that parents take an interest in their children's education."

Mikkel and Bjørn don't reply, but both seem rather self-satisfied—I'd go as far as smug—and I immediately imagine them slapping palms to congratulate each other on their stellar parenting. Yes, we're quite fantastic, Mikkel's blue eyes seem to smile, we'll take that award for Best Parents now, please, as if child-rearing is a competition he's determined to win.

Mikkel and Bjørn are the parents who never miss a football game or piano recital, the ones who volunteer at fundraisers, who take the family camping every weekend, and provide nice clothes, nutritious meals, and safe toys, everything ethically-sourced and overpriced; the parents who spend more per capita on their children annually than most families do in eighteen years. They appear to be—for all intents and purposes—a family as structurally sound as a tower of LEGO, with whom Mikkel is an executive. Bjørn is a novelist, who writes best sellers with a baby bouncing on his lap. In a word: overconfident.

And entirely, unquestionably intimidating.

Despite their polite smiles—well, Mikkel's smile; Bjørn is just looking at me expectantly—these people are no-nonsense when it comes to their children's education. (And why shouldn't they be? They're paying a lot of money for Emil's tuition.)

It makes the next part of this interview very tricky, because how do I balance praise and criticism and discuss Emil's shortcomings without upsetting his exceedingly well put-together parents?

Tall, blonde, good-looking in casual, yet fine clothes; Mikkel with his arms crossed; Bjorn, sitting as straight as a geisha with the baby cradled in his arms; and both of them staring at me with increasing impatience.

Suddenly, I regret my choice to start with Emil. I should've waited until the repetition of interviews soothed my nerves and I had practiced being a stern, authoritative figure with a less intimidating couple.

"Emil, yes," I smile, looking down at his file on my desk. "He's a very bright boy, and so creative."

Yes, yes, Mikkel nods proudly, my kid is the best kid, I know.

I continue my praise of Emil for as long as I deem it necessary to placate his parents, gently glazing over the fact that Emil is not the most respectful child; entitled is a much better word. But finally I can delay my real concern no longer. I pluck up my courage and say it:

Yesterday, I had to confiscate a pornographic book from Emil, which, of course, is not permitted at school.

They stare at me, stunned. No one speaks. Mikkel unlocks his arms in disbelief; Bjørn watches, unblinking.

"Emil did—what?"

The Norwegian's violet eyes narrow and it makes me more nervous than the Dane's demand.

I take the book from a drawer and set it on the desk between myself and them, expecting shock or dismay, but what I get in return is hostility. Or, very close to it.

"I don't see a problem," Mikkel says, deliberately crossing his arms again. "It's an accurate representation of the human body, isn't it? There's nothing sexual about the pictures at all. Are you saying that my kid shouldn't learn about proper anatomy? What's wrong with promoting a healthy body-image, huh? What, you'd rather we lie to him?"

I don't know what to say. In my lap, my hands are shaking.

"Mr. Densen, school policy is very clear about pornography—"

"This"—he stabs a finger at the picture book—"isn't pornography!"

"Certainly not," says Bjørn calmly, with a degree of knowledge I'd rather not investigate.

I try again:

"Mr. Densen, Mr. Thomassen, some of the other parents are concerned with the things Emil shares with his classmates. They feel it's inappropriate to discuss such mature topics at this stage—"

"Well, that's to the detriment of their own kids, not mine," says Mikkel firmly. "My kid did nothing wrong."

A silent signal must pass between them, because they stand simultaneously. I expect to be yelled at, or at the least glared at, but Bjørn simply says:

"Thank-you for your time," as if the whole ordeal has been sorted.

Mikkel pauses at the door, holding it open for his partner, who glides through it with the baby on his hip and without a backward glance. To me, the Dane says: "If any parents have a problem with what my kid does or says, they can take it up with me."

Like anyone would ever do that, I think, cowed in my seat.

They leave the classroom with straight backs and heads held high, as if they own the whole academy. I don't think they do it on purpose, the way they behave like royalty. A behaviour Emil has learnt, as well. I don't think they even realize they're doing it. It's just that they're not afraid of anything when they're together.

They herd their beautiful blonde children down the corridor and then I'm engulfed in silence, left to feel like I'm the student who's just been chastised.

I take a minute to compose myself, then call in the next couple:

Berwald Oxenstierna and Tino Väinämöinen. (I practised saying those names.)

Why, why did it seem like a good idea to interview the Nordic couples back-to-back? They're supposed to be the nice ones! That's what I get for profiling.

My insides turn to jelly as Berwald Oxenstierna steps inside, proceeded by what feels like a wave of intensity. He's a very large man with very dark, penetrating blue eyes, and he seems to communicate with body-language more than words. He gives me a curt nod as he holds the door open for his partner. My heart is pounding, but the moment Tino Väinämöinen walks in the whole room brightens. He's smiling—thank goodness—his rosy-cheeked face glowing, with a hand pressed to the swell of his pregnant stomach. His presence is warm and soothing. He chirps the greeting his partner failed to verbalize and shakes my hand before taking a seat. Berwald sits stonily beside him, a wall of stoic silence. I try to avoid his gaze without being rude and focus, instead, on Tino, congratulating him on the pregnancy, as if it's his accomplishment alone.

"Oh, thank-you," he smiles sweetly. He takes Berwald's hand, leaning into the Swede's shoulder, and says: "We're all so excited about it. Peter, too. He's so keen for a little brother."

Peter is adopted. Berwald and Tino adopted him two years ago after a long, ugly custody battle—so said the childcare worker assigned to Peter's case. His was a sad story: neglect snowballing into abuse, and external factors culminating in the suicide of his birth parent. Peter's mental and emotional development was understandably delayed by the time he entered school, so attached to his Mama that he cried when Tino dropped him off every day for a year. In fact, Berwald and Tino had to petition the school, because Peter didn't—technically doesn't—meet the enrollment requirements, and their application was initially rejected. Fortunately, Berwald is a very competent civil rights lawyer. A successful, respected lawyer, who is very, very good at winning cases. (I guess people don't like to argue with him—hmm, I can't think of why?) As such, Peter was accepted for a probationary trial, which he passed—no doubt thanks to his determined parents. Between Berwald's glare and Tino's hopeful smile, the school administrators didn't stand a chance. Peter still needs supplementary assistance with his schoolwork, and he sees a child psychiatrist twice a week, but, though improvement is slow, he is steadily improving. He requires a lot of attention, but I am pleased to have him in my class, because he's a sweet, caring boy. I see a lot of Tino in his smile, in his generosity, and in the way he interacts with his classmates.

His parents are pleased when I report this. Tino blushes a little, but it's Berwald who seems the most proud.

"Peter is a delightful boy," I say, "but he does have some trouble applying himself to academics."

Berwald and Tino both nod, unsurprised.

"He's often unfocused in class, easily distracted," I explain, "and gets frustrated when he doesn't understand something. I've really been trying to focus on language arts with him this year—reading, writing, and comprehension."

"Yes," Tino says, kind but concerned, "we've noticed that. And we do try to work with him a little each night, but it doesn't always go well."

Peter is—as I've said—a very nice child, but he is prone to temper tantrums. I smile sympathetically at Tino.

He says: "English frustrates him."

"Yes, but without it he's going to fall behind," I reply. "If he can't read the questions, he can't do the work. It's not something that we're marking too harshly right now, but it's only going to get harder for him as he gets older if he doesn't learn—"

"Swedish," Berwald interrupts.

"Pardon?"

Berwald's deep voice has no inflection; his facial muscles barely move; his posture is broad and as straight as ever, but something in his eyes ensnares me.

"Peter can read and write in Swedish," he repeats. He removes a folded piece of notebook paper from his inside-pocket and hands it to me. "He wrote that," he says, prouder still.

I look at the paper—the handwriting is messy, but legible—and see words. They're not words I can read, but they're words that Peter wrote. Quite a lot of them for someone who struggles at school.

"It's a story he wrote for our dog," Tino says, a little embarrassed. "I heard him reading it to the dog a couple of nights ago. A lot of the spelling is wrong, but he took the initiative all on his own. We didn't tell him to write it."

"Swedish?" I'm baffled.

"Yes," Tino nods. "See, Peter had trouble speaking when he first came to us. His first language is English, but it caused him... um, that is... he was..."

Tino presses his lips together and looks down.

I understand. Peter still has a slight speech impediment and suffered temporary, post-traumatic muteness. He refused to speak for a long time, or so I'm told.

"Swedish is much easier for him," Berwald continues. "He learnt it fast and can read and write in it. Simple sentences, of course. My son isn't slow. He's hurt."

For the second time in half-an-hour, I don't know what to say. But this time, I'm choked up with compassion, not fear.

"We thought—" Tino begins shyly. "I mean, is it possible for Peter to do all his schoolwork in Swedish? We'll provide assistance at home, of course, and I can get you an English-Swedish translation of the curriculum. It's just... Peter has so much more confidence in himself when he's working in Swedish. He enjoys it. I'd rather he look forward to learning than fear it. Just for right now," he presses, half-begging. "Right now he needs confidence, not English."

I impress upon them the risk they're taking, further isolating Peter from his classmates, etc., but it's a moot point. Berwald isn't glaring and Tino isn't smiling, but somehow I feel just as helpless to their plea. They love their son and only want the best for him. I have no doubt about that.

We discuss it for a little longer—eating into my next interview—and finish by making an appointment to talk logistics on Tuesday. We all stand together and the tension floods out of the room. I'm smiling and so are they. Even Berwald looks relaxed. I shake both of their hands and wish them well.

I'm feeling quite good about myself as I open the classroom door—

—and come face-to-face with an irate Yao Wang.

"I've been waiting for fifteen minutes," he huffs, pushing past me into the room. His walk is brisk and the heels of his designer shoes clap sharply on the tiles. "I'm in a hurry, so let's do this quickly, please," he says directly, taking a seat before I've even moved from the doorway.

I hurry to my desk, apologizing all the way. I offer a humble smile, but he only stares at me, unmoved.

He's very good-looking, Mr. Yao Wang. He's as delicate as a flower: a trim figure with long black hair piled upon his head, with porcelain skin and soft features. Beautiful, really. And since he, too, has several children at the school, all of us teachers have been trying to guess his age for years. His eldest is already graduated, so he can't be too young, but you would never know it to look at him, especially since his partner, Ivan, is closer to his eldest son's age than his own.

I wonder where Ivan is? He's the one who always does the school-run, after all. The one who attends sports days and school plays; the one who gets called in when his stepsons get into trouble. It's his quietly smiling face we're used to seeing bobbing above the crowds, his huge, pale body an endearing contrast to his small, dark-haired charges. It's funny to see them crowding him like kittens, shoving consent forms at him; worrying about lost shoes; excited to present good grades. We almost never see Yao, who's been called a workaholic. (Though, I might be, too, if I was a top stock-broker employed by the best firm in the country.) He certainly looks the part with his designer business suit and impatient scowl.

I open my mouth to begin—

—but Yao's cell-phone cuts me off. He answers it without a glance in my direction, saying: "Yes, yes, fine. No, don't do that. Let it boil," he adds, confusing me. (Stock-broker lingo?)

He ends the call abruptly, without a farewell, and looks pointedly at me.

"Um, yes... Li. Let's talk about Li, shall we? Li is a, um... lovely boy," I lie.

Li is clever, athletic, and makes us all laugh. He's very entertaining, but lovely is a stretch. He's a disruptive child fuelled with so much energy that I've made him leave class to run laps just to tire him out. I've had to ban he and Emil from sitting together during class, and strategically put their desks on opposite sides of the room, because, with Emil's attitude and Li's short attention-span, there's no hope for either of them learning when they're together. I've had all of Li's older siblings in my class in previous years, and so I can only conclude that Li is the family outlier. If his siblings were polite, studious introverts, Li is an extrovert with a colourful flair for the dramatic. If I could just get him to stop drawing on everything, I'd celebrate.

I can tell by the look on Yao's beautiful face that he thinks this interview is a waste of time. He knows his son; knows exactly what to expect from me. So, rather than compliment a child I like as a person but not as a student, I get right to the point:

"Li's football coach has asked me to tell you that if he fails another test, then he won't be allowed to play in the next game. His tennis coach said the same thing. And his—"

Yao's phone rings again.

"Yes?" he says, instead of hello. "In the pantry, second shelf. The blue container, not the red one. Yes, yes, I got rice crackers. No, I didn't get pudding. Did you boil—No, I can hear it. It's boiling over!" he snaps. "Turn down the heat. What tests?

"What tests?" he repeats.

His dialogue was so rapid-fire, I don't realize he's ended the call until he's looking straight at me.

"He failed a Geography—"

The phone, again.

"Yes? Yes, do it. Call me if the rate drops—No, I'm not at home. Ugh, well I'll look at it on Monday then. I've got another call—

"Yes? Hi, honey. Okay. Oh, damn it," he curses, biting his lip. He hooks a stray lock of hair behind his ear. "I don't know. I'll be home soon. Yes, Li's parent-teacher interview, but I'll be done soon. Okay, bye."

I'm starting to feel quite annoyed with him.

The moment the call ends, I blurt: "Li failed a Geography test and if he doesn't pass the rewrite then he can't play football or tennis or continue with swimming!"

"Let me see this test." Yao holds out his hand, fingers flexing insistently.

I fumble for the exam paper and hand it over, then wait while his dark eyes scan it.

"Okay," he says conclusively. He stands. "I'll tell Ivan. We'll work on Geography with him."

"Oh, um... good then. You see—" I stand, as well, "—he's very good with visuals, but not with—"

"Yes, I see that. We'll work with him," Yao repeats, cutting me off. "Is that all? I'm in a hurry."

Yes, I think, feeling surly, I can see that, too. It always irks me when parents put themselves above the well-being of their children—

"Li's sick," he says, re-buttoning his overcoat. "He woke at 3:00 with a fever. He's been vomiting ever since. I took today off work to take him to the doctor, and would've cancelled tonight's interview if I didn't need to go to the chemist for medicine." He shakes the bag, which I only now notice. "If you'd like to reschedule, we can, but Li's test or sports placements aren't my concern right now. My PA is panicking, Ivan is wondering where I am, and I've got a ten and eight-year-old at home trying to make soup, so I need to go. Are we done?"

"Oh. Um, yes."

Now, I feel bad. Li is at home sick? Yao must be worried, juggling his family and work, and yet he still took a detour to attend this meeting—which began late. He stopped by on the unlikely chance I had something important to say about the welfare of his son, and all he heard instead was that Li needs to focus, as if he doesn't already know that.

In apology, I offer my hand. "Thank-you for coming in, Mr. Wang. Tell Li not to worry about his rewrite, and we all hope he gets better soon."

Yao's face softens. He shakes my hand, nods. Then his phone is ringing again.

He leaves the classroom, saying: "Yes, I'm on my way. Turn the stove down and let it simmer..."

A hand grabs the door before it can close. It's a very white hand.

"Hello—?" asks Gilbert Beilschmidt, poking his very white head inside. He looks like a snowflake, all angles and sharp lines. He's twenty-five, now. It's been nineteen years since he set foot inside this room, but he looks like a scolded troublemaker when he meets my eyes, like a student sent to the headmaster for a misdemeanor. He smiles, and says:

"It's 19:00."

It's not a question, just a fact. Gilbert might've been a hot-head in school—maybe he still is—but he is never, ever late.

"Oh, yes, please come in—"

I've barely got the words out before he pushes the door fully open and parades his little brother, Ludwig, inside.

"Oh." I'm startled to see Ludwig dressed in his school uniform: his blazer on, his trousers pressed, his tie tied smartly. It's not that students are prohibited from attending their own interview, but neither are they invited. Gilbert, however, sees the look on my face and waves away my concern:

"It's better for him to know what's being said about him, don't you think? Don't worry. He's a tough little nugget, he can take it," he grins, squeezing his brother's shoulder.

Gilbert unbuttons his overcoat and takes a seat; Ludwig follows. Gilbert folds his hands, and so does Ludwig. Gilbert leans forward, and Ludwig nearly slips off the edge of his seat to mimic his older brother. If Gilbert notices any of this, he gives no sign of it. Instead, he cuts straight to the point:

"Tell us where he needs to do better."

"I wouldn't phrase it like that, Gil—uh, Mr. Beilschmidt."

"No, no, it's good," Gilbert reassures me. "Look: Lud, what subject are you bad at?"

"French," Ludwig immediately replies, like he's taking a pop-quiz.

"Is that right?"

"Oh, um, yes," I say, when he looks to me for confirmation. I hurriedly add: "I mean, no, of course you're not bad at it, Ludwig. Some subjects just come easier to us than others, that's all. Everyone has to start somewhere. If you practise—"

"We'll get you a French tutor," Gilbert cuts in, speaking to Ludwig. He nods pragmatically; Ludwig nods, too.

"Mr. Beilschmidt, forgive me, but I think you've misunderstood. Ludwig isn't bad at French, not at all. He's perfectly average." The boy is only six-years-old, after all.

"Average?" Gilbert seems disappointed, but masks it quickly.

"He's a very bright boy—"

"What's your best subject, Lud?"

"Math," he replies, sitting straighter with pride. "I can add and subtract. And I really like Earth Science, too."

"That's great!" Gilbert beams. "And Music—?"

"Oh yes," Ludwig nods, a little smile on his face. His eyes are so blue and hopeful. "Does Music count? Father says it's not as important as Math."

He looks to Gilbert, then to me. But before I can intervene with encouragement, Gilbert leaps to champion his brother's interest:

"Who's your favourite composer?"

"Ludwig van Beethoven!" says Ludwig excitedly.

"Good choice! Beethoven is dope!" Gilbert holds up his fist, which Ludwig happily bumps.

Gilbert is currently doing a masters of business in university, preparing to inherit his father's company, but I recall someone telling me that he also has a degree in classical music, which is a surprise—a shock, really—to anyone who knew him as a teenager. He appears a lot more respectable now, in tie and overcoat, but I still can't picture that sneering, temperamental child—always in trouble for fighting—attending galas and orchestra recitals. Then again, I've always suspected that Gilbert wore two faces: one, the reputable, well-bred Beilschmidt heir; the other, a neglected child left to his own self-destruction.

Ludwig has a short temper, too, but it manifests in frustration rather than aggression, which I'm grateful for. No doubt, an example of how he and Gilbert were raised differently.

"Mr. Beilschmidt," I wave my hands to regain his attention. "I'm glad to hear that Ludwig is enjoying school, but that's not what I want to discuss. In fact, I was hoping to speak with your father. Is he not here?" I query, my voice rising into a squeak.

The thing about Gilbert and Ludwig's father is... he's terrifying. The founder and owner of a very successful consulting company, highly respected and sought for their proficiency and discretion, Beilschmidt Senior is a stern, no-nonsense gentleman with a physically imposing profile, an intimidating demeanor, and zero patience for any kind of incompetence. He has incredibly high expectations, especially where his sons are concerned, and no tolerance for rule-breaking. (I really do pity Gilbert's childhood, and I think the headmaster did, too, because Beilschmidt Senior was only called in when absolutely necessary. I've seen him cow his rambunctious son with a single, glaring look.) A, ahem, rather handsome man, he's been married and widowed twice, which explains the substantial age-gap between his sons.

"Uh, my father..." Gilbert's confidence falters. He looks down at his hands, avoiding my face. "He's away on business," he says, repeating the same thing he's been saying for nineteen years.

It's no secret that Beilschmidt Senior is not especially adept at single parenthood, which is unfortunate, since both of his partners died young. He's a well-to-do gentleman who provided everything a child could physically need, but has always lacked in presence (and noticeable affection). Gilbert was raised by a parade of nannies. Nannies who quit—surrendered—with relative frequency, since a different person came to collect him from the headmaster's office every few months. Despite the rigid structure of the boy's early-life, he was left wanting for consistency (and affection).

An awkward silence settles between us, then Gilbert raises his head and forces a smile. "It doesn't matter," he dismisses his father's absence. "I'm here. What is it you want to talk about?"

I take a consent form out of Ludwig's file and slowly unfold it, sighing deeply. I wish I didn't have to confront the brothers, given their paternal situation, but I'm required to uphold school policy. The truth is, I'm not surprised in the least that it's come to this eventuality.

"This is a very precise signature," I say gently to Ludwig, showing him the form. "I'd even believe it if I didn't have the original to compare it to."

Gilbert takes the form and inspects his father's forged signature. "Lud," he says, confused and disappointed. "Why?"

Ludwig bows his head, his hair so fine and fair it nearly matches Gilbert's. "Father was away, and you were at school, Gil. I wanted to go to the park with everyone for Earth Science. We—We saw an eagle. I'm sorry."

Gilbert frowns. Then he slides the form back across the desk at me, and says: "He didn't do it. Not alone."

"Mr. Beilschmidt—"

"No, he can't have. Look, I know my brother," he juts a thumb at Ludwig, "and he can't draw to save his life. He can't have forged my father's signature so perfectly. Lud," he says, pointing deliberately, "who drew that?

"Lud," he presses authoritatively, and I hear the barest hint of Beilschmidt Senior in his tone.

"Feliciano," Ludwig quietly tells his shoes.

"Who? Don't look down, look at me, and don't mumble," Gilbert orders, gently lifting his brother's chin.

"Feliciano Vargas," I supply. Feliciano is a prodigal artist. I'd never believe a six-year-old could draw the way he does if I hadn't witnessed it for myself. Frankly, Ludwig showed great cleverness in outsourcing the forgery to the Italian boy. "He's in Class 2—"

"He can answer," Gilbert interrupts in a reprimanding tone, making me feel just as scolded as Ludwig. "Why did Feliciano draw Father's signature?"

Ludwig swallows, but looks straight at Gilbert as requested. "Because I asked him to. Because he draws really well. I just... wanted to go to the park. I'm sorry," he repeats. "I won't do it again."

I wait a moment. Ludwig waits. Finally, Gilbert relaxes and the smile returns to his sharp, snow-white face.

"There, you see? He won't do it again," he says.

"Yes, but—"

"He won't do it again," Gilbert enforces. He looks at Ludwig, lifts an eyebrow for emphasis. "Next time, he'll call me and I'll handle it. Right?"

Ludwig nods, relived by the—order? "Right," he says.

"Okay then." Gilbert stands, followed quickly by Ludwig. "Are we finished here? Thank-you," he says, firmly shaking my hand. "Lud, let's go."

"See you Monday," Ludwig says politely to me, trying to match his brother's strutting walk with shorter legs.

Gilbert waves dismissively over-the-shoulder as he opens the classroom door, car keys swinging around his index-finger. His other hand rests firmly and proudly—protectively—on his little bother's shoulder.

¡Hola, Gil!" shouts Antonio. His loud, boisterous voice carries throughout the corridor. Gilbert's reply is subdued in comparison.

I hear clapping footsteps, running. Then Lovino says: "See, see? Ludwig went in! I can go in, too!"

"Alright, alright," says Antonio in exasperation. A moment later, Lovino is being marched into the classroom by the shoulders. Both he and his brother are flushed and out-of-breath, as if they had been running, and there's no question why: Lovino's interview was supposed to begin fifteen minutes ago, and the only reason they're not late now is because I'm running behind.

"¡Hasta mañana, Gil!" Antonio throws back as he kicks the door closed, steering his small, gold-eyed charge. He walks Lovino into a chair, but doesn't seat himself. He stands behind Lovino, keeping his hands on the seven-year-old's little shoulders, prepared to act should the boy make any sudden movements. "Hola," he greets me, the colour high in his cheeks, his smile rakishly casual.

Antonio Fernández Carriedo is twenty-five-years-old, so it's entirely legal—if inappropriate—for me to be staring (ahem,gawking) at him. He tilts his head and dark curls tumble over his forehead and chiseled cheekbones; a dimple deepens at the corner of his mouth, his lips curled crookedly; olive-green eyes sparkling with mischief. He's wearing nothing but jeans and a t-shirt, his signature gold cross, and a flawless brown tan—no tan-lines to be seen! At once, I'm jealous and enamoured, captured by that good-humoured smile. Antonio is not someone oblivious to his own good-looks, nor is he practiced at guarding his face. Or tongue.

"Alright," he says in jest, "what's the little monster done now?"

"Don't call me a monster, Tonio!" Lovino twists in his seat, scowling. "You're a stupid, fucking bastard—"

Antonio's hand flies up to cover Lovino's mouth, covering the entire bottom half of his rosy face. His smile is toothy now, a little embarrassed. "Haha... ha... ha, I didn't teach him that," he says.

Lovino wriggles.

"Just try it," Antonio warns him. I can guess at Lovino's unsanitary tactic: i.e. licking at the Spaniard's palm. "I've had dozens of little brothers, so that's not going to work, Lovi. I'm totally immune to all bodily fluids."

No one seems to know Antonio's story. As far as I can tell, he was a ward in foster-care until he was formerly adopted by Lovino and Feliciano's grandfather, Roma Vargas. It was before either of the little Italians was born—only eleven months apart—but the three were raised in the same house as brothers after the untimely deaths of Lovino and Feliciano's parents. Some people called Antonio a charity case and were convinced the Italian scion only adopted him for the positive publicity. Some say it worked; some say it backfired, since Antonio was quite a difficult child, to put it politely. He never attended APH Academy, but his friendship with Gilbert Beilschmidt and Francis Bonnefoi ensured he was on every teacher's radar. The boy even served a brief term in a juvenile detention centre before his then foster-father pulled some strings and had him released. The academy also received many complaints back then, including a parent petition to have Antonio banned from the premises. Francis' parents were especially vocal about their distaste for the underprivileged Spanish boy, whom they insisted was a bad influence on their son. And he might have been, but, personally, I think the corrupting influence was shared three ways in that friendship. It's just that, unlike Gilbert and Antonio, Francis was smart enough never to get caught.

"So?" Antonio prompts, wrestling Lovino into complacency. The child slumps back and huffs in annoyance.

I decide to keep this interview as short as possible—both child and guardian have short attention-spans—so I get right to business.

"Lovino," I say disapprovingly, "was sent to the headmaster's office this afternoon for fighting. It's the third time this week. Mr. Vargas was contacted, but the office only managed to get his PA. Since Lovino's progress interview was scheduled for today, he was sent home with a note detailing the incident and requesting that his guardian attend so that we can discuss it. Did you receive that note, Mr., err... Carriedo?"

Antonio reaches into his back jean's pocket and produces a crumpled notice emblazoned with the academy's official letterhead. "This? Yeah, I got it," he says unhappily.

Once again, I assume that the guardian's displeasure relates to the child's misdemeanor, but, once again, I'm mistaken. Antonio flings the notice onto my desk, then plants his hands defensively on Lovino's shoulders.

"It says that Lovi is facing a two-day suspension," he acknowledges, "but I want to know why the fu—ahem, why the other boy isn't being punished, too."

I pause, taken aback. Why isn't Lovino's victim getting suspended? Is that really what Antonio is asking me?

"Lovino's use of force broke the other boy's nose," I say bluntly. "Violence is not tolerated at APH Academy."

"But racism is?" Antonio counters.

"I—excuse me? Of course not!"

Antonio stabs a finger at the notice, which details the incident as described to the secretary. "Have you even read that report? That kid used racial slurs to insult Lovi and Feli, and physically assaulted Feli by pushing him down. Lovi was only defending his brother. I know that kids fight, okay? I get it. I was no Saint either—though, I guarantee Feli is, and he didn't deserve the bruise he got," he adds angrily. "I get that kids play and roughhouse and sometimes they get hurt, but that kid intentionally tried to hurt my little brothers. He was disrespectful to them, their family, and their heritage, and yet he's not getting suspended, too? Tell me how that's fucking fair."

"Lovino used excessive force—"

"Lovi proved himself a smarter fighter, that's all," he argues, "He got in a good hit. It's not his fault the other kid's got a lousy right-hook. And yeah, Lovi shouldn't have fought him. He should've walked away—"

"Hey! I thought you were on my side?" Lovino interjects.

"—but what he did isn't worse than what the other kid did. Words hurt, too. There were two kids involved in that incident," he makes air-quotes, "so why is only one of them being punished for it?"

"Lovino is being punished," I say calmly, "because his use of excessive force, breaking the other boy's nose, occurred after the original conflict had been resolved."

Antonio narrows his eyes distrustfully, then kneels to look at Lovino eye-to-eye. "Lovi," he says, "is that true? Did you hit him after the fight was over?"

Lovino folds his arms defiantly and turns his dark head away. His scowl is pronounced, but softens a little at his brother's touch.

"Come on," Antonio encourages him. He tickles Lovino's pout. "Tell me what really happened."

Lovino squirms and mumbles something incoherent, his face getting hot.

Antonio frowns. "You hit him because of what—?"

"Because he called you fucking street-trash, Tonio!" the child bursts.

"Language, Lovino!" I scold. But neither of them pay me any attention.

They're looking at each other: Lovino glares stubbornly, his face tomato-red; Antonio stares back in awe and surprise. They hold each other's gaze for such a long time that I begin to feel like an awkward third-party intruding on a private, silent exchange. I'm not sure how this interview got so far removed from me, but I need to remind them that school policy prohibits aggressive confrontation of any kind, and that fraternal loyalty is no excuse for violence.

"You understand then, Mr. Carriedo," I say, raising my voice above the din of their voiceless conversation, "Lovino's use of violence—"

"Lovi, you shouldn't hit people," Antonio interrupts, standing again. To me, he says: "I'm going to schedule an appointment to speak with the headmaster about this. School policy is all fine and good, until it's not fair. Violence doesn't trump racism," he repeats. "I don't want my little brothers feeling unsafe or harassed at this academy, and if I have to confront that other boy's parents about it, I will," he says darkly. "If Feli comes home crying again, you'll hear from me.

"Also," he says, pulling out his wallet, "I want you to add my cell-phone number to Lovi and Feli's contact information. The next time something like this happens, don't wait for Roma. He's a very busy man. Just call me and I'll be here."

He hands me a crisp, fine-quality business card embossed with a silver grapevine.

A business card.

Antonio Fernández Carriedo—former-delinquent and blight of APH Academy—now has a business card that reveals his managerial position at Roma Vargas' largest vineyard.

"Oh—thank-you," I say, baffled as I accept it.

Antonio takes that as a dismissal and nods to me in farewell. "Come on," he says, gesturing for Lovino. The boy jumps off the chair and hurries to follow, afraid of getting left behind. He catches Antonio's arm at the door, then immediately drops it, mutters something soft, and buries both hands in his coat pockets. Antonio chuckles and ruffles the boy's hair, his good-humour returned.

"Monstruito," he says affectionately.

The last thing I see as the door swings closed is Lovino's secret smile.

Five down, only two more to go tonight. I'm mentally exhausted at this point, but I feel immediately rejuvenated when Francis Bonnefoi enters the classroom.

For one brief, blissful moment, I allow myself to discretely indulge in the fact that twenty-five-year-old APH Academy alumni Francis Bonnefoi is, quite possibly, the most attractive single-father in the world. He swaggers to the desk in fitted clothes that leave little to the imagination with regards to his lean, modelesque figure, his golden skin, or his long blonde curls, tied-up roguishly with a blue silk ribbon that does everything for his artistic good-looks but emasculate them. He looks like a film star and sounds like a romance musician, his tongue rolling—almost purring—in greeting as he shakes my hand. His long-lashed, cornflower-blue eyes smile and his sensual, shapely lips curl, and I melt like every parent at every school function who's ever had the pleasure of Francis Bonnefoi's undivided attention.

"It's lovely to see you again, Mr. Bonnefoi," I say, feeling giddy.

Francis sits down, crosses his legs, and continues to smile at me. I ask him about his work. He's a classically-trained cordon bleu chef, who's been featured as one of the culinary world's brightest rising young stars, and currently works at a three-star Michelin restaurant. He replies benignly, if somewhat vaguely to my interest. I remember that he was recently invited to be a guest judge on a cooking programme because of his popularity—which has nothing to do with his charm and good-looks, I'm sure; oh, not at all. I'm keen to know about his experience, but, again, his reply is underwhelming and dismissive. At first, I misread his reaction as a humble brag—Oh yes, I'm a prodigy chef. I graduated early and am so used to my celebrity status that it's positively boring at this point—but that's not true. Francis' eyes don't reveal boredom or arrogance. Rather, he waits patiently, then expectantly. I could happily loose myself in those blue, blue eyes. I must do, because he eventually prompts the conversation.

"So, Mathieu—?" he says.

"Oh! Mathieu, yes! Mathieu is why you're here, of course!" I laugh in embarrassment.

"Yes, he is," Francis confirms, his eyes sparkling at the mention of his son. "Is there something specific you'd like to discuss—?"

Yes, there is. Mathieu is the sweetest, quietest, easiest child I have ever taught. A perfectly average student, who never needs assistance in class, never makes a fuss, and obeys the school's rules as if they were the law. He's such an unobtrusive and self-sufficient boy that I often forget he's present at all. And that is obviously the problem. I'm still baffled that charming and flamboyant Francis Bonnefoi has a child who's so completely forgettable, especially since Mathieu looks so much alike his gorgeous father. (The violet-eyed, rosy-cheeked child is cherub-cute, and I have no doubts that he'll mature into a real knockout someday.) He's kind and considerate and selfless when it comes time to share, but compared to his classmates he's entirely unoriginal. He's the definition of follower and does nothing unless someone else does it first. He's cautious, excessively passive, and dislikes confrontation to the point of immediate surrender, which some of the stronger personalities in class take advantage of. He's not bullied, but nor is he beloved, and it's all because he doesn't socialize with anyone except—

"Teacher, I'm here!" cries a voice I know all too well.

The outburst is followed by a flood of: "Oh, fucking-hell! Alfred, come back here! Where are your manners, you little gremlin? Go sit down, please! And we knock before—"

The door crashes open, revealing Arthur Kirkland holding his son, Alfred, by the hood of his jacket, ready to wrestle him back into the corridor. He freezes the moment he sees Francis and I, and his cheeks get hot. It makes his eyes look fiercely green.

"Oh, I—"

"Hi, Mr. Bonnefoi!" Alfred yells, pulling free. Francis smiles and waves.

"So sorry," Arthur apologizes, waving wildly for Alfred to retreat. "I thought we were scheduled for 19:45?"

"We were, but I'm running a little behind schedule," I admit. "My apologies, Mr. Kirkland."

"Oh no, not at all. Alfred and I"—he snaps his fingers, as if calling for a dog—"will just wait in the corridor—"

"Actually, Mr. Kirkland," I call him back, "it's good that I've got you and Mr. Bonnefoi here at the same time. There's something I'd like to discuss with both of you."

For a fleeting instant, Francis and Arthur's eyes meet across the room, and a look of panic passes between them.

"Oh, uh... certainly," Arthur says awkwardly, inching cautiously forward. "Err, what exactly is this regarding, if I may ask?"

"Alfred and Mathieu," I reply, thinking it obvious.

"Ah! Yes, of course it is!" His smile is too big and relieved to be innocent, and my suspicions are not stifled by the teasing smile Francis offers him in return.

"Whatever else would it be about, Mr. Kirkland?" he asks, in rather a syrupy tone.

Arthur glares at him, the colour high in his fair, freckled face.

He, too, is an uncommonly attractive single-father, if less immediately striking than his French counterpart. Unlike Francis, the Englishman's wardrobe—expensive, but unstylish—seems determined not to draw attention. He dresses like a schoolboy, in collared shirts and sweater vests of muted colours, which is appropriate, I suppose, since he is a university graduate currently working on a doctorate in English Literature. Still, you'd think that being the son of extremely wealthy, titled nobility would affect his fashion choices at least a little. His family name is often featured in magazines; the press especially loves his brothers, who do give them quite a lot to write about. But Arthur is rarely pictured. He hates to be photographed. Even when it's adorable primary school students asking for a picture for their fundraiser, his answer is always an irrevocable no.

As Arthur lowers himself into the chair beside Francis, I'm suddenly struck by the contrast they make: effort versus talent; thought versus action; English legacy versus French privilege, both the offspring of entitlement. They're at once incredibly similar and incredibly different, and they make for an interesting study in how a man's personality affects his success. Arthur is known for his family's name (and will inherit the title of lord someday); he's had to earn his individuality, not his fame. Francis is known for his celebrity status; he's had to earn recognition with his natural talent. Both are handsome, intelligent, and targets of the city's paparazzi, for better or worse. And both had to suffer the shame and scandal of single parenthood at the tumultuous age of nineteen.

"Can I stay?" asks Alfred—Arthur's careless mistake, according to the tabloids.

"Mathieu," says Francis—naming his ill-timed accident—"is waiting in the corridor, chéri. Why don't you go keep him company?"

"Okay!" Alfred races out, excitedly yelling: "Matt-ie!"

Alfred Kirkland is a very loud, high-energy child. Bright-eyed and boisterous and adorably naive, but very, very high-energy. If Li is the student who churns with restless, athletic energy, then Alfred is the student who's mind will not be quiet. His mouth works faster than his brain, I think, and I am forever telling him to be patient and to raise his hand before speaking; to stop interrupting myself and others; to stop going off on tangents during lessons. He's an imaginative child with a lot of personality and no filter whatsoever. A confrontational boy who's often at odds with his classmates, and who likes to settle disputes by shouting and fighting. He's not a bad-tempered child, but he is easily aggravated, and finds challenges and dares where none was intended. He's also physically bigger and stronger than almost everyone else in class, and he throws his weight around in a proud, aggressive way, hoping someone gives him a reason to attack. It's restless energy and an unfocused mind at this age, but it's affecting his social development. And that is precisely Alfred's problem, just as it is Mathieu's. Despite him being an undeniable presence in my class, Alfred is just as isolated and antisocial as his best friend.

Without preamble, I explain this to Francis and Arthur.

I tell them that Alfred and Mathieu are inseparable friends, which is very cute, but not helping either of them develop healthy social skills. The boys don't talk to anyone else; they don't play with anyone else; and they won't work with anyone else when I assign partner or group activities. Alfred will sulk and get testy; Mathieu retreats entirely into himself. They are each other's constant companion, happy together, and they do very well together, but it's getting to the point where one can't seem to function without the other. If Mathieu isn't at school, Alfred is a tyrant. If Alfred isn't at school, Mathieu is a ghost. I tell Arthur and Francis all of my concerns about Alfred and Mathieu, together and separate, and conclude that their sons are disconcertingly co-dependent on each other.

"Oh?" says Francis.

"Huh," says Arthur.

Neither seems as concerned as I am. Perhaps they don't understand the severity of the brewing situation?

"We suggest," I explain reasonably, "that Alfred and Mathieu be put in separate classes next term. We want to move Mathieu to Class 2—"

"No!" says Francis, finally revealing a passion beyond politeness. He leaps from his seat.

"Separating the boys would be a mistake," says Arthur more calmly.

He looks up at Francis, who's blue eyes are pleading. Arthur's greens seem to say: It's okay, I'm handling it. You can sit down, Francis.

A moment later, Francis does sit, now thrumming with nervous energy.

"I think you'll find that Alfred and Mathieu are a lot more agreeable, a lot less difficult when they're together than either one is on his own," Arthur says diplomatically. "I'm afraid Alfred suffered bullying at his last school, and, young as he is, it's deeply affected his relationship with others. It's not easy for him to trust his peers, you understand. And Mathieu," he continues, glancing at Francis for permission to speak; Francis consents, "may have social anxiety. It hasn't been medically diagnosed yet, but he's scheduled to see a specialist at the end of the month. Attending school is already a trial for the poor boy; please don't take away his only security."

"Please," Francis begs.

"I realize they're only six," Arthur says, "but without understanding it, Alfred gives Mathieu the support and courage he needs to come to school every day, and Mathieu is the friend that Alfred trusts. I realize it's uncouth, and perhaps we're at fault," he admits, "letting them spend so much time together without encouraging other friendships. Perhaps we've isolated them due to... circumstance. But right now the world is rather scary for them both, and they're all each other has at school. Take that away and they'll be much, much worse off than they are now, I promise you."

"Please don't separate them," Francis repeats, heartfelt. "We'll do better. As parents, we'll do better for them. Maybe a child psychiatrist can help—?"

"Alfred keeps asking to play basketball, and Mathieu desperately wants to play hockey," Arthur offers. "We can enroll them in separate extracurricular activities to start and see how it goes. But I won't agree to separating them at school," he reiterates firmly. "That's too much right now."

"Yes," Francis agrees. "Everyone needs a close friend, my Mathieu most of all," he states unabashedly. "If you take that away from him—"

"You'll hear from us," Arthur finishes, issuing a polite, but very real threat.

Mutely, I accept defeat and shake both of their hands as they get up to leave. They've given me a lot to think about, including the nature of their own relationship. Alfred and Mathieu are close, ergo their fathers undoubtedly see a lot of each other, but the way in which Arthur spoke of Mathieu's anxiety; the way Francis looked when Alfred was in the classroom, and then when his past experience with bullying was mentioned... I was the one who combined their interview, but I wasn't expecting them to be so unified in their defense; to communicate so thoroughly by silent pleas and knowing glances; to act as though both boys are their own. I suspect that their relationship is much more intimate than either of them has yet revealed, for many reasons. APH Academy actively discourages romantic relationships between single parents—much to the disappointment of Francis' admirers—and then there's the press to consider, and how an open relationship might enrage their families and affect their sons.

Of course, I could be misinterpreting their familiarity as close friends. I could be seeing fondness in the way Arthur waits for Francis to button his overcoat, instead of mere politeness. I could be seeing affection in Francis' smile for the Englishman, instead of mere gratitude.

I could be seeing a couple, who meet their sons in the corridor:

"Mattie said we get ice-cream, now!" Alfred is quick to remind Francis.

Francis' affection is as warm and indulgent as melted fudge. "Yes, of course," he says. "I promised, didn't I?"

Alfred crows in victory. Arthur chastises him half-heartedly, but the blue-eyed boy is already running down the corridor, calling for Mathieu. Mathieu looks back, decides that his father(s) won't be upset, and then chases after Alfred with a smile on his face.

"I forgot my wallet," Francis admits to Arthur, once the boys are out of earshot.

Arthur rolls his eyes, too endeared to be truly critical. "I've got it covered," he says.

I could be hearing love in Francis' laugh, or seeing it in Arthur's smile, or witnessing it in their hands, which lock together as they depart the school.

I could be. But that's a concern for a different interview.