Running Through The Halls

            “Ms. Romanoff?”

            Natasha looked up from her computer, pinning the middle-aged man in her doorway with a sharp look. “My students are testing.”

            He opened his mouth to speak.

            Natasha stood abruptly. “Out. Now.”

            The man looked astonished and backed out of the classroom as quickly as he could without tripping over his own feet. Natasha gripped the edge of the door and fixed him with an icy glare.

            “You may wait for me in the front office. I will meet you there after my class has ended,” Natasha hissed before slamming the door in his face.

            She returned to her desk and continued entering scores for the last hour’s pop quiz. Not five minutes later, her door opened a crack and Principal Fury motioned for her to join him in the hall. Natasha issued a sharp order to her students in Russian and stepped out. Cowering behind Fury was the man who had interrupted her class.

            “What can I do for you, Principal Fury? My class is testing,” Natasha said through a tight jaw.

            Fury motioned to the man. “This is Jacob Smith. He’s the chairman of the foreign languages branch of the board of education for New York Public Schools. He’d like to observe your classes for the day. The board is looking to strengthen the district’s foreign languages reputation.”

            Natasha peered at them closely. “Fine. During my Russian courses, you will remain silent so they can test. My French classes are doing oral exercises and my Latin and Korean classes are working on independent projects. You may observe any class you’d like, but you will refrain from speaking when I am instructing. Are we clear?”

            The man stared at her in awe. “Yes, ma’am.”

            “Mr. Smith, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to speak with Ms. Romanoff privately,” Principal Fury requested.

            Smith scurried into the classroom and Fury chuckled. “I shouldn’t enjoy it this much when you scare the shit out of visitors, but Smith is a pain in my ass.”

            Natasha cracked a smile. “I do what I can, Nick. Could you stop by Clint’s room and ask him to swing by next hour?”

            Fury nodded knowingly. “You two just don’t make him bleed. I don’t have the patience for that kind of paperwork.”

            “I make no promises,” Natasha murmured, pulling open her door.

            Fury’s laughter followed her.

            “No, that’s not what concubine means,” Clint sighed. “You’re talking about Columbine, and I need a minute to process what you just said. Go…sit in the hall and think about your life choices, okay?”

            The teenage boy he was speaking to skulked out of the room.

            Clint turned to the rest of the room. “Can anyone else tell me what ‘concubine’ means?”
            Someone cleared their throat at the door and Clint glanced over.

            “Principal Fury,” Clint grinned. “Come to help us with our vocabulary lesson?”

            Fury leaned against the doorframe. “What word are they having trouble with?”

            “Concubine,” Clint muttered, disappointed.

            Fury was silent for a minute. “That kid in the hallway, he thought it was Columbine, didn’t he?”
            Clint nodded.

            “Every fucking year,” Fury growled, shaking his head. “I just came from Romanoff’s room. She’s got a visitor from the board of education. She wants you to stop by on your prep hour.”

            Clint gasped. “You’re letting us play American Tourist?”
            “I have a meeting across town. I’m taking Coulson and Hill with me to represent the school. Rogers is acting principal until I get back,” Fury explained, ignoring the question. “Have a nice day and teach your kids what the fuck concubine means.”

            Clint clapped his hands together. “All right! Concubine! Take note, kids. It’s a mistress. Think about it for a minute. We’re reading The Scarlet Letter. What is the whole book about? Adultery! Anybody confused? Good. No homework tonight, just make sure you’re ready for the vocab quiz tomorrow.”

            A girl in the front raised her hand. “Mr. Barton, what’s American Tourist?”

            “You’ve got Romanoff for French next hour, don’t you?” Clint gestured to her the textbook on her desk. “You’ll find out then. Don’t say anything to anybody, and don’t mention it to the guest. Got it?”

            Clint looked down at her seriously until she nodded gravely.

            The bell rang and Clint raced his kids out the door, not bothering to lock his room up. When he skidded to a stop outside Nat’s door, she was talking to a short, balding man, her arms folded across her chest and her toe tapping in annoyance. She caught Clint’s eye and said something that was obviously a dismissal to the man.

            “Hey, Tash. How’s it going?” Clint asked innocently.

            Her shoulders tensed. “I hate him. He hums and he chews on his pen when he’s thinking. I want him gone. Now.”

            Clint grinned. “Does this mean we’re going to play American Tourist?”

            “No,” Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “The French Prison Guard.”

            Clint flailed in excitement, his elbow connecting with a passing student’s books. “Oh, shit, sorry! You good?”

            The student retrieved his books and edged around Clint warily. Natasha bit her lip to hold back her laughter. Clint made a face at her and straddled an empty chair next to Natasha’s desk. The bell rang and Natasha called the room to attention.

            “Bonjour, classe,” Natasha began. “Today we have two visitors. This is Mr. Smith from the board of education, and this, as most of you know, is Mr. Barton. We’re going to be doing some oral exercises, and they have agreed to help me. Team up in groups of thee and agree upon a scene to act out. Keep in mind the conversational work we’ve been learning.”

            Mr.Smith looked timid. “Ms. Romanoff, I don’t think-”

            “Nonsense,” Natasha cut him off. “A man in charge of the curriculum that dictates how every high school in New York is taught a foreign language should easily be able to hold a simple conversation.” She clapped her hands sharply. “Let’s begin.”

            “Est-ce que tu as un stylo?” Clint asked, looking at Smith. (Do you have a pen?)

            “Uh…oui?” he stuttered.

            “Je pouvoir avoir le stylo?” Clint gestured impatiently. (May I have the pen?)

            Mr. Smith hesitated. “Uh…un stylo? Pouvoir…”

            “Vas-y!” Natasha commanded. (Do it!)

            A student cleared his throat loudly, waving his pen obviously. Smith fumbled in his pocket and offered Clint his pen.

            Clint smiled. “Merci beaucoup.”

            “Monsieur Smith, est-ce que tu as une petite copine?” Natasha inquired innocently, folding her arms. (Do you have a girlfriend?)

            “Oui,” he said slowly, glancing at the giggling students.

            “Comment s’appelle-t-elle?” Clint crooked an eyebrow. (What’s her name?)

            Natasha scoffed. “Pamplemousse.” (Grapefruit)

            The class exploded into hysterics. Mr. Smith glanced about, obviously lost.

            Natasha held up a hand and the room went silent. “Parlez-vous francais?”

            He sighed. “Non.”

            “Va t’en, Monsieur Smith,” Natasha muttered, jerking her head at the door.

            Smith nearly took himself out on the corner of her desk trying to scramble out of the room. Clint reached out to help him regain his balance.

            Natasha followed him slowly, almost as if stalking her prey. “Mr. Smith, if you can’t speak the languages you are attempting to regulate for my students, don’t you dare try to pretend that you do. I’ve seen your credentials. You claim to be fluent in Spanish, French, and German, yet you could not hold a simple conversation. I suggest you submit a letter of resignation before I have time to file my report against you.”

            She slammed the door in his face for the second time today and turned back to her students. “Continuer, classe.”

            Clint wagged his eyebrows. “Feeling better?”

            Natasha smiled peacefully. “Mais oui!” (Of course.)

            “You called him a fruit fucker?” Tony yelled, his mouth hanging open.

            Natasha shrugged, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “More or less.”

            “More!” Clint clarified. “She said he fucked a grapefruit.”

            Darcy choked on her water. “Natasha, you are by far my favorite language teacher.”

            “Hey!” Clint squawked.

            Darcy winked.

            “I hear you were showing a film today in class, Stark,” Natasha changed the subject efficiently.

            Tony nodded and popped open a bag of chips. “Titanic.”

            One of the freshman math teachers looked up from her sandwich. “This early in the year, Tony?”

            “Don’t judge me, Danvers. I was up all night making a new Stark Tech security system,” Tony explained. “And I’ll be damned if I was going to teach on no sleep and half a cup of coffee. That’s abuse.”

            Clint tossed a peach in the air and caught it. “What are we doing this weekend, guys? It’s the second weekend of the year, and we haven’t hung out yet.”

            “Oh! Can we go to O’Reilly’s? Half off tequila shots if you flash your staff ID. Plus they know us there,” Tony pointed out.

            “I’m in,” Clint said, tossing the peach to Natasha.

            She caught it and nodded. “Friday at eight.”

            “I shall join you then, my friends!” Thor bellowed, clapping Tony on the shoulder so hard he had to fumble not to drop his chips.

            Loki scoffed and turned back to his book.

            “Bruce is always up for whatever we plan,” Tony said, speaking for the man. “How about you, mini-me?”

            Peter looked surprised. “You’re inviting me to the bar?”

            “You are old enough to drink, aren’t you?” Tony jeered.

            “I’ll go,” Peter decided. “Darcy?”

            “It’s alcohol, sweet cheeks. Of course I’m going,” Darcy scoffed.

            Tony smacked his palm against his forehead. “Rogers! That’s who I’m forgetting. Anybody know where he is?”

            “He’s standing in for Fury while he’s at that meeting,” Bruce reminded them. “He’s probably holding detention in his room.”

            Natasha stole Clint’s peach again and took a bite. “He’s volunteering on Saturday.”

            Clint took back the peach and bit into it. “I told him I’d go with him.”

            “Aw, my little boy’s growing up,” Natasha teased, ruffling his hair.

            Clint ducked out of her reach. “Just don’t call me a fruit fucker.”