Perverting St Perpetua's

This story uses variables to control conditional branching. If reading the story, please press Start Game on pain of the story not making sense.

“I know you’re struggling John, but you’ve got to start thinking of the future. What have you been doing for the last month?”

What had you been doing?

Nothing. Well, nothing constructive. Your life had fallen apart, and you’d just tried to ignore it.

A brief introduction, you are John Smith, a 28-year-old overly academic, nerdy, slightly short, slightly overweight guy. Until five months ago your life had been comfortable. You had a job as a history lecturer at the university, a little lecturing, a lot of research. You’d chosen as your speciality Celtic magical beliefs and lost yourself in reading everything you could find about it and examining any possible artifacts. Like most in the department you had plans to write a book but that was years away. You were in a solid relationship of five years with Samantha, a girl you’d met on an archaeological dig whilst a postgrad. She was not your first girlfriend, but your most serious. You’d moved in together, a small flat you’d rented, although she was often out as her job as an archaeologist took her away on digs for weeks on end.

Then everything had fallen apart.

First, on Valentine’s Day, Samantha had left. In hindsight it shouldn’t have been a surprise. Ever since you’d got together, you’d been drifting apart. She was gregarious, outgoing, someone who enjoyed parties, the outdoors and socialising. You’re socially awkward, likes staying at home, and most enjoys reading. She’s insecure about her looks. You’re insecure about everything. The real reason you’d stayed together because you both thought there was nothing better. But she’d found better, someone more attuned to her interests, someone better in bed. Within a week she was gone, wishing you luck. She moved on. You didn’t.

A month later, your mother died. Another inevitability, she’d been ill for years. She’d never recovered from the **** of your father. As an only child, it had fallen on you to organise everything, not one of your strengths. Somehow, you’d muddled through the funeral and the inheritance. But muddling through is not the same as thriving. You couldn’t face the family house without her. You couldn’t face the town where you’d grown up, using the excuse that it was a five-hour drive away to do nothing. Not sell the house. Not visit the house. Nothing. Leaving it as a time capsule to your recent past.

Rather than face reality you’d drowned yourself in work. The university had recently acquired the Snetterton Collection, a trove of artifacts collected by a Victorian antiquarian that had been sitting gathering dust for a century in a forgotten attic. Without provenance most of the department was not interested. You were. It appeared you and the antiquarian shared similar interests, Celtic magic. You were fascinated by what he had collected, about how he had interpreted his findings, described in barely legible handwriting in his notebooks. When studying those notebooks you could forget about your two woes.

Then Pete, the department head, had announced job cuts. The university couldn’t afford such a large history department anymore. Unsurprisingly, you were one of those whose tenure was not being renewed.

While the rest of your peers immediately sent out applications, and soon found new places to work, you couldn’t face it. You’d carried on as if nothing had changed. Which led to you sitting on your final day in Pete’s office with no plans and no ideas.

You could see the pain in Pete’s face. He knew what you’d been through. He’d spent a month offering you help, in therapy, in job hunting, in just comradeship. You’d tried to ignore him, like you’d tried to ignore everything. You couldn’t face reality. He was still offering.

“Look, I might have an answer. You come from ____” and he mentions your hometown. “Well, my wife, she has contacts at a school there, St Perpetua’s Sixth Form College. You know it?”

You nod. St Perpetua’s. All teen boys from your hometown knew of St Perpetua’s. A private Sixth Form College, where all the rich, hot girls seemed to go. All boys of every school had obsessed about the girls of St Perpetua’s, the length of their skirts, the tightness of their blouses, the way they’d walk through town as if they owned it. You’d been too shy and nerdy to even talk to a girl from the college, but you’d fantasised about them. Your fantasies still included kinks towards their uniforms.

“Well, I understand they’re looking for a new history teacher, **** for it from what I’ve heard. I think you’d be perfect. Let my wife send your CV to them. I guarantee you’ll get an interview.”

Part of you wants to say no. Part of you wants to say you’re not ready. But this is a conversation about reality and reality said you had no option. It was too late to find tenure at another university. It was too late to do anything but struggle. You might never have seen yourself as a history teacher, but history teacher was the only option on the table.

You nod, setting off Pete’s first smile since you’d stepped into his office.

“Excellent. I’ll send them your details and my recommendation. They’ll want an in-person interview next week. You can handle that, can’t you.”

You’d never done interviews before. You’d never had to. The prospect sends a chill down your back, but you nod anyway. There’s no other option.

“Look, just be yourself. You know your stuff, better than most teachers. And you might not think it, but you are a good teacher.” Pete tries to encourage you, like he’s tried to encourage you for the last few months. Your cynicism still makes it feel hollow. “You’ll do great at the job. Trust me.”

Then he stands and claps his hands. “Why don’t I help you load your things into your car, and then we can go to the farewell drinks.”

You smile back at Pete and agree.