Chapter 7: The Math Teacher

Words : 2514 Updated : Nov 6th, 2025

Margaret could feel the veins in her temples throb. As the Santee family's eldest daughter, she'd been trained in manners and poise since childhood. But facing this man, she had the wild urge to toss all that out the window and go for his throat. It wasn't just his answer. It was the book he was reading. He was reading a book titled "The Mysteries of Gender: Exploring the Secrets of Women." "Figures a shameless guy would read a shameless book," Margaret couldn't help but say. "Mm?" Jason looked briefly puzzled, then kept reading. She got up to leave. The man was shameless, the book was sleazy; who knew what might happen if she stayed a second longer? The woman had already decided to crash at her best friend's place for the night. "Heading out? Should I walk you?" Jason caught her intention and asked offhandedly. He didn't get up or put the book down. "No, thanks," Margaret ground out, unwilling to spend another second around him. "Suit yourself." He'd only said it to be polite; he had no intention of actually walking her out. "By the way, next time you read in front of a woman, turn the pages more slowly, about three minutes per page. Let your eyes move from top to bottom, and keep a pleasant smile while you read. That way, you look genuinely absorbed." At the entryway, Margaret still couldn't help herself. She forced a brittle smile, slammed the door, and left. Jason had no idea what she meant. Was that really considered proper reading etiquette here? Her presence hadn't dented his mood. He read late into the night and only then fell asleep. Books here were surprisingly entertaining; if his body hadn't started flagging, he'd have kept going. ***** Meanwhile, on Felton East Road, Luke eased his freight truck toward home. It was late. Trucking was like that; you could save money, but every cent was hard-earned, and pulling all-nighters was sometimes par for the course. Tonight was an early finish. He checked his watch: 10:55 p.m. He figured he could make it home by 11:30. He fished a stuffed toy for his daughter out of the glovebox, rubbed his thumb over the plastic window, then tucked it back. Thinking of his adorable girl, he couldn't help smiling. As he passed a rest stop, Luke intended to roll on by. The place catered to long-haul coaches and freight drivers. It was less than twenty miles from his house, a stop that felt more like a hassle than a help. Then, as if a ghost tugged his sleeve, he remembered Jason's warning. "Fine, I'll take a break." Luke steered into the rest stop. He climbed down, found a seat, and sat down. Then he shook his head. He was being paranoid, buying into some young guy's spooky talk. He grabbed a bottle of water from the back seat, drained half of it, and then headed back to the truck. With one foot on the step, less than a mile away, a tanker eased into a bend. Luke frowned. The cab nosed through the corner at a strange angle and drifted just a hair off. He hadn't pieced it together when a massive blast hit. Boom! The roar tore through the night, and a wave of hot air slapped his face. The shock wave shoved him back; he went down hard. Other drivers spending the night at the rest stop rushed over. "The truck blew up! Call the fire department!" someone shouted. The rest stop erupted into motion. People grabbed extinguishers, rushed to organize a response, and called the fire department. Luke sat where he'd fallen, not moving, his back soaked in cold sweat. If he hadn't stopped for those few minutes, he'd have been the one passing that bend. He lifted his wrist, and his arm trembled so badly he could barely see the time. 11:01 p.m. His throat felt parched. He stared, dazed, toward the blast site. In the firelight, a figure over six and a half feet tall flickered at the edge of the flames. He rubbed his eyes. When he looked again, the figure was gone. "Am I so tired I'm seeing things?" Sweat beaded across his brow. He thought of the young man's warning. Who on earth was he? That morning, his ringtone yanked Jason awake. He blinked at the screen. It was already nine. So this was what it meant to be flesh and blood. Not like before, when he could go years without shutting his eyes and never feel it. He answered, yawned, and let out a groggy, "Hello?" "Jason, what time is it? Are you coming to work or not? You've already taken two days of leave. What, you want to keep resting? Why don't you just go to the principal, resign, and take a long vacation?" A voice crackled through the phone, harsh enough to sting. He hadn't said a word before the other person rattled on like a machine gun. Still drowsy, he hung up and flopped back onto the pillow. "He dares hang up on me." On the other end, Milana felt her authority as dean of students had been slighted. Her expression tightened, and she stabbed redial. No answer. Redial. Still no answer. She kept calling. Jason got fed up with the ringing and switched his phone off. "The number you dialed has been switched off," the recorded voice droned. "Fine, fine, fine!" Milana snapped, saying it three times. "I haven't seen an intern this cocky in ages." "Harper, when Jason gets to school, tell him to come to my office." Harper agreed. "Wasn't Milana on great terms with Mr. Sowden? How did things sour in just two days?" Only after Milana walked off did someone dare whisper the question. "That's a naive way to look at it. Milana treated him well because she knew he was the Santee family's son-in-law; she couldn't cozy up fast enough. But look at yesterday and today's news. Mr. Sowden's fallen out of favor with the Santees; whether he remains the live-in son-in-law is anyone's guess. Of course Milana goes whichever way the wind blows." An older teacher explained, his words colored by a heavy Jeverby accent. "Wow. That's brutally realistic." That's people for you: the ones who buttered you up are the first to pile on once you fall, eager to erase their own groveling by kicking you while you're down. Jason slept until ten, then dragged himself out of bed. His memories felt clearer than the day before. The memories had come through incomplete; he had to fish out thoughts like glass shards and piece them together. Cross-checking with his phone and the ID in his pocket, he finally confirmed the absurd truth: he was a math teacher. So he was already a live-in son-in-law, and the Santee family hadn't placed him in their company? Not even a cushy job in logistics? In his last life, as a sect leader, trouble had piled up like fallen leaves; reborn, he still had to punch a clock. He fumed to himself. The man griped, then went to school anyway. He had no money, so he took the bus. By the time he reached campus, it was nearly noon. He taught at Anville High School, a city-level key school. Although it was labeled a key school, it was actually somewhat overrated. The school earned the title mainly because it was established early and had senior credentials, and was evaluated for key status relatively soon after its establishment as well. In terms of real strength, the school's academic results in the past two years have been surpassed by Cervik High School in the same city, making even its status seem shaky. None of that concerned Jason. What worried him was the original owner's lovestruck brain, a mushy mass that held little but Margaret's name. Before heading to his office, he spent a considerable amount of time sorting through his relationships. If a colleague greeted him and he blanked on the face, that would be trouble. Luckily, the basics were still there; he could drag up names and faces from the murk. He worked in a shared office for six and sat down. Near noon, only one teacher was away; the others were at their stations. When he stepped in, heads turned. Yesterday's runaway wedding had been the talk of the city. As colleagues, they had all seen the news. Faced with the man at the center, curiosity lit their eyes. Jason paid them no mind. His headache was how to teach math. As a sect leader in his previous life, he'd lectured his disciples, but it was all about cultivation, and the format was mostly laissez-faire. Try that now, and never mind the free-range style- the content alone would count as promoting feudal superstition. He'd probably be hauled off to a psych ward the same day. He could almost see a fresh headline: "Anville High School teacher goes off the rails after his fiancée jilts him, preaches 'feudal superstition' in class, now hospitalized." Maybe he should quit. He thought it through and dropped the idea. He was broke; he didn't even know where his next meal would come from. If he resigned and the Santee family offered help, that would be fine; if not, he'd be sleeping on the street. The man returned to the problem of being a math teacher. He'd read plenty of math books yesterday, but knowing was one thing, teaching another. A good mathematician wasn't necessarily a good teacher. Still, since he'd taken the job, he didn't want to make a mess of it. At the very least, he shouldn't mislead his students.

Chapter 7: The Math Teacher

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