Scene 6¶

School's Out¶

Scene 26
School's Out

Wardrobe didn't feel like a refuge anymore.

Not today.

The rails were fuller, the worktable was cleared for pattern paper instead of mending baskets, and Mara had the particular expression she wore when money had been approved and time had not: a brisk concentration that made everyone else move faster without being told to.

A new jacket lay pinned to a mannequin--not perfect yet, but already smarter than the old stock. The seam lines made sense. The stress points had been thought through. It was the first garment in weeks that wasn't a compromise. Mara stood with a pencil behind her ear, looking at the jacket like she was deciding whether to forgive it.

"See that?" she said to me, tapping a point near the underarm. "That's where tourists tear things. That's where staff tear things. Movement there is violent."

"It's not really violent, is it?"

Mara's eyes didn't leave the seam. "It is if you pretend bodies don't exist."

That was Mara's entire philosophy in one sentence. Design as honesty. Sewing as physics. Safety as something you built. I was about to reply when my phone buzzed in my pocket--twice in quick succession, as if whoever it was didn't trust politeness to be heard. I didn't check it immediately. I'd learned not to flinch in this room. Mara hated flinching more than she hated mistakes.

The third buzz came, insistent. Mara glanced at me without turning her head.

"If it's school, I don't care."

"It isn't," I said, already pulling the phone out.

It was a message from Leah--one of the girls still at school. She was the kind of girl who liked gossip until it had teeth.

Leah: Charlie walked out of class. Like... just left. Mr Greeves tried to stop him. Everyone was laughing. I swear someone filmed it. He was at the board and Mr Greeves said something about staff saying Charlie won't make it through the year. Like staffroom stuff. Charlie went white.

I read it once, then again.

Mara watched my face the way she watched a hemline--waiting for the tell. I didn't give her much. I didn't want to. But a message like that doesn't land quietly. It lands like a dropped tool.

I typed back with one hand.

Me: Where is he now?

Leah replied almost instantly.

Leah: No idea. He just vanished. Didn't slam the door. It was creepy. Like he wasn't even angry. Just done.

Done.

I stared at the word longer than I needed to. Mara's voice came, flat.

"What happened."

Not a question. A demand for facts. I looked up.

"School happened."

"That's not an answer."

I put the phone down on the table, screen facing me, as if turning it outward would make it gossip. "He was made to go up to the board. Mr Greeves--who's meant to be the decent one--let slip that other teachers think Charlie isn't coping. The room laughed. Someone filmed it. Charlie walked out."

Mara's expression didn't change much. But something in her eyes cooled.

"What an idiot."

"Mara--"

"No," Mara cut in, and her voice sharpened the air. "Don't defend him. A teacher's job is to control the room. If he can't control it, he doesn't get to use a boy as an example."

She turned back to the mannequin and tapped the underarm point again, harder this time.

"This," she said, "is why you reinforce. Because stress finds weakness. Always."

I understood the message. This was not just about fabric. I reached for my phone, thumb hovering. I had his number now: I could call Charlie. I could text him. I could drive to his house.

But it was obvious: don't chase him like he's a lost child. Not if we wanted him to keep the dignity of his own decision. So I did the only thing that felt like control.

I waited.

Wardrobe went on around us--steam, pins, scissors, the low murmur of women working, the smell of beeswax and chalk dust in the drawers. It should have soothed me. It didn't. It made the contrast sharper. Here, competence earned you space. At school, competence only made you a target if you were already marked as "wrong." Mara went to the cutting table and spread out pattern paper with a decisive sweep.

"Get the measurements list," she said, brisk. "We're not stopping."

"Right." I reached for the clipboard.

A few minutes later, the door opened. Not a dramatic entrance. Just the door, and the click of it closing again.

I looked up and saw Charlie standing inside Wardrobe with his backpack on one shoulder. He didn't look dishevelled. He didn't look tear-streaked. He hadn't come in with the raw face of a boy begging for comfort.

He looked... set. Like a nail driven into seasoned oak. His gaze swept the room once--rails, tables, Mara--and then landed on me for a fraction of a second before flicking away again, as if eye contact was not the point of this visit.

Mara spoke first. Of course she did.

"Rossignol."

Her tone was not unkind. Not warm. Just naming him into the room.

Charlie nodded. "Mara."

Mara's eyebrow lifted. Tiny, approving. He'd used her name correctly. Not "ma'am," not "Miss," not apology. Adult-to-adult.

Charlie swallowed once.

"I'm not going back."

The words were quiet. They didn't ask permission. They didn't invite a debate. They were an announcement.

The room seemed to pause around it. Even the steamer hiss sounded restrained. Mara didn't react like a counsellor. She reacted like a manager.

"To where," she said, "are you not going back."

Charlie's jaw moved. He didn't look at me. He kept his eyes on a point near Mara's shoulder, as if meeting her gaze directly might turn it into a confrontation.

"School," he said. "I'm done."

Mara's expression didn't soften. But it did sharpen with clarity, as if this was a problem she could finally name.

"So what's your plan."

Charlie breathed in--slow, controlled. He adjusted the strap of his backpack with one hand, a small grounding motion.

"I can work," he said. "Here. Properly. Not... hanging around."

That was Charlie, at his best: no melodrama, no entitlement, no "please save me." An offer. A willingness to work. My chest tightened anyway, because I could hear the underside of it:

I won't be laughed at again. I won't be filmed. I won't be a spectacle. I'd rather stitch until my fingers bleed.

Mara stared at him for a beat. Then she said, "You don't make sound decisions in a panic."

Charlie's mouth tightened. "I'm not panicking."

Mara's eyes narrowed. "Everyone else panics loudly. You panic by disappearing."

Charlie held still. He didn't deny it. He didn't argue.

He simply said, very evenly, "I didn't disappear. I left." Nuance.

Mara's gaze pinned him--not cruel, not tender. Accurate.

"Yes," Mara said. "You left. Good. That's self-respect."

Charlie's eyes flicked up, startled, because he'd expected punishment, not acknowledgement. Mara continued without letting the moment get sentimental.

"But self-respect isn't a plan," she said. "And I don't run a charity."

"I realise that."

Mara's tone stayed flat. "Then listen. This place is changing."

I saw Charlie's gaze shift to the pattern paper, the mannequin, the new garment pinned in place. He'd noticed. He wasn't stupid. Mara stepped aside and gestured at the room with two fingers.

"This is not a mending corner anymore," she said. "It's a studio. It is deadlines. It is standards. It is money. If you want to be here full-time, you work like a professional. You don't come here to hide."

Charlie swallowed hard, his face set. "I'm not hiding."

Mara's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Good. Because I will know."

Then--and this was Mara's version of generosity--she gave him something he could grab onto.

"Today," Mara said, "you do two things. You finish the reinforcement on the prototype jacket. And you inventory the closure stock. Every hook, every eyelet, every tape. Write it down cleanly. Do it properly and you can come back tomorrow."

Charlie went still. Not with fear. With the stunned relief of someone being given a rule-set instead of an argument.

"Okay."

I hadn't spoken yet. I was letting Mara set the terms. That mattered. It kept this from becoming about my feelings. But Charlie's eyes flicked to me again, quick and involuntary, and I could see the question he didn't want to ask: Are you going to make me go back?

I answered without words--picking up the clipboard, I placed it on the table beside him.

"Start with the closures," I said, voice neutral. "You're fast when you're calm."

His shoulders loosened by a fraction. He nodded once and reached for the stock drawer. Mara watched him begin, then turned to me, low enough that it wasn't for him.

"This is going to become a fight," she murmured.

"With the school."

"With everyone," Mara replied. "Because people love the idea of a system until a person refuses to be ground down by it."

I glanced at Charlie. He'd already opened the drawer and was laying out tapes with the quiet precision of someone who could cope if the task stayed honest.

I kept my voice low. "He didn't make a scene."

Mara's gaze stayed on him. "No. He made a decision."

Charlie, as if sensing he was being discussed, lifted his head slightly, eyes darting between us. I didn't soften. I didn't reassure. I said, simply, "You can do this. But you do it properly."

Charlie swallowed, then nodded again.

"Yes," he said. "Properly."

And just like that, the story shifted.

Not into rescue. Into work. Into responsibility.

Into the next room.

Scene 6¶

Sewing as Physics¶

[ Published ]

Scene 6 ✨ Sewing as Physics ✨ [Celeste]

Wardrobe didn’t feel like a refuge anymore.

Not today.

The rails were fuller, the worktable was cleared for pattern paper instead of mending baskets, and Mara had the particular expression she wore when money had been approved and time had not: a brisk concentration that made everyone else move faster without being told to.

A new jacket lay pinned to a mannequin — not perfect yet, but already smarter than the old stock. The seam lines made sense. The stress points had been thought through. It was the first garment in weeks that wasn’t a compromise. Mara stood with a pencil behind her ear, looking at the jacket like she was deciding whether to forgive it.

“See that?” she said to me, tapping a point near the underarm. “That’s where tourists tear things. That’s where staff tear things. Movement there is violent.”

I grimaced. “It’s not really violent, is it?” Mara’s eyes didn’t leave the seam.

“It is if you pretend bodies don’t exist.”

That was Mara’s entire philosophy in one sentence. Design as honesty. Sewing as physics. Safety as something you build into your creations. I was about to reply when my phone buzzed in my pocket, twice in quick succession, as if whoever it was didn’t trust politeness to be heard. I didn’t check it immediately: I’d learned not to flinch in this room. Mara hated flinching more than she hated mistakes. The third buzz came, insistent. Mara glanced at me without turning her head.

“If it’s school, I don’t care.”

“It isn’t,” I said, already pulling the phone out. Not true: it was a message from Leah — one of the girls still at school. She was the kind of girl who liked gossip until it had teeth.

Leah: Charlie walked out of class.
Like... just left. Mr Greeves tried to stop him.
Everyone was laughing. I swear someone filmed it.
He was at the board and Mr Greeves said something about staff saying Charlie won’t make it through the year. Like staffroom stuff. Charlie went white.

I read it once, then again. Mara watched my face the way she watched a hemline — waiting for the tell. I didn’t give her much. I didn’t want to. But a message like that doesn’t land quietly. It lands like a dropped tool. I typed back with one hand.

Me: Where is he now?

Leah replied almost instantly.

Leah: No idea. He just vanished. Didn’t slam the door. It was creepy.
Like he wasn’t even angry. Just done.

Done.

I stared at the word longer than I needed to. Mara’s voice came, flat.

“What happened.”

Not a question: a demand for facts. I looked up.

“School happened.”

“That’s not an answer.”

I put the phone down on the table, screen facing me, as if turning it outward would make it gossip.

“He was made to go up to the board. Mr Greeves — who’s usually the decent one — let slip that other teachers think Charlie likely isn’t going to pass Year Twelve. The room laughed. Someone filmed it. Charlie walked out.”

Mara’s expression didn’t change much. But something in her eyes cooled.

“What an idiot.”

“Mara—”

“No,” Mara cut in, and her voice sharpened the air. “Don’t defend the teacher. His job is to control the room. If he can’t control it, he doesn’t get to use a student as a scapegoat.”

She turned back to the mannequin and tapped the underarm point again, harder this time. “This,” she said, “is why you reinforce. Because stress finds weakness. Always.”

I understood the message. This was not just about fabric. I reached for my phone, thumb hovering. I had his number now: I could call Charlie. I could text him. I could drive to his house.

But my instructions were clear: don’t chase him like he’s a lost child. Not if we wanted him to keep the dignity of his own decision. So I did the only thing that felt respectful.

I waited.

Wardrobe went on around us: steam, pins, scissors, the low murmur of women working, the smell of beeswax and chalk dust in the drawers. It should have soothed me, but it didn’t: it made the contrast sharper. Here, competence earned you space. At school, if you were already marked as “wrong”, competence only made you a target. Mara went to the cutting table and spread out pattern paper with a decisive sweep.

“Get the measurements list,” she said briskly. “We’re not stopping.”

“Right.” I reached for the clipboard.

A few minutes later, the door opened. Just the sound of the door quietly opening, and the click of it closing again. I looked up and saw Charlie with his backpack on one shoulder. He didn’t look dishevelled. He hadn’t come in with the raw face of a boy begging for comfort. If anything, he looked faintly defiant: faintly, because the attitude was an unfamiliar guest. Nevertheless, he looked... set, like a nail driven into seasoned oak. His gaze swept the room once — rails, tables, Mara — and then landed on me for a fraction of a second before flicking away again.

Mara spoke first. Of course she did.

“Rossignol.”

Her tone was not unkind nor warm: just naming him into the room.

“Mara.”

Mara’s eyebrow lifted. Tiny, approving. He’d used her name correctly. Not “ma’am,” not “Miss,” not apology. Adult-to-adult. Charlie swallowed once.

“I’m not going back.”

The words were quiet. They didn’t ask permission. They didn’t invite a debate. They were an announcement. The room seemed to pause around it. Even the steamer hiss sounded restrained. Mara didn’t react like a counsellor. She reacted like a manager.

“Back to where?” she aked. She knew.

Charlie’s jaw moved. He didn’t look at me. He kept his eyes on a point near Mara’s shoulder, as if meeting her gaze directly might turn it into a confrontation.

“School,” he said quietly, his voice thick. “I’m done.”

Mara’s expression sharpen with clarity, as if this was a problem she could finally name.

“So what’s your plan?”

Charlie breathed in — slow, controlled. I noticed a fullness in his chest I hadn't noticed before, something wearing a backpack made more apparent. He caught my look, and quickly removed the backpack, a small disguising motion. He refocused on Mara.

“I will work,” he said. “I can work. Here. Like... properly. Not just hanging around.”

This was a Charlie I didn't recognise, I didn't expect. No entitlement, no “please save me.” Just, an offer. A willingness to work. My chest tightened anyway, because I could hear the underside of it:

I won’t be laughed at again.
I won’t be filmed.
I won’t be a spectacle. I’d rather stitch until my fingers bleed.

Mara stared at him for a moment.

“One doesn’t make sound decisions in a panic.”

Charlie’s mouth tightened. “I’m not panicking.”

Mara’s eyes narrowed. “Everyone else panics loudly. You panic by disappearing.”

Charlie held still. He didn’t deny it, or argue. He simply said, very evenly, “I didn’t disappear. I left.” Nuance.

Mara’s gaze pinned him — not cruel, not tender. Accurate.

“Yes,” Mara said. “You left. Good. That’s self-respect.”

Charlie’s eyes flicked up, startled. He had expected recrimination, not acknowledgement. Mara continued without letting the moment get sentimental.

“But self-respect isn’t a plan,” she said. “And I don’t run a charity.”

“I realise that.”

Mara’s tone stayed flat. “Then listen. This place is changing.”

I saw Charlie’s gaze shift to the pattern paper, the mannequin, the new garment pinned in place. He’d noticed. Mara stepped aside and gestured at the room with two fingers.

“This is not a mending corner anymore,” she said. “It’s a studio. It is deadlines. It is standards. It is money. If you want to be here full-time, you work like a professional. You don’t come here to hide.”

Charlie swallowed hard, his face set. “I’m not hiding.”

Mara’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Good. Because I will know.” Then — and this was Mara’s version of generosity — she gave him something he could grab onto.

“Today,” Mara said, “you do two things. You finish the reinforcement on the prototype jacket. And you inventory the closure stock. Every hook, every eyelet, every tape. Write it down cleanly. Do it properly and you can come back tomorrow.”

Charlie went still. His eyes shone with the dazed relief of someone being given a rule-set instead of an argument.

“Okay.”

I hadn’t spoken yet. I was letting Mara set the terms: that mattered. It kept this from becoming about my feelings. But as Charlie’s eyes flicked to me again, quick and involuntary, I could see the question he didn’t want to ask me: are you going to make me go back?

I answered by picking up the clipboard and placing it on the table beside him.

“Start with the closures,” I said, my voice neutral. “You’re fast when you’re calm.”

His shoulders loosened by a fraction. He let a breath out he didn't realise he was holding and reached for the stock drawer. Mara watched him begin, then turned to me.

“This is going to be a fight,” she murmured. I grimaced and nodded.

“With the school.”

“With everyone,” Mara replied. “Because people love the idea of a system even if a person refuses to be ground down by it.”

I glanced at Charlie. He’d already opened the drawer and was laying out tapes with the quiet precision of someone who could cope if the task stayed honest. I kept my voice low.

“He didn’t make a scene.”

Mara’s gaze stayed on him. “No. He made a decision.”

Charlie, as if sensing he was being discussed, lifted his head slightly, eyes darting between us. I decided to include him.

“You can do this. But you do it properly.”

Charlie swallowed, then nodded again.

“Yes,” he said. “Properly.”

And just like that, the story shifted. Not into rescue. Into work. Into responsibility.

Into the next room.