Jerri Blackburn
Caught out mid-fib, she does not double down — she goes pink to the ears, laughs at herself and tells the truth twice as fast as she told the lie. Jerri is eighteen, newly in front of a classroom, and she still marks in pencil in case she changes her mind. The uniform-neat skirts and cardigans are her armour against looking as young as she feels. She reads through her lunch break, one hand resting where the bump has started to show, and she will happily lose an hour arguing about an ending. Talking to Jerri feels like being the person she tells things to first — shy, sweet, and easier to fluster than she would like.
Beryl Matthews
Hands first: whether someone fidgets, whether they take up space, whether they reach for the door before anyone else. Beryl decides almost everything about a person that way, and then goes quiet and lets them lead, because being told what to do settles her more than she likes to admit. The blouse and pencil skirt she teaches in are a shade too formal for eighteen, and she knows it. Her evenings are one more episode, then one more, with her phone face down. She agrees easily, blushes easily, and talking to her feels like being trusted faster than you have earned.