Disclaimer: I do not own Chris Jericho or anything else pretaining to World Wrestling Entertainment. I am just a fan; and I am not profiting from writing this piece.

February 2, 1996

The classroom was several volumes above its normal morning roar. The conversations were so intertwined with one another that I could not decipher them, even if I felt inclined to do so. I sat in my usual spot, center row, third seat; just behind Haro—the Japanese boy that was taking this Spanish class in order to improve his English. (Try as I might, I still can't see the logic behind that one; however, on the up-side, his Spanish was pretty impressive.) My right foot was tapping impatiently against the tile floor. Mr. Vazquez was late; he was never late. He was always behind his desk, with a large espresso in hand, by seven-forty. It was now five minutes past eight. There was no sign of an espresso, no cheesy chiste (joke) of the day written on the whiteboard, and no stack of pop quizzes out in the open for some of my classmates to take advantage of. Case and point: ¿Dondé está Señor Vazquez? Where was Mr. Vazquez?

I tapped Haro on his shoulder. He whipped his head around and nearly poked me in the face with one of the wax-coated spikes from his so-called hair.

"Yes?" His almond-shaped eyes stared at me in confusion. He always looked confused, so that was nothing out of the ordinary.

"What's up?" I asked, gesturing to Mr. Vazquez's empty desk in front of the room.

Haro looked at the desk for a moment and then back at me…Insert more looks of utter confusion. I had no idea why I thought that he could give me an answer. I had no idea why I thought I could understand his answer, even if he had one.

"Have you heard anything about, Mr. V.?"

Haro shook his head.

"No, no," he replied. "Mr. V. not here. Mr. V. is—how you say—late? Mr. V. late."

"Yeah," I sighed, leaning back in my desk. "I kind of gathered that, thanks."

Haro smiled, unaffected by my sarcasm. "No problemo."

He spun back around and commenced to doodling on his notebook.

Salvador Vazquez came from a large family—a very large family. He was the fourth-born out of six children. Though most of his brothers and sisters had already left the nest, he still lived at home with his mother, father, uncle, grandmother, and two younger sisters. I rode the same bus as the Vazquez twins before my parents finally broke down and bought me an "economically friendly" car (which is code for a pretty-looking, vehicular-shaped, roadside ornament). Still, I spent a lot of time with them, because they were their brother's unofficial assistants during volleyball practice. Mr. Vazquez cared for those girls like they were his own children; so it wouldn't have surprised me if one of them had gotten sick and he had to take a sick-day. However, he had never taken a sick-day for anything—not even when he broke his leg during an ice hockey mishap; but there is a first time for everything, right?

I drifted off into a fantasy land as I tried to make a list of other reasons that would explain my teacher's absence. Why? Because I am a lowly adolescent with nothing better to do during school hours. I was too busy staring at the blank whiteboard and chewing on my number-two pencil to notice the lean, muscular finger entering the room.

A loud gun-shot-like pop echoed throughout the room as said figure slammed the door.

Me, and half a dozen of my classmates, jumped.

Everyone fell silent.

"¡Hola, chicos y chicas!" The strange man greeted us with a Canadianized Hispanic accent. He briskly crossed the room and placed his beige tote bag, a stack of files, and a brand new Spanish book onto Mr. Vazquez's desk. "Me llamo Señor Jericho… Por razones sin revelar, Señor Vazquez dimitió de su posición de enseñanza. Así pues, enseñaré a esta clase hasta nuevo aviso."

Mr. Jericho finally turned around. I suppose he was expecting some kind of reaction—some indication that the class understood him.

The crickets chirped, the desks creaked, and someone coughed. That was about it.

Mr. Jericho stared at us for a moment, and then sighed, "Oh, boy."

Yes, this was a level-four Spanish class; and yes, even if the class couldn't understand every single Spanish word that was spoken, we should have been able to get the general idea. However, with Mr. Vazquez as the teacher for all four courses, all that advanced knowledge we should have acquired fell through the other words, he was a great person and volleyball coach, but a lackluster educator—not that that mattered to the higher-ups of this fine educational establishment.

"My name is Mr. Jericho. For undisclosed reasons, Mr. Vazquez handed in his resignation over the weekend…"

That caused a disturbance in the force. A ripple of mummers circulated throughout the room. Why would Mr. Vazquez quit so suddenly and without giving his students a reason? Was Mr. Vazquez actually fired? Was the school covering up a hot new scandal? How often did Mr. Jericho workout? Could Mr. Jericho's slacks be any tighter? Was Mr. Jericho single? Was I coming down with a head cold?

"I will be teaching this class until further notice." Mr. Jericho went on to explain as he swiped a black dry-erase marker from the tray and began to scribble his name in large, bold letters across the whiteboard.

My fellow female classmates giggled with excitement.

It was undeniable—Mr. Jericho was the Fabio of substitute teachers. He was quite picturesque, very similar to brooding men found on the covers of romance novels. He had the long, blond hair, which was pulled into a loose ponytail. His silk, black dress shirt barely fitted his muscular torso. Every time he flexed his arm, I was certain that the fabric was going to rip. As if his physical features didn't already entice the hormonally-driven young ladies of my class, he had the collar of said borderline-inappropriate shirt unbuttoned. He was implicitly saying to those that were salivating in his presence, "Look all you want, but please, don't touch."

Mr. Jericho snapped the cap back on the marker, put it back in the tray, and turned to face the class again.

"It's mid-semester, so I know that this sudden change will be daunting for you," he said, putting his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He began to pace in front of the room as he made eye-contact with the majority of the students. "So, for the first couple of days, we're going to treat this like the first day of school. You're going to get to know me; and I'm going to get to you. Does that sound like a plan?"

More crickets chirped.

"Right," Mr. Jericho said slowly. "Let's not waste any more time than necessary."

He walked over to Mr. Vazquez's desk and started rummaging through the stack of files.

"I'm going to call roll. When you hear your name, please stand up and tell me a couple interesting facts about yourself. I can remember your names and faces a lot easier, if I have things to associate you with."

There were a whopping three male teachers on the Wallens-Welborn Collegiate payroll that could be considered remotely attractive, but they were all in their mid-thirties and happily married; therefore, they were an instant turn-off. In regards to the mysterious Mr. Jericho, however, his age and/or martial status had no effect on my attraction to him. I was hypnotized by his mouth as he rattled off the names of my classmates. The names gracefully slipped past his lips and rang inside my ears like lovely nonsensical ballads. I was so enamored by the music that he was unknowingly producing that I didn't realize that he had gotten to my name.

"Emma Copeland?" Mr. Jericho glanced over the rim of his reading glasses. When no one claimed the name, he looked at the roster list momentarily, and then said, "Last call for Emma Copeland."

"Here," Haro replied, gesturing behind his shoulder, to me, "She here, Mr. Herracho."

Mr. Jericho's warm blue eyes fixed on me. "Emma?"

"Huh?" was my classy and incoherent response.

Mr. Jericho smiled, which sent my heart aflutter. Even his smile was perfect.

"Emma, would you mind telling me a little bit about yourself?"

It took a few seconds for his request to register.

"Oh…right," I squeaked, slowly sliding out of my desk.

I stood there, staring at Mr. Jericho for a moment.

"Umm…Hola," I smiled nervously. For some odd reason, I thought that pathetic little greeting deserved an equally pathetic (and dorky) partial wave.

Mr. Jericho smiled again and gave me a partial wave in return.

"Hola."

"Hola…" I repeated for no apparent reason.

Could I be any more inept?

"Ummm…Tengo…Tengo…dieciocho años…"

I could hear the faint snarls of my classmates. It was obvious that I was trying to wow Mr. Jericho with what little Spanish I knew. My peers maintained that sinking-ship mentality, meaning that we were all supposed to down together. So, if they didn't speak Español, then I wasn't supposed to. Breaking away—swimming away—from said sinking ship is a cardinal sin in the adolescent world.

"There's nothing really interesting about me," I sighed and started to ramble nervously. "I play volleyball…I read a lot. My favorite book is WutheringHeights. I'll also read anything by Anne Rice. My favorite subject is Advanced Algebra. I'm the unofficial second bass guitarist for my older brother's heavy metal band, The Four Gifted Severed Heads. Don't ask about the name, because that's a long, drawn-out story; and I really don't think you want to hear it. I don't want to hear it, but Adam—that's my brother—retells it all the time, because he thinks that's how the ladies are scored. Now that I think about it, he's really quite obtuse. Then again, most men in my family are—"

"He said, 'Tell some interesting facts about yourself', not, 'Fill out a personal ad,'" Kurt Gellar (Wallens-Welborn Collegiate's golden boy) sneered loudly from his spot at the back corner of the classroom.

My classmates snickered.

Mr. Jericho glanced in Kurt's direction, and very nonchalantly said, "And I can already see one interesting fact about you…Your mouth earns you multiple trips to detention."

The class roared with laughter.

I blushed and bit my lip to keep from laughing too hard.

"Thank you for sharing, Emma," Mr. Jericho turned his attention back to me and gave me the warmest of smiles. "If I ever need someone to shred guitars with, can I count on you?"

"Sure," I giggled.

"Good deal."

Mr. Jericho gave me one last smile and then moved on to the next student.

I slowly melted into my desk.

My thirty-minute lunch break begins promptly at twelve-twenty. I cannot stand the overcrowded cafeteria; so I avoid it at all cost. I used spend my break at a little coffee shop a few blocks away from campus; but because a lot of people were ditching their classes whenever they were supposed to be out getting lunch, all off-campus lunch privileges were revoked earlier this semester. Nowadays, I find a secluded table in the library and work ahead on homework assignments. Fascinating, no?

"Some juice for the think-tank," A familiar voice whispered.

I looked up from my English textbook in time to see Ethan sliding an unopened drink can in front of me.

"Thanks," I smiled as he slid into the empty seat next to me.

"No problem."

Ethan jerked his head to the side to get his shaggy, black hair out of his eyes. He then leaned over to take a gander at the 17th Century story I had been reading. He snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Don't you ever get sick of reading that fucking shit?"

Ethan was the epitome of the classic underachiever and tortured adolescent. Going to school was just a way for him to spend seven and a half hours away from his parents, who were on the fast-track to a nasty divorce after twenty-five years of marriage. He cared less about grades, going to college, or his future for that matter. He was very much a here-and-now kind of person. The only loves in his life were angry death metal music, black nail polish, and his vintage '70's Epiphone Crestwood guitar that he still had no clue how to play.

With that being said, one might ask, "Why the hell are the two of you friends?" (In fact, a number of people have asked that.) The answer is simple: He's been my best friend since elementary school. Before the satanic-sounding growls of Chuck Schuldiner entered his life, Ethan had been a shy, little…walking tower of snot. During recess one sunny afternoon, he summoned up the courage to ask me to play tag with him. In response, I screamed and shoved him into the sandbox. However, in my defense, my brother had told me that spending too much time talking to boys (other than relatives) would cause warts to show up on my "girlie parts." That was Adam's way of making sure that I steered clear of the opposite sex. It worked for a while…until I took sex-ed in the fifth grade.

I glanced over at Ethan and laughed softly.

"If you took the time read some of this 'shit,' you might actually like it," I said, trying to discreetly open my soda can.

Ethan scoffed and flipped his hair again.

"Yeah, that's like saying I might actually be on time for History class."

I giggled and took a sip of soda. Ethan swiped the can from my hand the moment I brought it away from my lips. He took a big gulp of soda and then reached into the large leg pocket of his baggy cargo pants. He pulled out a small plastic bag filled with semi-crushed animal crackers and offered me some.

This was the second week he had come to school with animal crackers for lunch. That meant that the Mathis household was running low on groceries again; and Mr. and Mrs. Mathis were too wrapped up in their own drama to come to the realization that they needed to feed their only child. Ethan worked at Vide-O-Rama part-time, but those wages just weren't enough for him to get by.

I tried to mask my sympathy as I politely refused his offer.

Ethan's hazel eyes searched my expression for a moment; and then he shrugged. He grabbed a handful of broken animal cracker pieces. He popped the pieces, one by one, into his mouth as he spoke, "So, how are you taking this, Mr. V. thing? I know how much you liked the guy and all." He then let out a callous cackle, adding, "It must suck to find out that he's a fucking piece of trash. They need to ship his ass back to Mexico, Puerto Rico, or wherever the hell he's from."

I furrowed my brow, closed my textbook, and turned to look at him.

"What are you talking about?"

"You mean you haven't heard?"

"Heard what? I mean, I know he quit."

"Yeah, but do you know why he quit?"

My brow scrunched even more.

"What have you heard, E.?"

Ethan's eyes were dancing with amusement; and a smile was forming in the corners of his mouth.

"Well, this is just hearsay, but you know Rachel McComb, right?"

"Yeah," I nodded slowly. "She was on the volleyball team until this semester."

Ethan nodded.

"Well, word is, she's knocked-up."

"Okay, but what does that have to do with Mr. Vazquez?" I asked, confused.

Ethan laughed loudly and flashed me that boyish grin—the one that was void of any kind of malicious intent.

I gestured for him to keep it down. I couldn't afford to have the librarian place ban me from my only sanctuary in this place.

"Jesus, to be so smart, you act dumb as fuck sometimes," he remarked, lowering his voice again. "Do I have to paint you a damn picture? Think about it, Em. McComb's knocked-up; Mr. V. quit. It's not rocket science. The big rumor is—they've been fucking around for months, maybe even a year…When Vazquez found out McComb's was preggo, they eloped over the weekend, because of Vazquez's strong religious beliefs or some shit like that…Anyway, McComb's parents found out and were threatening to have Mr. V. arrested or something. So he quit; and he and his new wife took off for the States. The police are looking for them and shit. Funny stuff really…"

I gasped, "No way!"

"Yes way." Ethan nodded as he casually took another gulp of my soda to wash down the animal crackers.

I was stunned into silence and slowly leaned back in my chair.

"Do you think there's any truth to it?" I asked after a moment.

Ethan shrugged, and replied, "Could be. I mean, I haven't seen Rachel today; and Mr. Vazquez has always comes off as a perverted little fuck to me so…"

I gave him a sideways glance and scowled.

"How would you know anything about Mr. V.? You haven't attended your Intro to Spanish class all year."

"I don't have to attend class to see how that asshole checked you out during volleyball practice last year. Why do think I stopped going to watch you practice?"

"That's ludicrous."

"Oh, it's very…crous, Em. If you weren't such a goody-two-shoes, he probably would have made a pass at you; and then I would have beaten his fucking ass with my crowbar."

I couldn't help laughing as I reached for my soda.

"Mr. Mathis."

One of the librarians, Mrs. McNeill, towered above us. She had an annoyed expression on her face as she pushed her glasses up on her nose.

"Why hello, Barb," Ethan greeted, plastering on his sculpted grin of innocence.

He has this habit of addressing all the female staff members by their first names, because they all address him so formally.

"You know not to use that kind of language," Mrs. McNeill cut to the chase.

"And what language are you referring to, Barb?"

She scowled, folding her arms across her chest.

"Don't play innocent with me, Mr. Mathis. Using obscenities is an automatic two afternoons after school, you know that."

"Oh," Ethan suddenly seemed to recall that he had been cussing like a drunken sailor. "Two afternoons after school is a bit much for a few cuss words here and there, don't you think? Besides, even if you were to give me after-school detention, wouldn't that make you a hypocrite? Do you remember a couple weeks ago? You broke that bookshelf; and you thought I wasn't around. Did you or did you not utter the words, 'Son of a bitch?' Therefore, by your standards, you should be spending two afternoons after school."

All the blood rushed to Mrs. McNeill's chubby cheeks. She was either embarrassed, angry, or maybe both.

"Two detentions," she reiterated firmly. "Would you like to go for another one?"

"No," Ethan sighed. "This is too Breakfast Club-y as it is. Two is fine."

I tried to stifle my laughter, but it was to no avail.

Mrs. McNeill cut her eyes to me.

"And, Emma…"

Oh, boy.

She glanced at the soda can still clutched in my hand.

"You know full-well that food and drinks are strictly prohibited in here. That's an automatic detention for you as well."

"What?" I blinked, astonished.

I had snuck food and drinks into the library before and no one had accosted me about it before. I was only getting in trouble for it now because I was in the company of Ethan.

"Whoa…Now, Barb, I think you're gettin' a little too drunk with power," Ethan quickly came to my aid. "Why on earth would sweet little, Emma, here break one of your insanely stupid rules? She follows everything by the book. The soda is mine, so do what you will with me and leave her out of it."

Mrs. McNeill eyed both Ethan and me for a moment.

I slowly took a sip of soda.

"Fine," Mrs. McNeill rolled her eyes. She clearly didn't believe Ethan, but she wasn't going to press the matter.

"That's three detentions, Mr. Mathis."

"Great," Ethan plastered on that smile again. "I'll see you there, sweet-cheeks."

I couldn't help snickering.

Mrs. McNeill huffed, turned on her heel, and stormed away.

"That lady needs to get laid," Ethan muttered when he was certain that Mrs. McNeill wasn't within earshot distance. "Of course, the bastard would have to be completely shitfaced to even wanna go near that dusty, old penis flytrap."

"She is right, you know?" I laughed. "You do need to watch your language."

"Hey, if I could watch my language, I wouldn't need a television."

I laughed again, shaking my head.

The lunch bell tolled, which signaled the end of break.

Ethan helped me gather my textbook and notebook together.

I slug my rainbow-colored tote bag over my shoulder.

"Are you coming by tonight?" I asked Ethan as we filed out of the library and started walking down the hallway.

"Why? Are you and the guys practicing?"

"When are we not practicing? Joe had to pull out of yet another gig, so Adam's having me fill in for him."

Ethan threw his arm around my shoulder.

"Then you know that I'll be there."

"Cool…You should stay for dinner then. Mom's making your favorite, three-layered lasagna."

Ethan grinned.

"You know I can't turn that down."

Once we reached the staircase, Ethan and I were forced to part ways.

"Well," Ethan kissed the side of my head, as was the custom whenever we left one another. "I'm off to terrorize the lovely ladies and gents of Chemistry, and/or catch a smoke in the boys' room. I haven't decided which one will be more fulfilling yet. You'd better hurry or you'll be late for English."

I have exactly ten minutes to get from Point A to Point B, which is an acceptable amount of time between classes…unless you spend your lunch break on the second floor; and your next class happens to be downstairs on the opposite side of the school building. Usually, if I rush, I can make it to class just before the two-minute warning bell sounds. I've never been marked late…Well, almost never.

I was bounding down the two flights of stairs at record speed. The sounds of my feet hitting the marble steps echoed inside the stairwell. Then suddenly those sounds were replaced by my shrill as I collided with another human being traveling up the stairs. My books fell out of my hands; and the stack of papers that the other person had been carrying was now floating down the stairwell.

I looked up and opened my mouth to issue an apology; but when my eyes soaked in the details of the person I had literally ran into, I was momentarily at a loss for words.

"Mr. Fabio," I muttered, but was quick to correct myself, "I mean, Mr. Jericho…Señor Jericho."

Mr. Jericho chuckled.

"Ms. Copeland…Has the school caught on fire, or are you just that excited to get to your next class?" he asked teasingly.

The school might not have been ablaze, but face certainly was. All the blood had rushed to my cheeks. I knew it was noticeable, so I kept my head down and didn't respond.

"I'm very sorry," I muttered softly.

"As long as neither one of us has suffered a debilitating injury, it's quite all right."

I laughed faintly. My eyes were still clued to the floor.

I bent down and tried to gather as many of Mr. Jericho's papers as I could. He crouched down and commenced to helping me.

"I've got this. You need to get to class," Mr. Jericho said after we had gotten some of the papers stacked into a pile.

"Yeah," I nodded in agreement. However, I was still picking up papers.

Mr. Jericho had stopped paying attention to his belongings and started collecting mine. He stacked my notebook and textbook on top of each other; and then he handed them to me.

Our eyes met. It was a classic cinematic-pause type of moment. My heart had left the comfort of my ribcage and lodged itself within my throat. Oxygen was having difficulty getting past the cardiac barricade; so I was all but gasping for whatever air I could get.

Up-close, Mr. Jericho's eyes were even more captivating. They were a paler shade of blue than I had initially thought this morning. Just like his smile, his eyes exuded warmth and compassion.

"Wow," I murmured aloud.

Mr. Jericho gave me a puzzled look as we slowly stood up.

I knew that I was staring at him like a love-struck thirteen-year-old at the very last New Kid's on the Block concert; but I couldn't help myself. All I could do was pray that he mistook the look I was giving him for a case of menstrual craps, or perhaps severe constipation. (I've never examined my love-struck expression in a mirror to determine the ways in which it could be misconstrued; so these are just some educated guesses.)

"Are you all right?" Mr. Jericho asked with a raised brow.

I nodded, still frozen in place.

"You had better get to class," he reiterated, sounding a bit concerned.

Just as the words left his beautiful lips, the two-minute warning bell rang.

"On second thought, I had better write you a note," he corrected himself with a laugh.

He touched my notebook, which caused me to stiffen.

"Would you mind?"

I mumbled something unintelligible as he flipped my notebook around. I'm surprised he could even do that, because I was clenching my books so tightly.

Mr. Jericho quickly flipped through the dividers in my notebook until he found a clean sheet of notebook paper somewhere in the back. Then he pulled a pen out of the pocket of his slacks.

"Who's your teacher?" he asked.

"Mrs. Hollis."

He scribbled that down.

"Where were you coming from?"

"The library…"

More scribbling occurred; and then he clicked his pen and put it back in his pocket.

"That should do it," he said, flashing me a smile as he spun my notebook back around and closed it. "However, if Mrs. Hollis happens to give you any grief, you have her come find me, okay?"

"Okay," I nodded.

"Now get on to class and try to tackle anymore teachers along the way."

"I'll try," I laughed nervously. "Thanks for the note."

My cheeks were starting to burn again, so I quickly turned away. I muttered another thank-you and scurried down the stairs. I tried not to step on the rest of the scattered papers.

Curiosity killed the teacher tackler. I had this irrepressible urge to find out what Mr. Jericho had written in that note. (We all need to know what's being said about us, am I right?) While heading for English, I found a bench in the hallway and took a seat. I set my textbook aside and opened my notebook. I flipped through the dividers and found the note:

Mrs. Hollis,

Please, do not mark Emma late for class. She was escorting me to the library.

Sincerely,

Chris Jericho

"I'll escort you anytime, Chris," I said with a smile.

I gathered my books as the late bell tolled.