The Harry Herpson High School gym smelled of sweat, cheap disinfectant, and the quiet desperation of teachers on a Friday afternoon. Small tables were arranged in rows, each manned by a weary-looking educator.
Kaelen, Padmé, and a nervous Morty entered, and immediately, Kaelen became the center of unwanted attention. A group of mothers from the parent committee, huddled at a bake sale table, stopped talking about coupons and turned in unison.
"Oh, look, it's Morty's uncle," one of them whispered, a woman named Brenda. "The one who's so good at air hockey."
"He's even hotter in person," another added.
As Morty guided them towards Mr. Goldenfold's, the math teacher's, table, several mothers found excuses to "bump into" Kaelen.
"Oh, excuse me! How clumsy of me!" Brenda said, dropping a pile of flyers at his feet. She bent over, giving Kaelen a full view of her hair extensions.
"No worries," Kaelen said, helping her pick them up with a polite smile.
From the other side, another mother approached. "Excuse me, are you new to the district? Because I've never seen a parent so... engaged."
Padmé watched, her expression shifting from amusement to a familiar diplomatic irritation. When a third mother approached and touched Kaelen's arm to "ask about the recycling program," Padmé decided enough was enough.
She stepped forward, rose on her tiptoes, and, to the astonished gaze of the bake sale committee, gave Kaelen a quick but firm kiss on the lips.
"Darling, I think Morty's teacher is waiting for us," she said, her voice honey-sweet, but her eyes shooting daggers at the other mothers. She took Kaelen's arm and guided him towards the table, leaving a group of suburban women in stunned silence for the second time that week.
"You have to stop doing that," Kaelen whispered, though the smile on his face said otherwise.
"They have to stop touching my husband," she whispered back.
They reached Mr. Goldenfold's table. The man was a ball of nerves and frustration.
"Ah, yes, Morty Smith!" he exclaimed, looking at his notes. "Mr.... and Mrs.?"
"Ror," Kaelen said. "We're his aunt and uncle."
"Well, 'aunt and uncle'," Goldenfold began, "Morty is... a challenge. He's distracted, stares out the window, his algebra grades are, frankly, abysmal. He shows no initiative. His understanding of basic concepts is almost nonexistent."
Morty cringed in his chair.
Next, they went to Ms. Albright's, the English teacher's, table. The story was similar. "Morty has potential, but he doesn't apply himself. His essays are short, uninspired. It seems his mind is always elsewhere."
After the third meeting with the history teacher, who said Morty once tried to argue that the American Civil War could have been avoided with portal guns, the pattern was clear.
As they headed for the exit, Padmé placed a reassuring hand on Morty's shoulder. "Don't worry, Morty. We'll talk to your parents..."
"No," Kaelen interrupted her. He stopped and turned. "Wait here for a moment."
He walked back towards the tables. With a disconcerting calm, he asked the three teachers they had just seen—Goldenfold, Albright, and the history teacher—to gather in an empty corner of the gym.
"Excuse the interruption," Kaelen began, his tone no longer that of a friendly uncle, but of a CEO about to dismantle a failing report. "I've just heard your evaluations of my nephew, and I've detected a troubling lack of contextual analysis in your conclusions."
The teachers blinked, confused.
"You, Mr. Goldenfold," Kaelen said, addressing the math teacher. "You complain Morty doesn't grasp basic algebra. Have you ever considered that Morty's brain is constantly exposed to high-level physics, quantum mechanics, and non-Euclidean geometry just by being around his grandfather?"
"What?" Goldenfold stammered.
"Linear algebra seems 'abysmal' to him because it's like asking a particle physicist to get excited about adding two plus two. His frame of reference is so advanced that basic problems are incomprehensible and, frankly, insulting to his latent intelligence."
He turned to Ms. Albright. "And you, teacher. You say his essays lack inspiration. This kid has seen the inside of black holes. He has fled from civilizations of sentient chairs. He has seen universes born and die in his grandfather's garage. How can the assignment 'write about your summer vacation' compete with that? His problem isn't a lack of inspiration, it's that his experiences are so traumatic and grand that they cannot be contained in a five-hundred-word essay."
Finally, he looked at the history teacher. "And as for your argument about the Civil War, Morty was right. It could have been avoided with portal guns. Your failure is not in history; it's in thinking creatively."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a serious, persuasive tone. "You're not dealing with a normal teenager. You're dealing with a veteran of cosmic wars with undiagnosed PTSD and an exposure to concepts that would make your brains melt. Your educational system is not equipped to handle him. He doesn't need scolding; he needs an individualized curriculum. A challenge. Give him problems that his chaos-conditioned brain finds interesting. Ask him to write about the ethics of time travel. Give him theoretical physics problems instead of algebra. Challenge him. Or you will lose him in a sea of boredom and anxiety."
He straightened. "Thank you for your time."
With that, he turned and walked back towards where Padmé and a wide-eyed Morty waited for him, leaving three teachers completely stunned, questioning everything they knew about pedagogy.
"What... what did you tell them?" Padmé asked.
"I offered them a new perspective on our nephew's educational development," Kaelen replied with a smile. "And I kindly suggested that, if Morty's grades don't drastically improve, I might have to come back and 'discuss' the school's budget with the school board."
Morty looked at him with an admiration he had never shown for anyone, not even Rick. For the first time, someone had not only defended him but had understood him.
"Wow," Morty whispered. "Thanks, Kaelen."
"No problem, kid," Kaelen said, ruffling his hair. "That's what family's for."