Rochelle smiled and swayed as her favourite song began.

"Don't stand, don't stand so, Don't stand so close to me. Don't stand, don't stand so, Don't stand so close to me."

She was one with the rhythym, her sould lost in the message of the music. For her , this song was not merely a pretty piece of music by The Police and Sting. It was her life.

- Part One: Accusations-

Chewing her pen thoughtfully, Rochelle sat back in her chair to ponder the complexities of the Mycenaean world. It all sounded so romantic- baths of olive oil, perfume trading in the Aegean, manly warfare...Rochelle savoured the images in her dreamy fourth period state.

It was then that she first heard the music.

It was a strange co-inceidence, really. She has been flicking through the radio stations on her walkman, trying to find a station playing Vast when she heard the strange, mournful lyrics.

"Wet bus stop, she's waiting. His car is warm and dry."

Really it was the music that was to blame. She had never so much as looked twice at a teacher before the music. Suddenly, the very next day she found herself looking at her maths teacher, Mr Darcy very differently.

Had she loved him, been attracted to him, pined for him before she heard the song? Certainly she hadn't been aware of it if she had. That night, she had downloaded the song from the internet. "Don't Stand So Close To Me". To Rochelle it seemed her life depended on the meaning, puzzling as it may be to find satisfaction from a song from the 1980's. Strange, it was all very strange.

Even stranger that Mr Darcy should be the object of all her affections. He was, to most people, ageing, uptight and maths-obsessed. Not to her. She saw the beautiful light that shone through his eyes of blue, the soft wave of his hair from decades of a side part from right to left, just so. It was the way he showed his teeth when he smiled, the way he threw back his head when he laughed, exposing masculine throat, the coarse skin on his hands from years of chopping firewood, just so, just so. It was all of those things that, in a different man, may be rather undesirable but in Mr Darcy were the purest definition of perfection. Suddenly she noticed everything about him, small things that she didn't notice or recognise before, like his small acts of pure kindness, the face he pulled when disgusted or irritated. Oh, perfect, pure, wise, lovely Mr Darcy!

It didn't take Rochelle long to devise ways to spend more time with Mr Darcy. Extra maths lessons here, a discussion after class, "co-incedental" meetings at the local shopping centre. Her main objective was to draw his attention to her. She did this mainly through extra homework and study, shockingly daring outfits, a good two and a half inches off the hemline of her school skirt and spending hours each night planning her appearance for the next day. She was rewarded for her time by the occasional soft brushing of their hands, which set Rochelle off into an electric bliss that lasted for hours afterwards, an innocent rub of her foot on his ankle and the sweet reward of his smile. All of this was enough for Rochelle.

Mr Darcy, and the song.

Rochelle realised that soon she would succumb to the song and seek a relationship with him. Soon. As soon as she discovered how she could...

Rochelle's boyfriend, Alec, laughed, then pulled her in and kissed her.

"You taste salty" She laughed.

It was a warm summer's day and Alec had taken Rochelle for a drive down to the beach. At first they had frolicked in the waves, splashing, touching, swimming until they collapsed, exhausted onto the warm golden sand.

"I should be getting back, the Trials are coming up." Rochelle shivered and pulled her canary yellow towel more closely around her,

"How can you possibly be thinking about the H.S.C at a time like this, Rol? I'm hurt, I thought you'd be thinking about me."

Reassuringly she kissed him, a show of physical affection to compensate for the fact that she was actualling thinking, as always, about Robert Darcy.

Alec barely suppressed his doubts. He had heard the rumours that had been flying round the school, the rowdy rumours that spread like an infection of gangrene, from one classroom to antoher. About Rochelle and her "thing" for the middle-aged maths teacher, Mr Darcy. It looked bad for his image to be associated with anything like that. If it had been anyone but Rol, beautiful, curvey, glamerous Rochelle, he would have ended the relationship then and there. But the hormone charged, teenage blood that pumped through his body would not allow him to do so. His pride would similarily not allow him to question Rol about it. So he waited, not denying or acccepting any of the rumours.

It was not just Alec who heard these rumours in the malicious gossip of the students. After a time, Mr Darcy himself heard a chattering group of year eleven school girls discuss it in vivid detail.

"Rochelle Anderson must be deranged to want to get it on with Mr Darcy. I've always thought she was weird, but has she looked at his teeth? Ewww, just look at him, sitting there at his desk, with those little shorts. He's creepy, but maybe that turns Rochelle on or something."

He was mortified, both by their lurid detailing of his own shortcomings (he had always considered himself a very handsome and young member of the staff) or exactly what they though Rochelle wanted to do with him (A question of marriage- surely not!). Feeling extreme embarassment, a surge of heat rising to his face and an uncomfortable, unbearable tightness of his clothes, he ducked out of the room swiftly, breathing heavily. Surely not. If he were to pick a member of his year twelve mathematics class who had taken a particular "shine" to him, he would have wagered on it being Johanna, the chipper, cheerful and studious blonde. Surely not Rochelle, mysterious, auburn-haired and vivacious Rochelle.

He decided on a coffee to settle his thoughts. Normally he was more of a tea-drinker, but this was a special occasion. Blast it all, if he didn't have a class now he would have nipped out for a brandy, and he wasn't even a drinker.

He had to be fair to the girl, if she did have feelings for him. He knew what it was like to be spurned, rejected...he didn't want to break her heart. He was sure that a few kindly words could make the difference. He was sure that...

"Loose talk in the classroom, To hurt they try and try, Strong words in the staffroom, The accusations fly."

The principal shifted uncomfortable at the door.

"I need to speak to you, Robert."

Fear flickered across his face.

"Why?"

"I'd prefer not to discuss it here. You'd beter come."

Heart in his mouth, Robert nodded.

He cleared his throat.

"Class, I'll be gone for a few minutes. Open your textbooks and complete 10:12."

Picking up his phone, he followed the principal up the stairs to his office.

"What?" He was tense and abrubt.

"Sit down."

"I'm fine."

"There's been a complaint about you having inproper relations with a student."

His heart thudded dully. He knew what student it would be.

"I'm sure you're wondering which student?"

He wasn't, but the principal plunged ahead anyways.

"Rochelle Anderson. From your year twelve class."

"What's going to happen?"

"Well, what have you done?"

He didn't like lying, his voice was flat and dull.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She is my student, nothing more."

"That's fine. But has she been troubling you at all? I'm sure you realise the seriousness of this mater."

Emotion sparked him into a reckless anger.

"Rochelle has never been anything but a pleasure to be around!"

His voice echoed past the confines of the office to the halls beyond.

The buzz of chatter in the staffroom stopped when Mr Darcy entered the room. His own high school days flashed back to him, isolation, segregation and loneliness. They were talking about him.

An unwary young textilles teacher was too slow to stop talking when he entered the room.

"I don't think there should be a place for men who abuse their positions of power in this school. Using his position to get sex. He's sick and wrong."

Frantic, Robert wheeled away from the invisible daggers that plunged into him. He was a good man, an honest man, a man of faith but would anyone listen to what he tried to tell them? He ran from their strng, stinging, hurtful words to the only place that he could find solace and refuge.

In Rochelle's arms.