He and his friends laugh.
Heat threatens to rise in my face, but I fight it with everything I have.
“If that’s what you want to represent you, then go ahead.” He blinks in shock, and a girl with pink hair giggles in the back.
I turn and continue writing the instructions on the board, but I can’t help it. I’m shaken.
I spent years dreaming of standing at the front of a classroom like this, but right now?
I just feel like a joke.
It was supposed to be different this time.
The teacher’s lounge smells like coffee and microwaved leftovers that makes my stomach turn while lights buzz overhead, too bright.
I sit at the far end of the table, hunched over a paper cup of tea I’m not drinking, trying to stop my hands from shaking.
I shouldn’t let it get to me.
They’re teenagers being stupid.
But their laughter echoes in my ears, taking me right back to being a scared kid, picked on relentlessly. I tried to be strong, but right now?
I don’t know why I even came back.
I take a deep breath and stare hard at my tea, willing the tears to stay put. If I cry, someone will see, and if someone sees, they’ll ask, and how am I supposed to explain—
“Rough class?”
I glance up to find another teacher standing in the doorway, coffee in one hand, leaning against the frame, with her curly hair pulled into a loose bun, looking at me like she knowsexactly what I’m feeling.
“Sorry,” she says, stepping into the room. “I can leave if you want to be alone, but trust me, I’ve been there.”
I glance down at my cup. “Doubtful.”
She sits in the seat across from me. “I’m Layla. English teacher. Trust me, girl. If you think those little assholes care more about English than art, you’re sadly mistaken. All these kids care about is prom and football. That’s just how it is around here.”
“Iris,” I say, looking back up. “How’d you know I’m the art teacher?”
Layla shrugs. “You’ve got paint under your fingernails.”
I glance down, and she’s right. “Oh.”
“Plus, you kinda have an art teacher vibe. With the hippie skirts and dangly earrings.” She gestures toward my earrings.
I guess she’s right.
There’s a pause, but it’s not uncomfortable. She takes a sip of her coffee, studying me. “Want to talk about it?”
I shrug, but something about Layla, her inviting energy, makes me want to open up. “I had a rough class. Some of the kids were…” I trail off, biting the inside of my lip. “I don’t know. Rude. Dismissive.”
“Let me guess. Football players?”
I purse my lips. “How did you…”
“Because they’re always rude in art. Or English. Or anywhere a woman dares to ask them to reflect on something that doesn’t have a scoreboard.”
That drags a real laugh from me, quiet and sudden. I press a hand to my mouth, and Layla grins along with me.
