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Sincerely,
Principal Peterson
6
GENEVIEVE
The “Harkness learning” method is a scam that entices most parents to send their children here. It’s our academy’s main selling point, and I’m desperately hoping that the founders will come back from the dead someday to denounce it.
The premise is simple: There’s no need for neatly lined desks or a “teacher’s spot” in a classroom. Instead, it’s better to have one, oversized oval table that seats twelve to fifteen students ( with minimal teacher participation) because “learning should be an open-minded activity that fosters active discussion.”
That’sliterallywhat our brochure says.
However, there are a few exceptions to this rule, and my most anticipated senior-level class—Expressions in Creative Writing—falls under this category. Since we must present at least eighty percent of our work, we hold our sessions in a theater.
It’s a setting that makes me temporarily forget how lonely I am here.
No matter how many Harkness tables I’ve sat at over the years, it hasn’t brought me any closer to having discussions with people outside the classroom. I can recite all my classmates’names, hobbies, and plans for the future, but I can’t call a single one of them a “friend.”
After polishing today’s final table, I fold all the rags and drag the soap bucket to the corner.
“You need to wipe that table down a few more times, Miss Edwards,” the chief custodian shakes his head. “The edges aren’t as shiny as the top.”
“Can I please come back and do that after class?” I beg. “I don’t want to risk being late on the first day.”
“No can do.” He shakes his head, shooting me a sympathetic look. “Mr. Peterson wants perfection and nothing less.”
“I thought you and I were becoming friends, Mr. Evans,” I say. “You said you liked me.”
“I like my paycheck more.” He tosses me a rag. “Get to it.”
I hold back a groan and drop the rag into the bucket.
By the timeI reach the status of “perfection,” I don’t have time to run to my dorm and change into a better uniform. I don’t even have time to grab my laptop.
Armed with a flimsy notebook and a gel pen, I run across campus and make it to the theater with two minutes to spare.
Out of breath, I prop myself against the doorframe and realize the auditorium is so silent that I can hear someone’s heartbeat.
Oh, no, wait.
That’s mine.
The man onstage has his back turned, but even from here, I can tell he’s not who we were promised.
He’s supposed to be a grey-haired man named Taylor Jenkins, a legendary instructor who’s taught this course foryears.
I step into the hallway and check the screen to see if this course’s location was changed at the last minute.
SNRCREATWRI 500
Taylor Jenkins
Confused, I take a seat next to the teacher’s aide.
“Rachel?” I whisper. “Why is everyone being so—”
“Shhh!” She places a finger against her lips. Then she stares straight ahead like a zombie while the imposter writes on the whiteboard with a purple marker.
