*fictional.
substitute: black hair and green eyes.
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They called me four eyes in high school. (among other stuff). Words were their barbed wires, so it is quite ironic that I became a professor to the high school brats.
They think I'm joking when I insult them indirectly. Or call them out on their bullshit. Really...your mom is in the hospital? Oh, please. Could have brought the homework to complete there or better yet email me about it in advance. Maybe I'm too tough-on the students.
My girlfriend Megan thought so (rest in peace); her being a sweetheart of a soul wasn't enough for God to spare her.
But this isn't about her.
This is just about my job.
That is what I tell myself.
"You don't look so good, Mr. Michaels," said Scott as he bumped into me in a hallway. One of my favorite students. Not too loud or too shy. Self confident, not arrogant. Helpful and hardworking.
My papers went flying onto the floor, all scattered. My face burned. Time seemed to freeze for a few seconds as this fully sunk in. What was happening? Did I have too much coffee? Cause next thing I know I had poor Scott pressed up against a nearby locker.
"Don't. Touch. My. Stuff," I snapped venomously.
Bless their shallow hearts: a few students actually stopped gossiping to help me collect them. I made sure to make a mental note of their names to give them extra credit later: Chelsie Harper, Angela Gossett, Carson Cartwright, and Brett Carter. I sort of smiled at Chelsie as she handed me back a few sheets. She had really big boobs as evidenced by the style of top she wore that day.
"Oh not this nutjob," came a nearby male voice. Mr. Jacobs, the History teacher.
I sighed. We used to be good friends before I had had my legendary meltdown last year and got fired. With time and some therapy, I got back on my feet again. No help from Mr. Clark Jacobs.
I readjusted the glasses I wore quickly and smiled at him. Remember what the therapist had told you on how to deal with bullies...
"Good morning," I changed the subject. "Have a lovely day now." I hurriedly grabbed onto my briefcase, papers, and hurriedly walked off to my assigned classroom around the corner.
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Grinning, I wrote my name down on the front dry erase board. Luckily, no chalk and that I wasn't born in the 1800s. Three students were already there. I recognized two: Scott and Chelsie, but not the third. She sort of reminded me of Janice from the movie, Mean Girls. She had on a black skirt but not too short or too tight and a dark blue blouse.
"Can I help you...sir?" the girl asked suddenly.
I then realized I'd been staring too long-she just caught my eye. She was quite pretty, in her own way. Not too much make up, just enough.
I adjusted my glasses again.
