The school bell rang, but the classroom was dead silent. I stood there, my hand gripping the torn fabric of my blouse, my face burning with a humiliation so hot it stung my eyes. Three boys—the school’s notorious bullies—were roaring with laughter, their voices echoing in the sudden, terrible quiet. They thought I was weak. They thought I was just another fragile new teacher they could break. They didn’t know about the degree I held that wasn’t in education. They didn’t know that in one hour, they’d be begging for forgiveness.
The locker room smelled of old sweat and industrial disinfectant, a smell that was, strangely, one of the most comforting in the world to me. It smelled like work. It smelled like focus. I peeled off the baggy “Ridgeway High” sweatshirt the school nurse had given me, tossing it into a locker. My ruined skirt…
