the entire town will assemble around an aging football field, watching young men navigate a thrilling game, and hopefully inch one step closer to a state championship—the highlight of many of these young men’s lives.
Excitement fills the air here at Ridgefield High School, and every other damn high school in the region. Staff and students alike are dressed in school colors, an almost mandatory display of school pride. It’s not much different than patriotism; you’re expected to comply without question. Football is what we live for. It’s what we breathe for. Sometimes, it feels like it’s what we’re dying for.
My heels click against wooden floors as I rush down an empty hallway. Purple and white lockers, alternating in color, pass by me in a blur as I hurry toward the end of the hall. The bell rang two minutes ago, so I imagine my classroom has turned into complete anarchy in my brief absence.
I stop to catch my breath before pushing the classroom door open and making my way to my desk. I drop my purse on the floor and position myself to the center of the chalkboard. I grab a piece of pink chalk and scribble a quote on the board:
“Life can be enviable. If not, better to be dead.”
“Anyone who can tell me who uttered these words without looking at their phones will receive an automatic passing grade on our next test.” I glance around the room, waiting for someone—anyone—to take interest in the topic at hand, and approach a student perched at his desk in the front row, with a varsity jacket slung over the back. “Jason, do you have any guesses?”
“I could care less.” He groans and taps his fingers on the desk.
“Typical.” I force a smile. “The next time you want to show off for your friends and show how much you really just do no care, use the following phrase, I couldn’t care less.”
“I couldn’t care less.”
“Brilliant.” I take a step backward. “Now, I’d really start paying attention if I were you. What we’re going to cover today is going to be a great boon for when you eventually have to retake this course next year, when you’re nineteen.” I turn my attention to address the entire class. “Does anyone else want to take a guess?”
“Hillary Clinton?” a student from the back row questions, and by the look on his face, I’d say he’s well aware of how off base he is.
“No, Scotty. The last time I checked modern women do not speak this way.”
“Michelle Obama?”
“Let’s shift away from first wives. Though the women who uttered these words was a wife, among other things.”
“Rose Dawson?” Another student questions, followed by a snicker.
“If any of you had read the syllabus, you might have guessed correctly.” I turn my back to the students as I scribble on the board:
Medea
“It was Medea who spoke these words.” I park myself on the edge of my desk and dust chalk from my hands.
“That chick dude?” Scotty questions with a bemused look.
“Tyler Perry?” I shake my head. “No. Medea is a famous Greek tragedy written by a man named Euripides.”
“Do we have to read that?” Jason groans from his seat, and tosses his head back, pretending to snore.
“It’d be advisable, Jason. At some point, you’re going to have to learn a thing or two. You can’t depend on football carrying you through life when you’re benched every other Friday.”
“You used to be the cool teacher,” he pouts and folds his arms over each other.
“I used to care.”
“And then Nathan happened,” he mumbles under his breath, but it’s loud enough that I can hear him.
My throat tenses. My jaw clenches. “Go to the office,” I scowl at him.
“Hamilton—“
“You heard me!” I snap, and look away from him as he hurries from his seat, throwing his bag over his shoulder. The door slams shut behind him. I take a few moments to myself on the edge of a panic attack, all the while knowing my students are watching me as I try to process emotion,
Excitement fills the air here at Ridgefield High School, and every other damn high school in the region. Staff and students alike are dressed in school colors, an almost mandatory display of school pride. It’s not much different than patriotism; you’re expected to comply without question. Football is what we live for. It’s what we breathe for. Sometimes, it feels like it’s what we’re dying for.
My heels click against wooden floors as I rush down an empty hallway. Purple and white lockers, alternating in color, pass by me in a blur as I hurry toward the end of the hall. The bell rang two minutes ago, so I imagine my classroom has turned into complete anarchy in my brief absence.
I stop to catch my breath before pushing the classroom door open and making my way to my desk. I drop my purse on the floor and position myself to the center of the chalkboard. I grab a piece of pink chalk and scribble a quote on the board:
“Life can be enviable. If not, better to be dead.”
“Anyone who can tell me who uttered these words without looking at their phones will receive an automatic passing grade on our next test.” I glance around the room, waiting for someone—anyone—to take interest in the topic at hand, and approach a student perched at his desk in the front row, with a varsity jacket slung over the back. “Jason, do you have any guesses?”
“I could care less.” He groans and taps his fingers on the desk.
“Typical.” I force a smile. “The next time you want to show off for your friends and show how much you really just do no care, use the following phrase, I couldn’t care less.”
“I couldn’t care less.”
“Brilliant.” I take a step backward. “Now, I’d really start paying attention if I were you. What we’re going to cover today is going to be a great boon for when you eventually have to retake this course next year, when you’re nineteen.” I turn my attention to address the entire class. “Does anyone else want to take a guess?”
“Hillary Clinton?” a student from the back row questions, and by the look on his face, I’d say he’s well aware of how off base he is.
“No, Scotty. The last time I checked modern women do not speak this way.”
“Michelle Obama?”
“Let’s shift away from first wives. Though the women who uttered these words was a wife, among other things.”
“Rose Dawson?” Another student questions, followed by a snicker.
“If any of you had read the syllabus, you might have guessed correctly.” I turn my back to the students as I scribble on the board:
Medea
“It was Medea who spoke these words.” I park myself on the edge of my desk and dust chalk from my hands.
“That chick dude?” Scotty questions with a bemused look.
“Tyler Perry?” I shake my head. “No. Medea is a famous Greek tragedy written by a man named Euripides.”
“Do we have to read that?” Jason groans from his seat, and tosses his head back, pretending to snore.
“It’d be advisable, Jason. At some point, you’re going to have to learn a thing or two. You can’t depend on football carrying you through life when you’re benched every other Friday.”
“You used to be the cool teacher,” he pouts and folds his arms over each other.
“I used to care.”
“And then Nathan happened,” he mumbles under his breath, but it’s loud enough that I can hear him.
My throat tenses. My jaw clenches. “Go to the office,” I scowl at him.
“Hamilton—“
“You heard me!” I snap, and look away from him as he hurries from his seat, throwing his bag over his shoulder. The door slams shut behind him. I take a few moments to myself on the edge of a panic attack, all the while knowing my students are watching me as I try to process emotion,
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