The Princesses of Iowa by M. Molly Backes Page B

information was digested. The Iowa Writers’ Workshop was one of the most prestigious writing programs in the whole country. Why would someone from that program want to sub at Willow Grove? People looked around, searching for the new teacher. Was he standing out in the hallway, awaiting his cue? I didn’t think I could stand that degree of cheesiness.
    But no, he was sitting in a student desk in the back corner of the room. He smiled and stood up. There were gasps and giggles from some of the girls. The new teacher was unquestionably handsome. Movie star handsome. Dressed in dark jeans and a black shirt, he was a whole different species compared to our other teachers. In the back of the room, Jake’s friends muttered to themselves, and some of the lamer girls frantically scribbled notes back and forth.
    Mr. Tremont looked around the room, still smiling agreeably. “Thanks for the introduction, Dr. Coulter.”
    The principal made his way to the door. “Okay, then. Well, good luck, and listen to your teacher, children.”
    I saw Shanti grin and roll her eyes at the Freshman. He grinned back.
    Mr. Tremont clapped his hands together, just once. “Okay, folks, open up your notebooks and let’s get started.” He spoke with an easy confidence that was almost unheard-of in new teachers. I glanced across the room toward the Freshman, remembering the way he’d mocked Mrs. Mueller. Were we finally going to have a good teacher? He caught my look and raised his eyebrows, giving a little half nod, as if to say, I know!
    Without waiting for us to comply, Mr. Tremont continued. “We’re just going to warm up with a ten-minute freewrite. Don’t edit yourself, don’t worry about how it sounds; nobody is going to read this but you.” He fiddled with a black stopwatch. “Have you guys done this before?”
    A girl in the back practically jumped out of her seat, stretching her hand to the ceiling. “No, Mr. Tremont! But it sounds like fun!”
    Oh, my God.
I tucked my chin into my shoulder to keep from laughing.
    Mr. Tremont smiled, but said seriously, “If you’re here because you think that writing will always be fun, you’re in for a disappointment. Writing — real writing — is among the most difficult work you will ever face in your life. The irony is that the harder you work at it, the harder it gets.”
    “That doesn’t even make sense,” Randy burst out.
    “If you’re not scared while you’re writing, you’re not working hard enough,” Mr. Tremont said. “You’ll be afraid, but you have to keep going.”
    I felt a shiver race up my neck. It struck me that for the first time in our lives, a teacher was giving us neither the convenient version nor the watered-down textbook version of the truth.
    “Sounds pretty gay, if you ask me,” Tyler muttered. His friends rewarded him with laughter, but Mr. Tremont wasn’t amused.
    “Out.” He pointed to the door.
    “What?” Tyler asked.
    “I didn’t even do anything, man.” He looked to his friends for confirmation, and they nodded.
    “Yeah, he didn’t do anything!”
    Mr. Tremont said calmly, “If you’re not going to take this class seriously, you may leave now. In fact, the only people who should stay are those who are prepared to work harder in this class than they do in any other.” He waited.
    Tyler looked like he was going to argue more, but then he shrugged. “Whatever, dude.” He gathered his things and walked out the door.
    More whispers from the back of the room. Mr. Tremont said, “Ten-minute timed writing. Start with
I remember,
and go from there. Keep your pen moving the whole time. If you get stuck, write
I remember
again, and follow your thoughts. Don’t worry about staying on topic; just write whatever comes to you.” He paused. “Any questions?”
    A girl in the front row raised her hand. “What should we write about?”
    “Just write whatever comes into your head,” Mr. Tremont said. “Don’t censor yourself. You can write