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Out of all my teachers, Ms. Amos is the most approachable. Well, next to Mr. Riley. She’s professional, but her humor and glowing energy removes that untouchable factor a lot of teachers carry.

“Great is such an underwhelming word,” Ms. Amos says.

“Fantastic?”

“Weak.”

“First-rate?”

“That’s dated, don’t you think?” She crosses to the front of her desk, head cocked. “I’d accept ‘killer,’ though.”

I snort, then stand, pulling on my backpack.

“Also, remind me not to give you any speaking parts when we doA Streetcar Named Desire,” she adds. “A thespian, you are not.”

To humor her, I gasp noisily, hand to my chest. She’s right. In our elementary production ofWinnie-the-Pooh, I made a very convincing tree.

“It’s just the…” I shake my head.

“Are you struggling with the assignment?” Ms. Amos finally asks.

Uh, hello!Respectfully, I don’t vocalize that. A quick shrug is my response.

“What about it?”

“Everything?”

“Everything?”

I make a face. “I want it to be perfect. There’s so much riding on this essay.”

“Is there?”

I almost groan. What is it about adults and turning everything you’re trying to tell them into a question?

“I need it to be perfect,” I say, hands squeezed at my sides. “But I don’t know where to start.”

“When I lack a clear view of my writing’s endgame, I look to others,” Ms. Amos says. “Reading helps. Find another space for your brain to exist for a while.”

“Like?”

“For me? Poetry. Do you know Benjamin Alire Sáenz?”

I shake my head. She doesn’t look disappointed.

“He’s an extraordinary author, but it’s his poetry that makes the battles inside of me subside.”

Ms. Amos’s face holds a richness that only exists in sunsets and the first bite of ripe fruit. I’ve seen it before. Any opportunity to speak about her heritage—about where she comes from and those who paved the way for her—ignites this supernova from deep inside her. It’s beautiful, unfolding across her features and blossoming in the way she talks with passion, pride.

“He creates art with his words,” she continues. “I feel a sense of importance, knowing someone like him exists. As if he understands me. In those words, I see that I am who I am for a reason, not by choice.”

I take her words in. We are who we are for a reason; it’s not a choice. I don’t know how to digest it all, so I stay silent.

“Find your art, Mr. Cameron. Your medium.” She walks to the other side of her desk and sits. She rearranges papers, grabs a pen. “Life inspires art, but don’t forget our art inspires life too. It’s an endless circle.”

“An infinite loop?”

She raises an eyebrow as if she doesn’t comprehend.