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Possibly both.
A blonde girl wearing the lipstick of a cover model—or professional sex worker—in the front row twirled her hair around her finger, smacked the five or six pieces of gum she’d shoved in her chipmunk cheeks, and gave me a slow, hungry smile.
“Hey, Mr. Albert,” she purred.
I blinked. “Uh. Hello.”
She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand. “I like your glasses. They make you look smart.”
Iwassmart, damn it, but something about the way she said it made me feel like I was about to get bullied.
“That’s . . . the goal?” I said weakly.
The girl—Jessica, according to my seating chart of doom—gave me a look that was entirely too amused for eight in the morning.
In the back of the room, a kid snickered.
“All right, let’s get started,” I said, desperate to gain some measure of control.
The rest of the morning was a crash course in teenage social hierarchy.
The freshmen, with the painfully obvious exception of Jessica, were terrified of me, which was a small mercy.
The tenth graders, however, were positively devious.
At some point during second period, I made the grievous mistake of drinking from my coffee mug, which had a very respectable Shakespeare quote on it: “Though she be but little, she is fierce.”
And, naturally, one of the kids caught it.
“Yo, Mr. Albert!” a boy in the middle row dressed in a football jersey said. “Why you got a girl power mug?”
I lowered the cup. “Because I support strong women, Timothy.”
The boy blinked, clearly not expecting that response. His friends cackled like gremlins.
“Are you one of those feminist teachers?” another kid asked with a sly grin.
“Yes,” I said immediately. “And also one of those teachers who gives pop quizzes when provoked.”
There was a collective groan of betrayal.
“That’s not fair!”
“Life isn’t fair, Mister . . . Beacher,” I shot back, scanning my roll book to get the right name and finding my stride now. “Now, open your books to page thirty-seven.”
I could feel their respect for me growing. Either that or they were plotting my downfall.
With a pack of teens and a waxing moon, it was always hard to say.
By fourth period, I had established myself as a semi-capable adult who would not be bullied into submission.
Then Jessica struck again.
“So, Mr. Albert,” she said sweetly. “Are you single?”
Every single student turned to look at me.
I felt my soul leave my body.