The students had a routine: scare off the new teacher as fast as possible. When Anna entered—prim, professional, and unfazed—they smirked. “Let’s see how long she lasts,” whispered a boy in the back.
“Notebooks out,” Anna said.
“Forgot them!” someone shouted. Laughter.
“You should tell us about yourself first,” a girl taunted.
Anna nodded. “I’m Anna.”
The teasing escalated. “Nice old-lady glasses!” A phone played a fart noise. A paper airplane hit the chalkboard.
Then, the dare: “Bet you’ll quit by Friday.”
More chaos—books dropped, chairs kicked, phones out.
Anna sat on her desk and said quietly, “Last year, I worked with teens who had cancer.” The room hesitated. “One boy, just like you, loved poetry but could barely hold a book. He told me, ‘I’d give anything to complain about homework again.'”
The air shifted.
“A girl next door cried because she’d never get to sit in a classroom.” Anna looked at them. “And here you are, throwing away what they’d die for.”
She picked up her pen. The rest of the class passed in perfect silence.
