“They need to learn respect!” says Mr. Caruthers through yellowing teeth.
“Yeah? I mean, yes,” I reply.
“Hi, Ian!” some late students shout at me as they rush to class.
“Tell them to call you Mr. Fletcher or you’ll never control them,” says the ungreeted Mr. Caruthers.
“Remember, they’re not your friends,” he continues.
'So are they my enemies?' I joke to myself.
Mr. Caruthers enters his classroom.
The students are silent, staring at the bald, pot-bellied figure with amused contempt.
I enter mine.
“Hey, Ian!” says a chorus of voices.
“Yo!” I say, wanting none of Mr. Caruthers’ respect.
“Yeah? I mean, yes,” I reply.
“Hi, Ian!” some late students shout at me as they rush to class.
“Tell them to call you Mr. Fletcher or you’ll never control them,” says the ungreeted Mr. Caruthers.
“Remember, they’re not your friends,” he continues.
'So are they my enemies?' I joke to myself.
Mr. Caruthers enters his classroom.
The students are silent, staring at the bald, pot-bellied figure with amused contempt.
I enter mine.
“Hey, Ian!” says a chorus of voices.
“Yo!” I say, wanting none of Mr. Caruthers’ respect.
