Down the hall she waddles in her tap-tap buckle shoes, her long denim skirt too tight around her potato knees, cradling books tight to her chest like a precious child. She pushes her glasses against her nose, her honey hair pulled back so tight that the edges of her face strain to stay pinned on. Panning the room, her lip corners crook at us, then simmer and she flushes. She plops into her swivel chair. Her carrot fingers quickly flip pages, and she mutters something low. I believe she is speaking to us, but our minds are elsewhere; out the window, on each other, feet on chairs, notes sailing across desks, preoccupied chatter filling the room. She pushes in her glasses again around her squinty eyes, clears her throat, once, twice, thrice. And when she speaks to get our attention, the boys laugh because her voice is like a child’s.

I feel bad for Ms. Burnette, because I know she tries. I know she drives home in her little red car to her little red-brick apartment. I know she climbs the stairs instead of taking the elevator, and I know her apartment smells fresh like roses and daisies, everything decorated in regal beige. She makes herself a veggie burger for dinner, a 100-calorie chocolate bar for dessert, and records it all in her food journal. She reads her horoscope and her daily inspirational calendar quote, finishes the chapter of the Jane Austen book, and tucks herself in. She is living well and doing right, but that little rain cloud above her head doesn’t want to leave, and the weather isn’t looking good for Ms. Burnette.

I know you painted your nails pearly-pink for us, and I bet you made ten lists last night, and I bet that’s why your desk is so neat and straightened today. One day, Ms. Burnette, I’ll try to give something back to you, maybe a nice new purse instead of your ratty cheap one, or maybe I’ll just get the class to be quiet for once.

But for now, we just like to laugh, and give thanks that we’re not Ms. Burnette.