It was 7:45 am on August 12th and I, alongside my since-birth best friend, Grover Underwood, was walking eastward down the southernmost hallway of Northview High School, located in Westfield, Upstate New York. Classes didn't start for another 15 minutes but the hallways were already bustling with people, none of whom I had ever seen before. The very eastern wall of the school, to which we were headed, was made of floor-to-ceiling windows which framed the rising eastern sun. It had rained last night, so mist hovered in patches above the well-kept grass of the eastern lawn, dampening the brightness of the sun to the extent that it could be looked upon directly as an ornate orange sphere. The beauty of the scene would probably have transfixed me, if it were not for my damn shoes.

The bottoms of my shoes were wet from the walk from my mom's Carolla the school entrance, and they made a horrendous 'SQUICK' every time I lifted my foot from the tile floor. I silently cursed myself for allowing my mom to convince me to wear my new shoes for my first day at school. However, there was no 'convincing' at all to be done. My previous pair of shoes had endured several blow-outs - held together only by my mom's patchwork, and had disintegrated entirely three days ago when I had left them outside under the rain. The shoes I currently wore, a pair of brilliantly blue converse, costed 50$ that my mom didn't have. I told her she didn't have to, I told her I could borrow a pair of Grover's and that she should use the money to pay rent, but she insisted. Although my mom struggled on her own to let us live in our 600 square foot, one bedroom apartment, she still managed to spoil me.

I looked to my right and saw Grover, shuffling along in a very distinct Grover-like manner. His knees and elbows were particularly bony, and the limbs containing them were long and lanky. He had hit his growth spurt at an unusually young age, leading to chronic joint aches, growing pains, and shin splints. Despite this he was unusually fast and could dunk a basketball at 5 ' 10''. He weighed very little and, coupled with his phenomenal grip strength, was somewhat of a climbing prodigy. Before we moved to our new school district, he and I used to go bouldering at an indoor climbing gym, where I would marvel as he would dance around with his toes and fingertips all over the walls and ceiling.

However, none of that grace showed today as Grover lumbered along, his oversized tennis shoes only worsening his already awkward gait, almost to the point of limping. His Rasta Hat sat lopsided on his head and parts of his curly hair protruded in the front and on the side. To complete his outfit he wore a grey hoodie and green sweatpants, both of which he had owned for years.

I looked to my left and caught my own reflection in the glass of the trophy display case across the hallway. I slowed down to study my own appearance. My hair, as usually, was an enigma, a complex network of cowlicks and waves which resolved itself into a formless, flowing mass that, as my mom would say, looked like a storm at sea. She loved my unruly hair, and made a point of it every morning to jostle my hair around before kissing me on the forehead and sending me out the door.

I looked at my get-up and realized that, by accident, I had dressed in entirely blue clothes. My shirt was a collared, baby blue button-up (which my mom insisted I wore), my pants were blue jeans, and my blue converse were framed by navy blue socks. Idiot, I thought to myself.

As I finished my self-inspection, my gaze shifted to behind the glass at the shelves of trophies and plaques which lined the wall. The trophies were divided into sections, State Championships, Regional Championships, Sectional Championships, each overflowing into multiple display cases with pictures, statues, plaques, and ribbons. I thought of my old school's trophy display case, boasting a 2nd place team regional swimming trophy (which I had helped win) and a commemorative wax figure of a golfer, which had unfortunately melted, giving it the appearance of having a red, waxy penis. I guess that's the difference between a 4000 student school and a 150 student school, I noted mentally.

My old school did, in fact, only have 150 students, and none of them were rich. The official name of the school was "The Project School", and it was a failed experiment. The premise behind its inception was to "synthesize an environment ... with an unwavering focus on service to others and mother earth … coupled with academic excellence", as it's website proclaimed. While being noble in their ideals, the school's founders were quite naive in believing all of these elements could co-exist, especially the "academic excellence" component. I attended it for my freshman and sophomore year and received all A's, albeit, my classes (and I only had four) were splatter painting, botany, meditation, and hiking. The school didn't have teachers but rather a committee of well-intentioned hippies, whom we called "mentors" and referred to by their first name (Mr. Ben was by botany mentor and Mrs. Susan was my meditation mentor). In the three years it operated, standardized test scores were consistently terrible and, due to this, its funding was entirely discontinued after the third year.

My time spent there was essentially a two-year void in my academic career, which left me totally unprepared for my re-integration into the world of schoolwork - the world I would be thrown into this year. However, I can't blame my mom for sending me to the Project School. She saw the place as a school open enough to accept me for all of my numerous faults - a place that would see past my tainted academic track record to the sweetheart darling my mom knew I really was. She, however, was one of the only ones who recognized this version of myself.

You see, my first two expulsions were for juvenile reasons. The first had to do with sexually explicit graffiti on the side of the school (if Michelangelo can carve balls and have it displayed as fine art but I can't spray paint them on the side of my middle school, something is wrong with the world), and the next had to do with a racoon in the ventilation system (how was I supposed to know it had rabies?). However as I grew older, the nature of my expulsions changed.

My third expulsion occurred at my third middle school. At that time Grover's growing pains were so bad that he was temporarily confined to a wheelchair, which made him the target of endless teasings. It was something I couldn't bear to watch. Kids would steal his rasta cap, knowing he couldn't retrieve it, shove sticks in his wheelchair spokes and stack books behind his wheels while he wasn't looking so he would fall over backwards when he tried to reverse. One day in Social Studies, a kid named Dylan Strausser called him retarded from the back row during a presentation. I silently walked to the back of the class, fists clenched, grabbed the collar of his shirt and socked him right in the cheek as hard as I could.

Immediately afterwards I was shocked at what I had done. I even felt bad for the little douchebag, but there was no taking it back. And there was blood. If it weren't for the blood I probably would have just been suspended - but as soon as his nose started pouring red, I knew I was a gonner. After I was expelled, Grover decided he had had enough torment and transferred away with me. When my mom found out she didn't know what to think. Naturally she was angry with me for punching a kid in the face, but most of her anger was at the school administration for their all-too hasty decision to expel me. My mom always found a way to be on my side.

My fourth expulsion shouldn't have ever happened. It was at a real snooty school and the principal was a real sh-

"Percy!" Grover shook my shoulder, pulling me out of my contemplative daze. "That was the one-minute bell, we need to get to class."

I grunted, shouldered my backpack, and began to walk down the hallway, which was rapidly depopulating as students hurried off to their classes. I quickened my pace and 'SQUICK'd my way down to the end of the hallway, turning left at the floor-to-ceiling windows, only to be suddenly confused.

"Percy," Grover said, "Doesn't that sign say 200's?"

"Yeah…"

"Isn't the english wing the 600's?"

I fumbled around In my pocket and extricated a crumpled map of the school, unfolded it, and attempted to decipher it. I saw our location, and confirmed that we were indeed, at the entrance to the 600's hallway. I then watched, incredulously, as the number 6 on my map crawled its way like an ant across the page and was replaced by a foggy number 2, which continue to undulate and blur in and out of focus. Either there were some questionable herbs in my tea this morning, or we gave the map to the dyslexic guy, I thought to myself.

"How about I take a look at the map, Percy." Grover ventured, reaching for the map. I yanked it away from his grasp and glared at him. He looked back at me pleadingly and I reluctantly handed him the map.

"Fine. Guide us Sacagawea." I muttered.

"Sure thing …. Helen."

"Helen of Troy?"

"Keller."

"Dick." Was my retort, though I couldn't help but smile as we started our trek across the school.

We eventually found our way across the school, accompanied the entire time by the rhythmic squelching of my shoes. We were already five minutes late by the time we reached the desired doorway, to the right of which was a plaque which read 613 - Blofis. I noticed an array of dots just below the room number and name, which I recognized as braille. For students like me, I thought.

Grover and I entered the room (which, thankfully, was carpeted) and were greeted by the stares of 25 other students, all sizing us up. I had grown somewhat accustomed to this process during my numerous transfers during middle school, but nothing had prepared me for this feeling of isolation. At every new school I had come to, I went in with the same expectation: this year was going to be a battle, me against everyone else. I tried to give my best challenging stare to the wall of faces in the room, but my gaze shifted to my feet. I became very aware that I was wearing entirely blue clothes and that my hair was a mess and that my arms were hanging stiffly by my sides, so I readjusted and crossed them in front my chest - which felt weird - so I adjusted again and shoved them in my pockets with an audible sigh. At that moment I realized that this battle, myself against high school, was one I was already losing.

"You must be Percy Jackson, and you Grover Underwood?" A tall, clean-looking man with thin-rimmed glasses and sandy hair said as he approached us.

"That's us." I responded.

"Glad you could make it. There are seats for you two in the corner." he said, gesturing towards one of the tables.

"Alright." I breathed in reply. I recognized his snide remark about my tardiness and already felt antagonism brewing between us.

Grover followed me to the table as I selected the chair furthest in the corner, giving me a view of the entire room and the exit. I always sat down facing the doorway of a room, it was a compulsion of mine. I never wanted anyone to have the ability to enter or exit a room that I was in without my knowing, and I always wanted to know the exact location of any exit if I needed to make a quick escape. My chair was also perfect in that it let me clearly see all of my classmates; this way I could, over time and through careful observation, get to know the nervous habits, personalities, and tendencies of everyone in the room, in case any of them happened to become my enemies. This was how my mind had always worked, chronically poised, restless and greedy for new information. Within seconds I had the layout of the room, posters, lamps, chairs, and bookshelves all memorized.

My mind was insufferable. Concentrating for a prolonged period of time on a specific task (especially homework) was nearly impossible. I could never focus attention while my mind strained to internalize the minutiae of my surroundings: the humidity of the air, the sound of the clock, and even my own heartbeat. All of my childhood doctors had diagnosed me with extreme ADHD, and most of them had tried to prescribe me the most powerful of the ADHD medications, to all of which my mom had adamantly refused. I resented her for this for a long time, the prospect of a single pill curing my mental unrest was all I had ever wanted, until a single event changed my perspective entirely.

A year and a half ago, I and four other friends were driving around in a Range Rover, which the driver had stolen from her parents. It was a rainy January night and everyone, besides me, had been drinking. I should have been driving, but at the time I hadn't taken Driver's Ed and the driver insisted she was only tipsy. Music was playing loudly as the driver awkwardly handled the steering wheel, jerking the car around while trying to stay on the road. We were outside of city limits and the road was windy, unkempt, and without lane dividers. The road sat perched along a ridgeline which dropped off of the right at a significant height from the black surface of the town's reservoir. Someone told a joke and the cabin of the car filled with drunken laughter. Everyone was so distracted that no one noticed the driver's head lazily slump to the right. The right tires moved off of the road and into the mud, pulling the car to the edge of the ridgeline on our right. I unbuckled my seatbelt, lunged from the back right seat and into the drivers lap, using my right hand to pull the handbrake and my left hand to yank the wheel to the left. Just in time, the car skidded back into the road, spinning 180 degrees and careening backwards into a gulley on the left side of the road. I was thrown into the back seat of the car, slamming my head on a headrest as glass shattered around me. I had already lost consciousness as the Range Rover groaned to a halt in a couple of seconds after grinding against the embankment. It was a miracle we all survived, considering none of us had been wearing our seatbelts.

Whenever I recall the incident, I remember that it was my sobriety and attention that had kept the minivan from plunging into the icy reservoir. I also remembered the bleary expressions by friends all had in the moments leading up to the crash; there was something comical about them in a macabre sort of way. In their bliss-filled stupor they were totally unaware of their imminent deaths, almost like cows being led into a slaughterhouse. From that day on, I resolved to never be like my friends, to never forgo my state of tormented conscious for any such relief, whether it be from alcohol, or any prescribed ADHD medication. -

- Mr. Blofis sat at his desk, peering through the bottom lense of his bifocals at his computer monitoring, clicking his mouse as he scanned the room table by table. Once he finished taking attendance, he stood up from his desk and enthusiastically addressed the room "Hello class! How is everyone doing today?" A few tentative affirmations and nervous murmurs followed. "I said, how is everyone doing today?" He repeated in a louder voice. Again he was met by a few quiet voices and some shuffling of feet. He sighed and put on a smile. "Alright, tough crowd I see. I get it, first day of school and most of you are probably hung over." This time snickers filled the room and people turned in their chairs to face the front of the room, suddenly intrigued. I remained silent and motionless, So he's one of those kinds of teachers, I thought to myself. "I'm kidding - of course - " He added, seeing the mortified looks on the faces of some of the students. "My name," he continued, turning his back to the class to write his name on the chalkboard, "Is Paul Blofis. I go by Mr. Blofis, though students in the past have called me Mr. B. Either one is fine with me." Paul said, dropping the chalk and turning around to face the class.

In the back right corner of the room, a student with brown curly hair raised his hand with a shit-eating grin smeared on his face.

"What do you want, Connor. " Mr. Blofis said, rolling his eyes in playful exasperation.

"Can we call you Mr. Blowfish." Connor asked, grinning.

"If I say yes will you stop asking stupid questions." Mr. Blofis retorted. A chorus of ooooos sounded from the classroom. It was clear Mr. Blofis had previously had Connor as a student. My mind processed and organized the information internally, so he's the class clown. Connor sat back in his chair defeated as Mr. Blofis turned his attention back towards the room. "Currently you are all in period 1, English 11 AP." He began, "Is everyone in hear in the correct classroom?" No one spoke up, but I was tempted to.

What on earth was I doing in an AP class, especially an English one? I had never received higher than a B in any English class I had ever taken. English was half writing, half reading, and I was disabled with regards to the latter. I knew, going into it, that I could not possibly do well in this class. I felt utterly hopeless, like an amputee trying to do the hokey pokey. Of course it was my mom's idea for me to be in this class. Although my academic career was nothing but a chronicle of failure, my mom had the highest expectations of me. Her high expectations had always made me wonder, What does she see in me?, or, she must know something about me that I don't.

"Good." Mr Blofis continued. "Then let's get started right away. Everyone get out your summer reading books please."

I froze in total shock, Summer reading?! What?! How the hell was I supposed to know?! I looked around the room in horror as people shuffled around in their backpacks, each producing copies of "The Great Gatsby", most of them bulging with post it-notes, filled with annotations.

You've got to be kidding me. Here I had come to school, a new shirt, new shoes, finally on the same level as everybody else. Coming to this school was supposed to be a fresh start; I needed to be, deserved to be on a level playing field with my classmates, for a chance to finally prove that I could succeed. Instead, I was staring failure in the face. I knew what would happen, there would be a quotes test, group work, and some form of essay, and in each I would receive a grade corresponding to my level of knowledge of the book. There was no way I could read it in time. No - not even if I really wanted to - not even if I stayed up all night and until the next day until my eyes turned bloodshot. No - with my dyslexia, it would take at least a month of constant, agonized reading to complete it. Utter defeat swept over me; I felt my palms turn sweaty and I felt very warm under my shirt. I looked around the class, but my vision was tinted red by the veil of anger. As it turned out, it was Grover that a was going to bear the brunt of my aggression.

"Percy - dude - He told us to get out our books." Grover whispered to me, holding his copy of the Great Gatsby. I shot him a murderous glare, clenched my fists, and inhaled a shaky breath. At first he looked confused, then, reading my expression, his eyes widened in shock. "Oh gosh … sorry dude - I thought you knew. It was on the school's website the whole summer."

I sustained my contemptuous stare for a moment longer before replying, raising my voice to a loud, nasty whisper "You didn't think to tell me!? Grover you know me. Why would you ever assume I had checked the school's website."

Grover's look of shock was replaced with one of indignation. "Percy don't you dare put this on me. You should have expected this man, its AP English!"

"That doesn't mean you couldn't have told me! This is my first time ever in a real high school and you just 'assumed' I would know? What the hell?" I spat, drawing the attention of people around our table.

My response hit Grover like a punch. Then, for the first time since I had know him, Grover swore. "Goddamit Percy this is my first year in high school also. You seem to forget I spent the past five years following your dumb ass around from school to school watching you get expelled."

I slammed my fists on the table, causing Grover to jump back in his seat. He stared at me wide-eyed, taken aback by my sudden display of aggression, and his eyes weren't the only pair. Suddenly I was a fish in a bowl, staring out through the glass and into the eyes of onlookers. It felt claustrophobic, trapped, and exposed. "I'm going to get a drink of water." I told the room flatly, slinging my backpack over my shoulder, heading towards the door.

Mr. Blofis regarded me with concern. "Just where are you going Mr. Jackson? Hey! Stop r-", but I was already out of the door, storming down the hallway. Tears welled in my eyes; I felt so betrayed, disappointed, and angry, all at myself. I had blown off the summer reading and worse, had stormed out of my first class on the first day of school. Worst of all, I was crying. I was so caught up in my own despair that I didn't hear Mr. Blofis come racing up behind me.

I heard a gentle voice call to me from behind my back. "Percy," Mr. Blofis began in a measured tone, one that sounded exceedingly like my mother. The uncanny similarity caused me to respond in a Pavlovian manner as I stopped entirely. "Percy, take a deep breath. Tell me whats going on."

Now he's talking to me like I'm a child. Well, probably because you're acting like one. Don't let him see that you're crying. With my back still turned to Mr. Blofis, I started walking again.

"Percy," Mr. Blofis repeated calmly, "I give you permission to get a drink. Class is, however, not over for another 50 minutes. Slake your thirst then return to class. I will expecting you back in 5 minutes."

What? No angry tirade? No referral straight to the office? I glanced over my shoulder and saw his expression, a grimace, comprised of pity and anxiety. It was the expression my mother wore when I would fall off of my bicycle and scrape the skin off of my knee. Right now, I hated seeing it. He's not your mother, yet he looks at me like she does. Here I am, a wallowing, stupid, insolent child.

"As you were." He said finally, studying my contorted face and red, welling eyes. He then turned and walked back towards the doorway and into the classroom.

After he disappeared from sight, and well after, I stood, motionless. He's letting me go? What kind of teacher does this? I remembered his offer: "Slake your thirst then return to class", and I knew I had to comply. I realized what he had done. He had, so casually, offer me a new chance, a do-over, an opportunity to re-start high school, and it only took 15 minutes. I still had a book to conquer, but right now, I still had a chance to recover.

I walked over to the drinking fountain and leaned against the lever. Water shot from the nozzle in a laminar arc and pooled into the drain. I stood, just like that, for another minute, just watching the flow of water. "Like waves in a sea," my mother would often say to me, "watch your thoughts emerge, crest, and sink back down. Do not try to follow them. Just watch them come and go. Up, and then down - up, and then down - up, and then down." Staring at the arc of water, while also at nothing at all, I saw all of my thoughts and emotions, indignation, anger, pride, and grief emerge into my mind, then recede - emerge and recede - emerge and recede - like waves in a choppy sea. I observed as the waves began to shrink. They kept shrinking and shrinking until the point that none of them crested. Soon they became ripples, ripples on the sea of my mind. -

- When I walked back into class, everyone had been separated into groups and were sitting around the room, lounging around on the carpet, or sitting with their feet propped up on tables. Mr. Blofis was walking around the room, checking in on each group and guiding their discussion of The Great Gatsby. Only a few people gave me weird looks as I walked back into the room, the others occupied with discussion. Mr. Blofis turned around, saw me standing in the doorway, and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He walked up to me and spoke, just as carefully as he did in the hallway. "It's good to see you again Percy. Right now we're discussing the summer reading book in small groups. You can ch-"

"I didn't read the book." I interrupted bluntly, warranting a surprised look from my teacher. My voice caught the attention of Grover, and he gave me a stone-faced glare from across the room. I met his gaze head-on and shot daggers at him with my green eyes. He quickly turned his head sheepishly away, Fool thought he could out-stare me, I gloated internally.

Mr. Blofis pondered for a moment, studying my face. This time, I stood fast under his scrutiny. No more waves of emotions rolled over me, and I was able to look straight into his eyes. He studied me carefully, concernedly, as my mother would when she thought I was perturbed. He leaned in closer to me and spoke in a hushed tone. "I think we can negotiate an alternative assignment for you Percy. It will be time-consuming, but I won't make you read the book." I stared at him, shocked by his display of compassion. Who was this man?

"I'll do it." I responded immediately.

"Good." Mr. Blofis said, we'll discuss the alternative after cl-"

"Why are you being so generous?" I interrupted, again. That was a habit of mine, asking indulgent questions, well, because I wanted to know the answer. No matter how personal or invasive the question was to the other person, I would always ask it. Whether the question offended the recipient was unimportant, their actions and thoughts had constructed their own sore spots and tendernesses. My questions would massage these sore spots: some people, who were closed to communication entirely, or with sorenesses lying so deep within they were beyond remedy, would retract and respond with hostility. I alienated a great many of these people in my life. Others, those who were more open, would relax and answer my question honestly, allowing me to massage their tightness. It often hurt initially, but quickly they tightness would subside and they would become relaxed, giddy almost. Which kind of person was Mr. Blofis?

Mr. Blofis sighed and moved closer to me. "Percy, I met with your mother, privately, before the beginning of the year. We had a discussion about your past, and your future here at this school." My eyes grew wider as he continued. "We're all working together. Me, your mom, and a few other teachers to ensure that your experience here is … worth while."

"What did you discuss?" I asked narrowing my eyebrows. This rendered another sigh from Mr. Blofis before he answered.

"We talked about you, Percy. All about you. I know what you must be assuming and no, your character did not need discussion."

"Of course it didn't." I said, laughing without humor. "I'm a public nuisance. Let me ask you, did they include a criminal record with my file?" My question was sardonic, yet there was a small part of me that was curious. I wondered if they would include an account of my court trial when I was thirteen. Dylan Strausser, the kid I socked in the face, had a very rich, and very angry family, who sued me on charges of assault and battery. Although I was acquitted, it cost my mom a fortune to find and pay for a lawyer. This also just happened to occur right as my mom lost her job. Quite simply, the mortgage couldn't be paid, so I, the thirteen year old assaulter along with my desperate mother, sold the house we had lived in for exactly thirteen years.

Mr. Blofis again let out a great sigh. I'm really not making this easy for him - lets see how much he can endure. "No, Percy, there was no criminal record. Although, I am quite impressed with the record of your expulsions." He said, a grin forming on his face. "They including a photo of your graffiti in your file, quite the artistic vision you possess."

A smile started to form on my lips, against my will. I tried to clamp my mouth in place, but my eyes betrayed my intentions.

"And the raccoon - oh Percy - you wouldn't believe the extraordinary detail included in your file! To spend months befriending it by feeding it cafeteria food, then to one day lure it into the ventilation system, all to avoid a presentation - you genius! You utter scoundrel!"

Feigning indifference was becoming nearly impossible for me.

"And what you said to that one principal - god - I could only dream of saying those words to my boss. I would get fired on the spot, no doubt."

My composure broke and I let out a genuine laugh. Mr. Blofis smiled in satisfaction. The bastard has me under his control, I thought, God I'm such a little kid. One minute I'm crying and the next I'm laughing.

I shook the smile from my face and resumed a neutral expression. In response, Mr. Blofis' dropped his teasing expression, but the light in his eyes remained. "No Percy, we never discussed your character because we didn't have to. Sally's judgement is never misaligned."

His last statement flowed out so smoothly, no naturally, that he didn't catch how much it had revealed. He referred to her as "Sally" not "your mother", and with such assumed intimacy! How could he know her judgement was never misaligned? What evidence does he have to support that claim other than a history of interaction and close observation?

I simply had to probe, it was in my nature. "What is your relationship with my mother?" I asked, coming out more as an accusation than a question. Mr. Blofis' expression changed entirely. I've pushed him too far.

"I've … known your mother for some time, Percy," Paul said carefully.

My compulsion to probe further was like a terrible itch, Who the heck is this guy and how does he know my mom? I looked at his face and saw his guarded expression. I realized, at that moment, that I was teetering on the verge of alienating him. He was so far, the first tolerable connection I had made here at this school, and a potential valuable future asset. Painfully, I decided not to scratch the itch. I decided this would be a conversation that would be better if I had it with my mother. Resolved on my decision, I simply nodded at Mr. Blofis.

Mr. Blofis was the one to break the silence. "Right. Follow me to my desk. We will begin discussing your alternative assignment." -

- We didn't discuss the assignment. For the last half hour of class I asked him question after question, and learned quite a lot about him. I learned that he drove a blue prius with 360,000 miles on it. I learned that he lived by himself in an apartment and owned 2 cats, one named Mozart and the other named Brahms. Behind his desk he pinned up a poster of band called the Aquaholics, a name I had no image for but seemed strangely familiar. A photo sat framed on his desk showing himself among a group of Africans perched atop a rooftop configuring solar panels. At at the bottom there was the word "Nansana" written in sharpie.

"Cool picture you have there." I stated, gesturing towards the picture.

"Sorry?" He said looking at me inquisitively, "Oh! Right, yes. That was only two years ago, actually. That was in Uganda, I was working with Greenpeace on improving village infrastructure."

"So you're very new to teaching then?"

"Not as new as you think. I taught for five years in Indiana, and had quit my job to make the African excursion. It was truly an incredible experience and - believe me - the fulfillment it gave me was indescribable. However, I knew from the beginning that a life working in those conditions was more alien than I could handle. Teaching was always my true calling." He finished, reaching out to his desk to grab a cup of coffee before returning to face me.

"You're a regular Mother Teresa huh?" I asked, smirking.

"I guess you could say that." He responded coyly before taking a sip of his coffee. After he finished taking his drink, he looked back up at me, and for a moment we simply sat in a state of exchanged perusal. His eyes were warm and playful behind the lens of his bifocals, and a single strand of sandy hair fell curved across his forehead, resting between his eyebrows. This time I was the one to break the silence.

"Greenpeace huh? How many miles are on your Prius again?." I asked, looking downwards while picking at my fingernails.

Mr. Blofis smiled and adjusted his glasses in feigned indignation. "Mock me now. But don't start blubbering when the Arctic Ice sheets are all gone and the Atlantic raises to waist deep in your kitchen."

"Sure, but just imagine the appreciation of real estate. We'd have a beachfront property!" I replied quickly, earning a chuckle from Mr. Blofis.

"Never mind real estate, I don't think you'd appreciate a recently homeless polar bear wandering south and eating your dog instead of a seal." He replied with a snort.

I scoffed, "I'm not worried about Mrs. O'Leary, I think my dog could take a polar bear. I think you should be the one worrying, rising seawater could destroy the hydroponic garden in your basement."

Mr. Blofis nearly spit out his coffee. "How on earth do you know about my hydroponic garden?" He demanded loudly, drawing the attention of several students in the room.

"I didn't. You just confirmed my suspicion." I responded with as much boredom as I could muster, stroking my chin to hide my satisfaction.

The other students in the room turned away from us and back to their occupations. Mr. Blofis set his cup of coffee down completely and regarded me carefully. He tilted his head downwards, studying me over the top rim of the bifocals like and orthodontist peering downwards into a patient's mouth.

I pretended to ignore his examination as I spoke again. "Mind if I have a sip of your coffee?" I asked, coming out more snidely than I intentioned.

Without lowering his gaze, Mr. Blofis reached to his desk, grabbed the coffee mug, and extended it towards me. "It's decaf." He said, still without relaxing his stare.

"That's fine." I said as I took the cup. Still under his intense scrutiny, I brought it to my mouth and took a sip. "Thank you." I said, extending the cup to him. He extended his arm and grasped the cup tentatively, as if at any moment I would douse him with its contents. Just then the bell rang, signalling the end of class. He took the cup from me, set it on his desk, and turned to face the room.

"Alright class! Wednesday we will be taking the quotes test. I have posted a study guide on my website which will help you greatly -" His voice trailed off as the last few students in the room shuffled out the door, totally ignoring Mr. Blofis' announcement. Soon it was just me and Mr. Blofis alone in the room.

I stood up and jostled my backpack from the back of the chair, drawing the attention of Mr. Blofis. He turned to look at me and a quizzical frown took over his face. "We never did discuss your assignment, did we?" He asked, mostly to himself.

I gave no response other than a shrug as I stretched my back, gave a great yawn, ran my fingers through my hair and shouldered my backpack all before walking past him and out of the room. I heard him call from behind me just as I reached the threshold.

"I won't be spoiling you for long."

Yeah, we'll see about that, I said silently, walking into the hallway to face the rest of the day.