I am her teacher; I must be dignified.
I wish my other students would understand my sarcasm like she does. While most of the class sits in almost-sepulchral silence, she giggles and blushes like a girl in love. Oh...wait. As I hand out the homework, her hand shakes, but she plays it off to her nosy classmates as a sudden chill.
I am her teacher; I must be dignified.
Oh, fuck dignified. I wanted McCain to win, and instead we have Barack Obama, the savior of America with his lofty speeches and his popularity. Why can't the underdog get something he wants once in a while? Besides, my mockery is making my angel smile for once. Sure enough, I see her innocent smile upon her face, albeit a little wan. Who did this to her heart?
I am her teacher; I must be dignified.
As I eat my lunch from Taco Hell, my mind flashes back to the band's trip. My hands resting on hers, which grip her clarinet. The same hands gently pinching her arm as I walk by her in the block. My heart punching my chest as I watch her hover around that boy. He's the threat to my very existence in her heart; she almost doesn't notice my walking quickly past her to avoid seeing the pale boy watching her intently as she talks animatedly. My embarrassment as I see her watching me make an ass out of myself as I back away from a pretzel being shoved in my face.
I am her teacher; I must be dignified.
She shushes her best friend as her friend makes a mockery of my angel's love and desire for me. She smacks her arm as she tries to hide her face, which reddens slowly but surely. Suddenly she spins around. Her spontaneity thrills me, and it stirs me to dance. My mind wants to reach for her hand, but the voice of reason yanks my mind back to the mindless chatter of the stodgy men I work with. My heart thrums as I hear her sing and watch her dance. My eyes widen–
I am her teacher; I must be dignified.