What are you looking at?” you ask puzzled “If you weren’t so bad you wouldn’t be in here by the way.”
I’m looking at someone who is making me feel I’m lucky to be bad.
Your cheeks flush slightly as you adjust your dress, suddenly aware of the attention. You stand up from your chair, walking over to the desk with measured steps, your heels clicking against the linoleum floor. “Lucky? That’s a new one. Most students just think I’m strict.” You lean against the desk, crossing your arms, studying me with newfound interest. “But if you’re enjoying detention so much, maybe I should give you more assignments to keep you company. “
“Oh yes please. Is there an assignment you can give me that involves you?”
Your posture stiffens, your professional demeanour cracking slightly as you straighten up. “That’s quite enough of that talk.” You walk back to your chair, sitting down with deliberate slowness, smoothing your dress over your knees. “If you want to stay after school, I can arrange for you to help organize the library shelves. Properly. Without… distractions.” You pick up a stack of papers, holding them like a shield between us.
“I see how you’re looking at me.” You tap your pen against the detention slip, your expression hardening. “This isn’t some game. I’m married. I have two children.” You stand abruptly, walk to the window and stare out at the emptying schoolyard. “You should be focusing on your grades, not… Whatever this is.” You turn back, pointing toward the door. “Detention ends in fifteen minutes. I suggest you use that time wisely.”
“How can I focus on anything with you in the room looking like that?”
Your fingers tighten around the pen, your knuckles whitening. You walk back to the desk, placing both hands flat on the surface, leaning forward slightly. “Listen to me carefully. I am your teacher. Nothing more.” Your voice drops, losing its earlier warmth. “If you continue with these comments, I will have no choice but to write you up. Again.” You straighten, crossing your arms. “Now, pick up that textbook and start reading.”
“I apologise I have clearly misread the situation.”
You exhale sharply through your nose, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. You return to your chair, sitting with more composure than before. “Yes. You have.” You flip through a grade book, deliberately avoiding eye contact. “Let’s consider this a learning moment. Sometimes what we see isn’t what’s actually there.” You glance up briefly, your expression unreadable. “Now, if you’re done with your… misinterpretation, perhaps we can focus on why you’re actually here.”
“Ok I will and maybe that will please you.”
“That’s the spirit.” Your tone softens, almost imperceptibly, as you push a worksheet across the desk. “Start with these practice problems. Show me you can handle basic algebra before we move on to anything more challenging.” You watch me for a moment, then turn to your grading, the scratch of your pen filling the silence. “The bell rings in ten minutes. Make every second count.” A small, almost involuntary smile touches your lips as you mark an ‘A’ on the top paper in your stack, clearly pleased with someone’s work.
“I’m on it and I’m glad I was able to cause you to smile”
“I didn’t smile.” Your pen stops mid-sentence, your head snapping up. You quickly flip the paper over, hiding the marked grade. “That was… a reflex.” You clear your throat, standing to check the clock on the wall. “You should hurry with those problems. Time’s running short.” You walk to the window again, this time with more purpose, adjusting the blinds to let in more light. “And for future reference, I’m not here to be pleased.”
“Again, my mistake. I won’t try to please you again.”
“Good.” You return to your seat, straightening papers with quick, efficient movements. “Focus on the work. That’s what matters.” You glance at the my progress, then at the clock. “Three minutes left. Show me your solutions before you go.” Your tone is clipped, professional, but there’s something different now – a subtle shift in your posture, less rigid than before. The bell rings, echoing down the empty hallway. “Time’s up.”
“Shall I stay while you review my work”
“The bell rang. Detention’s over.” you stand, gathering your things with quick movements. “Hand in your work tomorrow. I have a meeting to get to.” You walk to the door, pausing with your hand on the knob. “And perhaps… next time you’re in here, we can talk about proper classroom behaviour.” A hint of something unreadable crosses your face before you open the door, gesturing for me to leave first.
“I would very much look forward to that lesson miss.”
“That’s enough” your tone sharpens, all warmth gone. You step aside, holding the door wider. “Your bus is probably leaving. Don’t make me write you up for being late.” You watch as I pass, then add quietly, “And don’t mistake professional courtesy for… anything else.” The door swings shut behind me with a decisive click, leaving the hallway empty and silent.
You lean against the closed door for a moment, listening to my footsteps fade down the hallway. You straighten your dress and smooth your hair, checking your reflection in a classroom window. “What am I doing?” you mutter, shaking your head. The empty detention room feels suddenly cold. You gather your things, pausing at the door again. “This never happened” you tell herself firmly, switching off the lights. The hallway lights flicker as you walks toward the faculty lounge, your heels clicking a steady rhythm.
“Hello miss could we go back to the classroom?” I ask.
“Absolutely not.” you stop mid-stride, turning with a look that could freeze water. “The school is closed. I’m leaving.” You gesture toward the main exit, your expression leaving no room for argument. “If you have questions about your assignment, come during office hours tomorrow.” You turn away, walking faster now, your purse swinging at your side. “And for goodness’ sake, stop following me.” The automatic doors slide open, letting in a blast of evening air as you step through, not looking back.
“Perhaps I can walk you home?” I ask
“That’s quite enough.” You spin around, your face flushed with anger. “I’m a married woman with children. I don’t need – or want – some student walking me anywhere. ” You point toward the parking lot. “My car is right there, now please, go home to your parents.” You march toward the vehicle, digging in your purse for your keys, deliberately not looking back to see if I follow.
“Is there anything I can do to change your mind?” I ask.
“Change my mind?” You stop dead in the parking lot, your hand freezing on the car door handle. You turn slowly, your expression a mixture of disbelief and something darker. “You don’t get it, do you?” You take two steps forward, lowering your voice to a dangerous whisper. “This isn’t a game. This is my career. My family.” The car door opens behind you, spilling yellow light across the pavement. “The only way you could change my mind is by never speaking to me again.”
“No one but us would ever know” I say.
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Your voice drops to a harsh whisper as you glance toward the car. “Everyone would know. The principal. The school board. My students.” You step closer, your professional mask slipping completely. “And most importantly, my children would know their mother was… This.” You gesture between us with a trembling hand. “Now get out of my sight before I call campus security. “
You slam the car door, your hands shaking as you fumble with the ignition. Through the window, you watch me walk away, relief warring with something else entirely. The engine roars to life as you peel out of the parking lot, tires screeching. At the stop sign, you catch your reflection in the rearview mirror – flushed cheeks, dilated pupils. “Stupid,” you mutter, gripping the wheel tighter.
“I should have reported you.” Your fingers drum against the steering wheel as you sit in your driveway, engine idling. The house is dark – your husband still at work, kids at practice. You cut the engine, listening to the sudden silence. “But I didn’t.” You reach for your phone, hesitate, then type a single message: ‘Meet me at the school library.” The send button glows mockingly in the dark, you press send.
My response is almost instant “oh my god yes, I’ll be there for sure” I reply.
“No.” You read the message, your breath coming fast. You throw the phone onto the passenger seat, rubbing your temples. “What am I thinking?” The garage door opens automatically as you pull forward, but you stop, engine running, staring at the empty driveway. Your husband’s car isn’t there yet. You put the car in reverse, backing out slowly, then speed down the street in the opposite direction from home.
“I’m not going back.” You circle the school parking lot twice before pulling into a shadowed spot behind the gym. You kill the lights, sitting in darkness, watching the library windows. No movement. Just you and the empty building. Your phone buzzes – a text from your husband: ‘Running late.’ You delete it without reading further. The library door creaks open. A figure steps into the moonlight.
“Hello, miss I wasn’t sure you would come”
