Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Samantha
“Zoey, come on!” I shouted. “We cannot be late.”
She waltzed into the kitchen and set her backpack down.
“I can’t believe you’re teaching English at my school. Why couldn’t you just open that used bookstore/coffee shop/hot mess hybrid you always talk about?”
“Thank you for calling my dream a ‘hot mess hybrid. You’re so charming, my sweet sixteen-year-old daughter.”
“You teaching English at my high school is an act of war,” she said, scrolling on her phone.
“Oh, come on. I’m fun. Your friends love me. I quote Jane Austen and carry color-coded pens.” I grinned.
“You’re going to be in the same building, breathing the same air, and correcting my classmates’ grammar in real time, Mom. This is actual trauma. I hope we can afford the therapy I’m going to need.”
“Stop being dramatic.” I poured coffee into my to-go mug. “It’s not like I’m going to shout, ‘Love you, Zoey-bear,’ down the hallway every day.”
“If you even say it once, I’m transferring to a boarding school in Switzerland and changing my name to Freida. Ugh. Why do you insist on making my life a living hell, mother?”
“Your hell is my hell,” I smirked. “Let’s go.” I grabbed my bag and purse.
“Just so you know. I already texted everyone I know and warned them.” She glanced at me as we stepped out of the apartment.
“That’s fine. Just don’t text during class. I hear the new English teacher is strict but quirky and totally cool.” I smiled. “Think of it as a mother-daughter bonding experience.”
“I will not.” She slung her backpack over her shoulder.
“Sam!” I heard someone yell my name as I walked into the school.
When I turned around, I saw my best friend, Greta, rushing towards me, coffee spilling over the lid of her Starbucks cup.
“Are you ready to teach high school English Literature?” she asked, smiling.
“As ready as I’ll ever be. Thanks again for putting in a good word with Principal Jordan.”
“I couldn’t think of a better English teacher.”
I opened the door to room 217, where I would teach English literature to high school students for the entire year.
Stepping inside, I flipped the light switch and smiled at my clean, decorated space.
Greta was a Godsend for helping me get this job, as the last school I worked at had to lay off teachers due to budget cuts.
I set down my bag and purse and picked up a piece of chalk. Dragging it along the chalkboard, I wrote my name, Sam Hollis—Where books are friends and grammar matters, mostly (except in texts. I’m not a monster).
Walking to the windows, I pulled the blinds all the way down and turned on the fairy lights I had put up last week across the tops of the windows and along the edges of the bulletin boards.
The lights cast a soft glow that set my room apart from all the other teachers’ rooms in the school.
I set the lights to twinkle gently, creating a sense of calm and peace for the students.
The first bell rang, and students began to filter into the room with faces filled with sadness, worry, and anger. A mix of emotions walked into my classroom, and I would make sure to change that.
“Hi, Callie.” I smiled.
“Hi, Sam.” She smiled.
“Hey, Miss H.” Steven walked in and waved.
“Hi, Steven. I smiled.
The second bell rang, and every seat in my room was now occupied with fifteen and sixteen-year-olds eager to learn. Okay. They weren’t excited. But by the end of class, they would be.
“Good morning.” I smiled, leaning against my desk.
“I’m Miss Hollis, but you can call me Sam, and you know why?
Because I’m going to become your new best friend.
I have three rules and three rules only.
Be kind. Be curious. Don’t steal my pens.
” I picked up the holder from my desk and held it up.
“I love my colored pens. They’re shiny, and they’re mine.
If you want to borrow one, that’s fine. However, I kindly request that you return it when you’re finished using it.
As you can see, I have two jars of candy on my desk.
One is filled with chocolate. The other is filled with gummies.
If I ask you a question, and you get the answer right, you can choose which candy you want.
” I grabbed both jars and walked around to each student, letting them take a piece.
“This is my way of building your trust. I already trust all of you and want you to trust me in return.”
“Seriously, though. Are we in a yoga studio or a classroom? What’s with the fairy lights?”
“Great question, Devon.” I smiled. “It is Devon, right?”
“Yeah.” He slumped in his chair.
“The lights make the room feel warm and welcoming, which incidentally is the opposite of your tone right now.”
A few of the students laughed.
“Just saying it’s weird. This is a high school, not a tea party.”
“I can make us all tea if you’d like,” I smiled.
“Devon, I teach English Lit. That means I believe in setting the tone. I know how high school can feel like a prison, and I don’t want you to feel that way in my class.
When you walk in, I want your brain to slow down.
I want you to breathe and remember you’re in a place where your voice matters.
Your question about the fairy lights was a good one.
You were curious as to why I put them up.
Also, the lights make everyone’s skin look amazing.
” I grinned. “Which will be important when I post photos of our brilliant literary discussions on the school’s Instagram page. You’re welcome.”
The students laughed, and so did Devon, sitting up straight in his chair.
“Okay. Let’s get started. In the back of the room is a large bulletin board titled Hot Takes & Literary Rant, featuring blank index cards and markers. Whenever we read or discuss a book, feel free to walk back there and post bold opinions on the book we just read or discussed. Don’t hold back.”
“Sam?” One of the students raised her hand.
“Yes—”
“Kristen. Can you give us an example for the board?”
“You bet.” I smiled as I walked to the back of the room and grabbed an index card and a marker. “Let’s say we just read and discussed Romeo and Juliet.” I wrote on the index card and pinned it to the board.
Romeo and Juliet weren’t in love. They were just bored and dramatic.
The class laughed, and I knew I had their full attention. “One more thing. Promise me you won’t throw your Stanley Cups at me. Do you promise?”
“Yes,” all the students said simultaneously.
I grabbed the basket on the file cabinet with a laminated note attached to it—Abandon all Wi-Fi, ye who enter here. Phones in the basket, brains in the classroom, and walked around to each student.
Whines and moans came from them as they tossed their phones into the basket.
“This is unconstitutional and illegal,” a boy named Keegan said.
“Let me know when you pass the bar, Counselor. Until then—basket.” I held it in front of him.
“What if there’s an emergency?” A girl named Lila asked.
“Well, I’m the hero of this classroom, and I’ll leap over desks and save you all,” I smirked. “Also, the office will call the room as they’ve done since…forever.”
“You lied,” Devon said. “This is a prison.”
“Here’s something about me I want you all to know. I’m very jealous and hate competing with TikTok for your attention. People, it’s only for an hour.”
“Maybe we, the students, should get together and form a union to protect us from this cruel and unusual punishment,” a girl named Gina said.
“A rebellion.” I smiled. “I love it.” I pointed at her.
“Trust me. In the end, you’ll thank me.” I collected the last of the phones and set the basket on my desk.
“Great. Now that we’ve all been emotionally separated from our devices, let’s read about people who lived their entire lives without cell service.
They were called—wait for it—CHARACTERS!
” I clapped my hands. I grabbed a stack of The Great Gatsby and handed each student a copy.
“Oh, man. Why do we have to read about rich people whining?” Devon said.
“Because they party, cheat, and make bad choices. It’s just like the ‘Real Housewives: Jazz Age Edition.’ I’ll make it fun.
I promise. Besides, it’s not about rich people whining.
It’s about the American Dream dying in a pool, illusion, obsession, and trying to reinvent yourself for someone who doesn’t even remember how they like their coffee. ”
The class laughed, and I knew I had them.
“Now, open your books to chapter one and meet Nick Carraway. He’s an emotionally repressed and judgmental narrator.”