Another teacher, another target. The tenth graders sized up Anna—petite, polished, and too calm for their liking. “She’s next,” they agreed.
“Take out your notebooks,” Anna said.
“Oops, left them at home!” The class roared.
“At least tell us your name before bossing us around,” a boy jeered.
“Anna.”
The insults flew. “Smells like a thrift store!” A donkey noise blared from a phone. A paper ball bounced off Anna’s shoulder.
“Ready to quit yet?” a voice challenged.
Anna sat down, unfazed. “I used to work with kids fighting cancer,” she said. The laughter died. “One boy, your age, made me promise to read him Shakespeare. He said school was all he wanted—no machines, no pain.”
A girl in front put her phone away.
“There was another patient who kept a diary. Her last entry? ‘I wish I’d paid attention in class.'” Anna paused. “You’re wasting what they’d have given anything for.”
When she picked up the textbook, even the troublemakers opened theirs.
