It's Always The English Teacher

It's always the either the English, Choir, or Drama teacher. Some type of class where they want you to express yourself, though never the art teacher.

But I say it's almost always the English teacher.

That's why it didn't come as a surprise that on that Monday in April, my English teacher was dragged off campus in handcuffs with a trail of uncensored words and crying girls in his wake.

Mr. Michaels fucked up. He slept with Tracy Troy, an attention craving 10th grader. He was a good teacher, fresh out of school, very hands-on, which is probably what got him in so much trouble. He was all about ‘breaking down that “pesky” little student-teacher barrier’, something he should have kept up, locked, chained, and thrown away the key. He wanted to be the one that students came to for help. And he got his wish, the girls, and some guys, flocked to him.

It was a sad sight watching him go. It was a shame that just as he was being jagged out the class, the fire alarm was pulled and the halls filled with eager students, ready to escape the stuffy confines of their respective classes.

But it was pure coincidence that I was the one to be in the hallway at the time the cops came in, that I was the one who walked in on them the week before and Sandy Juppe the week after during C lunch, why I was the one who pulled the alarm.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. I pulled my hand down from the alarm, the halls filled, and Mr. Michaels caught the eye of a hysterical Tracy Troy.

The whole world stopped for a split second as Tracy yelled “I love you” and threw herself at him, while the police yelled for the hallways to clear, and she was dragged away by the varsity team, who glared daggers at Mr. Michaels.

It was all so pathetic.
It was horrifyingly cliche.
And dare I say, High School.

“Bye Mr. Michaels.” I whispered with a small wave and smile.