"Melmon Landry Arnold! Hallway, now!" Mrs. Johnson led the way, gripping Melmon tightly by the elbow.

She flung open the manuscript she was helping edit. "What is this?" She spat in his face.

Melmon had not the time to read the trembling pages before they were yanked upward.

"You describe the teacher, Mrs. Helen, as curmudgeonly, frumpy, and curt, among plenty of other colorful slanders." Mrs. Johnson now drew herself up, stabbing her finger in Melmon's direction. "I am not curmudgeonly. Nor am I frumpy or curt. Needless to say, I will not be further editing this piece."

Melmon shrank into his Nike tennis shoes, feeling his heart rate rise. "But- But, ma'am. She's not- not you." The words were spoken to the ground, barely above a mumble.

Yet Mrs. Johnson knew better, beholding her own body, looking down at her belly, even ironically observing her own behavior at the moment. She had been slighted by this pathetic fallacy of a student. This eighth-grade boy, well renowned in the young adult science fiction world, bared his soul to Mrs. Johnson, who allowed her to read the treasured work that he himself felt utterly proud of.

Mrs. Johnson looked deep into Melmon's impressionable, young eyes. "I mean, it was okay." She spoke deliberately before turning on her heel to continue class.