Timothy R. Baldwin

My Not Favorite Teacher

I looked up at him With my best stern look, sassy look, a look that told him I was serious. Standing jaunty like with arms on hips, feet wide apart, head slightly cocked, and wide eyes. Tight lips with a downward curve. Just like my momma shows me every time I get in trouble. Which is often. I mean: only sometimes, and maybe never. I’m a good girl. Really! Even when my teacher calls home and speaks to momma through an interpreter. I didn’t do nothing. That’s why I stand there staring scowling, and showing my teacher I mean: I’m serious. He’s my favorite, but now he’s not. I’m in trouble with momma, so he’s in trouble with me. So I stand and stare like momma scowls at me, just waiting for him to say… something. But you know what he said: “What’s that look for?” And my reply: a frown and an upward tilt of my head and a jut of my jaw. But he says nothing, so you know what I said? I said: “You should know.” And he he just just smiled and said Nothing. Can you believe the nerve? But, I just walked, no stomped in silence away from him my not favorite teacher.

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