Miss Fitz

I always thought she was Mrs. Fitz — until I sent her an email, and she responded with the signature of an unmarried authority... When she presented the assignment a hush fell over this roudy class. For once, she captured our attention.

It was spring. Miss Fitz unsuccessfully extended her patience to provide us with books we'd like to read, relaxed lesson plans to include the social media scene, and even discarded writing requirements to allow us to explore anything we dreamed. But Brock, Dean, and Michael were busy distracting Fiona, Cindy, and Amir and debating worthiness of touchdown calls that seemed to concern Lenora and Seth too. When they weren't engulfed in whistle blowing, they liked talking with me and Kiko about how George Bush did 9/11 and how Donald Trump's orange skin was just a bad cover for the green lizard within. Michael, Amir, and Kiko would come to class with their snacks, and only share if Gianna was there (because she would sleep during lunch, and after class go to her dad's, who tried to keep junk food away). And Gianna always sat next to Ross, who only wanted to whisper about the group chat, and what bullshit his twin Nat pulled this time. John and Ricardo never spoke. They would pass notes, though. Miss Fitz stopped them once in September, putting one under the projector for further inspection, and found that their comics were mostly innapropriate affection. Donna, Nat, and JP sat right behind me, and it seemed like they were reading, but they never dared raise a hand, unlike some of their parents -- to me it seemed like Miss Fitz didn't mind.

Except this time. Written on the board was the following:

"5,000 words on why I should bother coming to this class to try and teach students determined to remain ignorant."

That night, after submitting my assignment, I asked everyone in the facebook group if they wanted to add to her apology letter. Not a single one let me know I got her title wrong.