Central High isn’t that terrible, Philo thought as he stared down at his grungy sneakers walking toward his last class of the day. The food wasn’t as horrendous as the past three schools he attended and his classes were so simple he had extra time to read. Philo didn’t feel upset. He was just bored and beaten down. He wanted more for his life, but also lost whatever curiosity he once had. Nothing ever worked out for Philo, no matter how hard he tried. He would finally feel like he belonged somewhere; then, like clockwork, he would be transferred. His foster family would tell him it was always supposed to be a “temporary situation,” and he knew it was. They all said that. 

Philo turned left into Mrs. Jofald’s creative writing class and headed straight to the back corner. As the rest of the students corralled into the room like sheep, Philo glanced at his own face in the window on his left. He saw bags under his eyes. Copper skin. Pesky pimples. Even though it had already been a terrible day, he still mustered a smile just for himself. 

“Four more years,” Philo whispered. “Just four more.” 

When Philo turned eighteen, he could escape anywhere he wanted. Maybe he could get into a fancy college or look for a job in a big city. He could finally create his own life, whatever that may be. Philo stopped analyzing his own face and gazed through the glass toward the beautiful Hudson River underneath the distant hills of Hyde Park. He loved getting lost in the horizon beyond every window. The world out there must be so wonderful. However, to Philo, wonderful was always out of reach. 

“Okay, everyone, listen up!” Mrs. Jofald announced, drawing eyes as she strolled to the center of the room. “As our creative writing class comes to its end this school year, I’m proud of all your thoughts and emotions we’ve explored through prose. I’ve enjoyed the time we’ve spent together, and I hope you have as well.”

Some of the kids nodded along with the teacher, detecting her kind sentiments, but most gawked blankly at the chalkboard behind her like it was a news program they were forced to watch. 

“I hope you all learned how powerful your words and voices can be. You may not understand it yet, but many of you have great talent,” Mrs. Jofald continued, glancing at Philo. They made eye contact but Philo broke away to stare at his blank notebook. He sensed her compliment but didn’t want anyone else to. 

“One common trend I sense we could all improve on is honesty and vulnerability. When I read your papers, I sometimes feel like we are writing for a good grade or completion points and not trying to make the work the best it can be,” Mrs. Jofald explained. 

Even though it seemed like Philo was just playing with his pencil, rolling it around in his fingers, he was glued to every word she uttered. 

“When we write, sometimes we exaggerate the positives and hide the negatives because we can finally edit our own thoughts. But I want us to be better, to find the truth in what we put on the page.” 

This is why Philo admired Mrs. Jofald. Other teachers didn’t care if he had reread this semester’s textbooks twice and that his classmates hadn’t even cracked theirs open. They lost enthusiasm, just like their students, but not Mrs. Jofald.