Taylor

A little something I whipped up, just for the fun of it...

This is regarding the first time I sent Taylor home to his mother...

Today Taylor Samson decided to write on the walls with a white-out pen I left sitting on the desk. I hadn't noticed at first, but that get-high scent touched my nostrils every time I walked by his desk. He was the one in the corner, by the way, the little brown-headed kid with the big green eyes and pear-shaped head and missing tooth. I smelled it at first, and asked Taylor if he smelled anything odd.

"No, sir." was his plaintive response.

"Seriously Taylor, are you sure you don't smell a thing?"

"you're on crack, Mr. Patno." Taylor said. He was dead serious too.

Stalking to the head of the class, a snicker leapt out from his neighbors' direction. Turning toes I looked impatiently at Taylor straight into his eyes. This is the moment where being a teacher is either something borne or something learned. Within a second, the authoritarian gaze launched in his direction took effect and Taylor's bottom lip quivered. Slowly, I glanced from seat to seat, looking for any indication, or clue as to what was really going on. Each eyeball craning towards the wall behind Taylor's grainy fiberboard seat spoke volumes.

"Taylor, could you please stand up and move to the front of the class, please?" I asked as sternly as I could without snickering myself. It's somewhat trying to discipline the kids when I have to, but making sure you treat most situations seriously leads to respect, or at least you hope it does. The little guy slinked out of his chair, and as he plodded slowly towards the front wall, I pulled his desk from its position, stared at the red paint besmirched with permanent white ink...

"mistur Fatnow wares panti3s."

"TAYLOR!"