I teach tenth-grade English in a faded factory town in western Pennsylvania.
The kind of place where people still say, “We’re doing fine,” while the pharmacy bills pile up in the kitchen drawer and the house stays dark because nobody wants to talk.
That Thursday, my class felt wrong from the second bell.
Too much snapping.
Too much silence after it.
One girl came in with fresh mascara over swollen eyes.
One boy had his hoodie pulled so low I could barely see his face.
Another kid, a linebacker built like a grown man, flinched when somebody dropped a binder.
So I pulled out a stack of index cards.
“Three rules,” I said. “No names. No jokes. No lies.”
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