I was waiting for my first-period sophomores. There were classes like that one—students possessed of grace and kindness and intelligence, all thrown together for the year. They arrived and you knew. You became a family. It was a kind of love affair.
At the far end of the school they were streaming out of the auditorium from assembly. Mr. Spencer had already wished them a good summer. He’d read them something—a quotation, a poem he found inspirational. Mr. Goring scratched the back of his head as he reviewed the day’s schedule. He reminded them that all lockers must be empty. There are trash cans in the halls. Please use them. Respect your school, students. Do not run. Please, no running.
