The homemade zesty perfume scent filled the air. The children could see the multiple scarves of glittery purple, yellow, and orange dangling from her neck, brushing against the black of her shirt. Her dark hair was messily gathered into high bun; an orange hair band keeping the loose strands in place. The room was silent as she walked in and put down her amateur art covered folder on one of the desks.
The students watched her every movement from her entrance, awed and unsettled by her presence. Tamora Withrow was not a celebrity, she was not particularly beautiful but she was most definitely not ordinary. That would be the most inapt word to describe her.
She sometimes has a distingué look about her that suggested she was living in a realm of innocuous thoughts and fantasies, perceived by her to be of grave importance. At other times, she looks as though she is high on air, with a jocund smile on her face. On these occasions, one may guarantee, if they dared to try, that if she was told to jump off a cliff, she would do so without hesitance.
Today, she had the expression of the first mentioned. This was the one that unnerved the children the most, for they were quite positive that the quixotic thoughts in her head, would no longer be innocuous if she chose to one day put them in action. No matter how impractical the ideas are, the children believe that she, never failing to surprise, would find a way.
As Ms. Withrow lay her half filled Deer Parker water bottle down, she sprung back to her senses and looked at the nine students seated before her. She observed them quite donnishly, transmitting cynical remarks through the students’ minds.
Unexpectedly (as things always are with Ms. Withrow) she announced, “Monologues!”, in a most enthusiastic manner and she stroked her right index finger along her left, and the nine students instantaneously formed into a single file. The class was beginning…