The Pencil

There were some issues at the compound yesterday. Last period was riotous. I kept ringing the stupid chimes, but sixers milled and mingled utterly disregarding me. Then there was a commotion in the hallway that needed attending. I walked out and heard screaming in the boy's bathroom. Walked in there to find boys kicking around a pair of boxers that allegedly had poop in them. Yelled at boys to get back to class. Reaming out the entire class about wasted time, disrespect, patience running out blah blah blah when one sixer has the temerity to stand up and start walking across the room with an unsharpened pencil. Ignoring my glare and my finger pointing back at his desk, he tells me with a sneer, "But I need to sharpen my pencil." I point again. He returns to seat. Two minutes later, I wrap up the ream and start trying to transition into a talk about Whitman's I Hear America Singing when I happen to walk by pencil boy's desk and notice that he has SIX sharpened pencils in his binder pocket right in front of him. Reaming Part 2 ensues. Part 2 involves some especially unkind words on my part that I've come to regret. But only slightly.