Day 99.

We filed in, finding seats, heads swiveling to each person who walked in the room in semi-recognition. That first-day smell of new pencils and fresh paper and shampoo and all possible material representations of a New Start were there. And there was a sense of waiting, a quiet, rare agreement to withhold judgement until the teacher showed.
The man at the front of the classroom scribbled on the blackboard: "Mr. Smith, Math Slayer."
In every interesting class, there is a kid whose brain connects directly to their vocal chords. Jenna was that kid.
"Um, yeah, like, excuse me, but aren't you supposed to like math? Like, didn't you get a degree in it?"
He bared his teeth.
"Kids," he snarled, "it's always a good idea to know your enemy." He punctuated the last three words with his fist on the desk. "I am perfectly suited to be a math teacher, and here's why. I hate math. It's a godawful fucker of a subject. No, okay, who here has a problem with me cursing, by the way? God no, keep those hands down. I never want to see hands. The day you raise your hand to say something in real life is the day your self-worth dies. What was I saying. Oh. Yes. What happens when you love something? You let it past your guard!" He paused. "Who here loves math?"
Franklin twitched and shoved his hands in his pockets.
Mr. Smith surveyed the class. "Alright, fine, hide. Well if you're out there, I'm just trying to prepare you for the inevitable heart break of life."
Jenna's eyebrows furrowed. "What inevitable heart break?"
Mr. Smith turned around, appearing not to have heard her. He pulled out an ancient overhead and placed a sheet on the screen, then turned to check his roll sheet.
"Jonathan, do this problem. It's your monster, now here's your weapon: It is given that x=2. Go." He handed Jonathan a marker and sat at Jonathan's desk, commenting.
"That's right, that's right. Goddamn, add those, can't you see- okay, okay. Hey, you whip this problem or it whips you, got it?"
Finally Jonathan, turning red, capped the marker. "Alright, go sit down somewhere, I like your chair better. Jesus, that was a fucker. You took her down! Pat yourself on the back. That's it. You need a cigarette? I'm joking, I'm joking, sorry."
It was amazing: he talked like a combination radio advertiser and drill sergeant.
"Hey, who in here can do rings though? You know? Puff, puff. I'm a motherfucking magic dragon."