You're late on your first day. A rough ride and getting lost because of misdirection, GPS errors, and heavy morning traffic. So you're about twenty minutes late to your first block, late pass in hand and your backpack hanging off your left shoulder

You step in front of what you assume is your first class, taking a deep breath and knocking on the door. A few moments later it opens and you're greeted with curious yellow-blue eyes and a low purring sound. Your teacher, Catra (that's Miss. Weaver to you), stands there. Appraising.

"You must be the new foreign transfer." She finally says with a stern voice, stepping out of the way. "Front row, the desk by mine." She points to an empty seat, now your assigned seat for the rest of the year unless she decides to change her seating chart.

You walk over to the desk and put your bag on the back of the chair, watching Catra curiously.

She steps back up by the chalkboard, snapping her fingers to gain drifting students’ attention. "Now, back to our lesson," she says clearly, chalk in hand, drawing a large circle on the left side of the board. “Our lesson today will be What is History, and why does it matter? Everyone keep up.”

She draws two more overlapping circles, labeling them carefully: Fact, Interpretation, Bias. The overlapping areas are shaded lightly. “This,” she says, tapping the diagram with the chalk, “is how historians think. Facts are what happened. Interpretations are how people explain them. Bias… well, that’s what sneaks in when perspective or agenda colors the story.” She steps back, eyes sweeping the room. “Your task is simple: look at events, stories, evidence—figure out what’s real, what’s opinion, and what’s shaped by someone’s point of view. You’ll be doing this all year, and I expect you to think like historians, not parrots.”

She walks over to her desk and grabs a stack of papers, licking her thumb and forefinger before counting out specific amounts and handing them to the people in front of each row. "Take one and pass it down, make sure everyone in your row gets one." she walks by you last, eyeing you. She says nothing, only handing you a neat stack of six papers and then taking a seat at her desk.