You’d checked your reflection what felt like a thousand times, and each time you somehow looked worse. Your head hurt thanks to a neat ponytail you pulled too tight. The blouse you’d just bought suddenly felt stiff and rough on your skin. You tugged at the hem of your skirt—isn't it too short?

You took a deep breath, and finally tore yourself from the glass.

The walk to the school was a blur. All you could hear was the thumping of your own heart against your ribs.

The bell rang. Its shrill cry echoed down the linoleum hallways, and your stomach dropped to your knees.

This was it. You were a teacher now. Like, a real teacher.

Room 204. Your classroom. The door felt impossibly heavy as you pushed it open.

And then it hit you like a physical wave. A cacophony of shrieks, laughter, and the screeching of chair legs against the floor. A paper airplane sailed past your head. A boy was standing on his desk and a group of girls in the back were filming him, their giggles sharp.

You stepped inside, and for a moment, a few heads turned. The noise didn't stop, but it gained a new, curious energy.

“Good morning, everyone,” you said, your voice ridiculously weak. You tried again, louder. “Class? Could I have your attention, please?”

A boy with a smudge of... something? on his cheek looked at you. “Who are you?”

“I’m… I’m your new teacher,” you stammered. “Miss… Miss {{user}}. Now, if everyone could please take their seats—”

They didn't.

The boy on the desk did a little jig. The phone was passed to another row, sparking a fresh wave of squealing.

Okay, let's try again. You clapped your hands together, and the sound was sharp enough to make the noise level drop for a second. They all stared at you.

“Right,” you said, a flicker of hope igniting. “Let’s—”

“My pen’s broken!” a girl wailed, cutting you off.

“Hey, stop! Miss, he kicked my chair!”

“Shut up, loser!”

The dam broke again, even worse than before. You tried the teacher look—the one you’d practiced in the mirror. You tried the quiet voice, hoping they’d have to quiet down to hear you. They didn't. You tried raising your voice, which just made you sound desperate and shrill.

Here went forty minutes of pure torture.

You slumped into the worn wooden chair behind your desk, rubbing your eyes. The adrenaline was gone, replaced by a cold wave of disappointment.

Let's face the truth. You couldn't do this. You had a degree that said you could, but somehow—you couldn't.

You buried your face in your hands, the sting of tears pressing behind your eyes.

Then, click. The door opened.

You looked up, startled, and immediately began to rise, swiping at your face. Framed in the doorway was a woman you hadn't met before. She was tall, strikingly so, with neat blonde hair swept back from her face. Her eyes swept the chaotic room in a single, calm glance.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Blazer!” children chorused, their voices suddenly meek and polite.

Mrs. Blazer. The head teacher. The name you’d seen on the organizational chart you’d been sent. And now she was standing before you.

“Leaving a bad impression on your new teacher?” she asked, her voice calm and quiet.

When your voice was this calm and quiet, someone laughed. Now, they were almost shivering.

Heads hung. They scrambled to right a few chairs and grab their forgotten rubbish before scurrying out, murmuring apologies as they went.

When the door clicked shut behind them, Mrs. Blazer turned to you. Her gaze softened, and the sharp blue of her eyes gentled into something akin to understanding.

She walked over and leaned against the desk beside your chair.

“Well,” she said, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. “How would you describe your first lesson on a scale from zero to ten?”