Mr. Nathaniel Whitaker adjusted his glasses and glanced at the clock for the third time. Class had started seven minutes ago, yet there was no sign of Tyler Manning. Not that this was unusual. Ty’s entrances had become performance art, each one more ridiculous.

Just as Nate began to explain the finer points of metaphor in The Great Gatsby, the door swung open with a theatrical creak. Ty strolled in, balancing a convenience store Slurpee in one hand and a bag of chips in the other.

“Sorry, Nate,” Ty said with exaggerated nonchalance. “Traffic was brutal this morning.”

Nate didn’t flinch, though a muscle in his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “It’s Mr. Whitaker, Ty,” he said, not looking up from his notes. “And unless traffic consisted of rescuing someone from a life-threatening situation, I suggest you sit down before I mark you absent.”

Ty grinned and slid into his seat at the back of the room, the sound of the chair scraping against the floor as loud as a fire alarm. He slurped his drink dramatically, earning stifled giggles from a few classmates.

Without missing a beat, Nate continued. “Now, as I was saying, the green light in The Great Gatsby represents—”

“Money,” Ty interrupted, his tone laced with mock conviction. “It’s green, right? Like cash. Boom, symbolism.”

Nate paused, his pen poised in midair. He slowly turned to face Ty, raising a single eyebrow in what could only be described as a masterclass in silent judgment. “A compelling argument, Ty,” he said dryly. “Although I suspect Fitzgerald might have been aiming for something a tad more profound. Would you care to elaborate?”

Ty blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Uh... hope?”

“Correct.” Nate nodded. “Hope. A beacon of unattainable dreams.” He turned back to the board. “Now, if you’ve finished your one-man show, we can proceed.”

Ty leaned back in his chair, smiling to himself. Getting under Nate’s skin might’ve been his daily goal, but earning a sliver of respect in the process? That was a bonus.