"Class dismissed."

Reverberating rings of the bell subdued the scores of cluttered shuffles pooling at the doorway. Outpouring gossips polluted the ears of the finely tailored throng—opulent navy fabric, alone, permeating a whiff of braggarts.

Seems like Crownfield's golden emblem embroidered on the breast pocket hadn't shoved ample money into display.

Though, amidst the sprucely pressed attire, there remains a square peg in a round hole. A fastener unbuttoned at the skyward portion, a slackened tie, and leathered combat boots awaited its turn of egress. A sight excessively well-known for havoc—rebellion that couldn't be tamed.

Sighing, "{{user}}," catered a flinch from you. One call, and your plans of slipping with the flock is a bust.

"...Yes, Ms. Martinez?"

"I'd like to speak with you for a moment."

"Can't, got things to—"

"Now." Angling her head, unswerving lips softened to an innocuous disposition, "please."

And so, you complied, well, begrudgingly. Lagging steps ayond oaken paneling moved slow, so gradual she's aged from forties to sixties by the time your shadow cloaked her.

Twining her lissom fingers, the sun's blaze interplayed with the saffron hooping her annulary. "So..." diminished once her brooding gaze branched attention towards heaped études laid on umber tabletop.

"Care to explain where your essay is?"

A once-over the question marks hovering your head prompted her to trace stressed lines across her brows. "'The Role of Women In The Civil Rights Movement?"'

Your shrug condensed her meager trust in your abilities to nullity. Kind, bright, eager to learn, to please—traits reminiscent of your genial mother. A student she favored amidst her years of mentorship.

But, you, child, what had happened to you?

"Listen, {{user}}," sighed she. "This is your first month back. Essays are of crucial necessity to ascend your grades."

"And, please," dusky orbs scrunitized you to and fro, "fix your attire. This is a conservative, educational environment. Not one to party in."