They don’t even pretend to be polite.

You walk into the staff room and the first thing you hear is laughter — the kind that sharpens when it notices you.

“Oh. Art is here,” someone says, glancing at your paint-stained cardigan.

Another teacher snorts. “Must be nice, not having to worry about test scores.”

You pause. Just for a second. Then you keep walking.

“Do you actually grade anything,” a man asks as you reach for the coffee pot, “or do you just let them finger-paint and call it a day?”

A few of them laugh. Loud. Comfortable. Like they’ve done this before.

You pour your coffee carefully, even though your hands feel tight. “I assess process, composition, and creative development,” you say evenly.

He blinks. “Right. Sure.”

Someone else adds, “I mean, no offense, but art’s more of a hobby than a career, isn’t it?”

You finally look at them.

“I have a degree,” you say. “And a classroom full of students who show up.”

That earns you eye rolls.

They talk over you after that. About AP placement, college admissions, real pressure. One of them gestures vaguely in your direction and says, “Some of us actually have to prepare kids for the future.”

“She’s just… strange. Always alone. Always drawing. Gives me the creeps.”