Chapter 2: Fallout and Fresh Starts

At seven the next morning, I showed up on time at the door of Senior Year, Homeroom 3—the class where I'm the homeroom teacher.

The parking lot was still misty, the flagpole barely visible in the morning haze. I walked the familiar halls, the smell of burnt coffee drifting from the teacher’s lounge. Faded motivational posters—"Dream Big!"—were taped above the lockers. My sneakers squeaked a little too loudly in the quiet.

Most students at public high schools are day students.

That meant the halls were usually buzzing with chatter by now, but this morning, there was a strange hush—like the calm before a storm.

They'd probably heard something from their parents the night before.

Word traveled fast in this town. If one mom heard, the whole block knew by morning.

In the classroom, where students usually read aloud or wrote vocabulary during morning study, nearly everyone now sat quietly with their heads down.

It was a far cry from the usual clatter of books and whispered jokes. The air felt thick with things left unsaid.

Most didn't even dare look up at me.

I could see shoulders hunched, pencils tapping nervously. A few kids shot me quick, guilty glances before dropping their eyes back to their desks.

Of course, there were a few bold ones. When they saw me show up at the classroom door, they shot me smug grins.

The kind of grins that dared me to call them out—teenagers who thought they'd finally gotten the upper hand.

The reason news about letting them sleep in on Saturdays reached the parents was mostly thanks to these students.

It figured. They wanted freedom, but only if they could blame someone else when things got tough.

Thinking of this, I stopped at the classroom door, not entering as usual.

I let the moment hang, the sound of my footsteps fading behind me. It was a small power move, but I needed them to feel the weight of what was happening.

My gaze swept over these students—the ones I'd poured my heart into, hoping for each to have a bright future, and who, until yesterday, I thought were just regular kids with a lot to learn.

Somewhere in the crowd, I saw faces I knew could do better—not just on paper, but as people. I hoped, maybe, this would be the wake-up call they needed.

Standing outside, I raised my hand and knocked on the doorframe.

The sound echoed in the quiet room, drawing every pair of eyes to the front.

"I think everyone already knows—your parents want to give you a different learning environment."

I let my words settle in, my tone steady but not unkind. I wasn’t here to shame anyone—just to be honest.

The students who'd had their heads down suddenly looked up, panic flickering in their eyes.

They hadn't expected the consequences to come so quickly. I watched their faces fall, confusion and fear chasing away last night’s bravado.

Among the smug ones, the ringleader—a boy named Tyler Davis—called out, "Mr. Carter, chill. If you just, like, step it up, maybe we can get our parents to back off."

His voice was a little too loud, a little too rehearsed. I recognized the type—always angling for a deal, never quite willing to admit he might be wrong.

Too tired to let him finish, I met his gaze, which thought it had everything under control, and smiled slightly: "I agree."

I let my smile linger, just enough to let him know he’d lost control of the narrative. His jaw worked like he wanted to say something smart, but all that came out was a shaky breath.

In an instant, Tyler looked like he'd been punched in the gut, his face turning bright red. Almost the entire class turned to stare at him.

It was the first time I’d seen real doubt in his eyes. Maybe, for a moment, he understood he wasn’t as clever as he thought.

"Wh—" He only managed half a word before falling silent.

He slumped back in his seat, the fight gone out of him. The room was so quiet you could hear the clock ticking above the whiteboard.

Understood. The one who complained to the parents and tried to use them to threaten me—this was his brilliant idea.

I could almost see the gears turning in his head, regret starting to dawn.

And he was the same student whose parent had said the night before, "My son is so smart—he could easily get into Harvard or Stanford."

A reminder that ambition and arrogance often came hand in hand, at least around here.

As for that so-called "so smart," if I hadn't, since taking over the class, insisted on teaching each student according to their ability—using both encouragement and pressure to make them practice and memorize—never mind Harvard or Stanford, he'd be lucky to get into a third-tier college.

Some students needed a push, others a hand to steady them. Tyler, for all his bluster, was barely keeping up as it was.

I met his eyes and said calmly:

"So I won't be coming in for morning study today. You can do as you wish."

I watched for a reaction—anger, relief, maybe even a little fear. They'd wanted freedom, but real independence? That was a different story.

"Also, since the homeroom teacher is about to be replaced, to avoid any awkwardness, I won't be teaching your math classes anymore either. That way, I can't be accused of misleading students."

There was a collective intake of breath. Suddenly, my absence became real—a loss they hadn’t expected.

Since I'd said it, I meant it.

I sat in the teacher’s lounge, coffee in hand, watching sunlight creep across the linoleum floor. There was no turning back now.

For this morning's first period—Homeroom 3's math class—I didn't plan to go.

Instead, I took a long sip of my coffee, letting its warmth cut through the early chill. I could hear distant laughter from the freshmen wing—kids still unburdened by SATs and AP tests.

As for which teacher would go in my place—what did that have to do with me?

It was out of my hands now. I’d done what I could. The rest was for someone else to figure out.

Ten minutes after the bell rang,

The office was quiet, only the faint hum of the HVAC unit keeping me company. Then, a knock broke the silence.

Someone knocked on the office door.

"Come in."

I put down my coffee mug, paused the late-night talk show I was watching, and called out.

The host’s voice faded, replaced by the familiar sound of the principal’s footsteps. The door creaked open.

Looking up, I saw the principal's face—round and unreadable.

He always wore that same expression in meetings—part poker face, part concerned parent. Today, he looked tired.

He took a sip, set his paper cup on the table with a grave expression, and asked me,

"How did things get to this point? It's one thing for students and parents to act up, but you've been a teacher for seven or eight years—how could you just go along with them?"

He sounded more disappointed than angry, like a coach watching a star player fumble an easy play.

Then he tried to reason with me:

"You've always led graduating classes. You know how important this is..."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, and for a second, we both just stared at the ceiling, like maybe the answer was written up there. He was right. I did know. Maybe that was why I felt so hollow inside.

I laughed.

It was a short, bitter laugh—the kind you let out when someone’s missed the whole point.

What do you mean, how did things get to this point?

I said nothing, just pulled out my phone and showed the principal the group chat.

I scrolled through message after message, watching his eyes widen. I let the silence fill the space between us.

Let him see it all, truly and clearly.

Not just last night's messages, but every one since I took over this senior class, starting from the first time a parent mocked me.

The history was there in black and white. There was no way to spin it, no way to deny it.

Out of the 53 students in the class, almost every parent had made at least five completely unreasonable, personal attacks against me.

It was overwhelming, reading it all at once. I could see the principal’s jaw clench as he scrolled.

This had never happened in any of my previous senior classes.

I’d prided myself on building relationships, but this year felt different—like nothing I did mattered.

And until yesterday, I'd always put up with it.

Maybe that was my mistake—thinking patience would be enough.

After reading all the chat logs, the principal, who'd wanted to say something, fell silent.

The office felt colder than before. He set my phone down with a soft thud.

Who knows how long passed before he took off his glasses, his eyes unfocused as he looked at me.

His voice was quieter, the fight gone out of him. For a moment, he looked older than I’d ever seen him.

"This group of students and parents really does have serious problems."

I said calmly, "It's fine if the parents are dissatisfied with me as homeroom teacher—I get it. You don't need to feel awkward. Of course, if you think anything I've said or done since last night is wrong, and you feel I'm not fit to be a senior class homeroom teacher, or if you want to transfer me to teach lower grades or even fire me, I won't object."

I kept my tone even, but inside, I braced myself for whatever came next.

"No, no, that's not going to happen."

He was quick to reassure me, his hands fluttering in a way that told me he’d been through this before—with other teachers, other parents.

The principal hurried to reassure me.

I smiled: "When I sent that message in the group last night, I was already prepared for any consequences. This time, I won't back down for the sake of college admissions. The test is important, but if there's already irreconcilable conflict between students, parents, and teachers, forcing everyone together will only make things worse."

It felt good to say it out loud—to name the thing no one wanted to talk about.

"So," I looked at the principal seriously, "I'll accept any punishment from the school, but I absolutely won't continue as homeroom teacher and math teacher for Senior Year, Homeroom 3."

My voice didn’t waver. I hoped he heard the resolve behind my words.

At a loss for words, the principal sighed and stood up. "Alright, since you insist."

He put his glasses back on and looked at me with utter helplessness.

I could tell he wanted to say more, but there was nothing left. Some things couldn’t be fixed with a policy change or another meeting.

I smiled, stood up to see him out, and took the opportunity to ask, "So, who does the school plan to have take over Homeroom 3?"

The principal pursed his lips, an exasperated look that wasn't directed at me appearing on his face. After a moment, he glanced at me and said,

"The parents think Mr. Franklin is good."

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes, just a little. Of course, they wanted the strictest teacher around. Like trading in your sedan for a monster truck because someone told you bigger was better.

Mr. Franklin.

Currently the math teacher for Senior Year, Homeroom 7.

He was infamous—every teacher’s lounge story eventually came back to him. Some said he thrived on pressure, others called him a bully behind his back.

He's the most grade-obsessed teacher in the school and cares least about students' mental and physical well-being—especially a believer in oppressive, high-pressure education.

To him, numbers were everything. The names attached didn’t matter, not really.

No matter the student, he would put them down in every way, belittling them to nothing.

His sarcasm was legendary. I’d seen kids who used to smile shrink away from his passing comments in the hallway.

In his own words—

"You're a senior and you still dare say you're tired? If you're tired, drop out. A student's only job is to study. Everything else is irrelevant. Want to relax? Want to sleep? Want to rest? Fine, but if you're willing to be at the bottom of society, then go ahead and relax, sleep, rest."

The message was clear: You’re only as good as your GPA. The rest of your life? That could wait.

"You think school is hard? Wait until you can't get into college, can't find a job, and have to move back in with your parents—then you'll know what hard really is."

I’d heard him say that more than once, the words ringing out in the hallway like a challenge.

"Top ten in the grade? Go see the real world. What's top ten here? Here, you're still nothing."

There was never any room for kindness in his classroom. Only winners and losers.

If he treated all students equally, our teaching philosophies might differ, but we could still get along as colleagues.

I could handle difference—what I couldn’t handle was cruelty.

But this man is thoroughly calculating—he bullies the weak and flatters the strong.

If a student's family is just regular working folks, he doesn't treat them with respect—detention and psychological pressure are routine. If the family is wealthy or influential, Mr. Franklin will treat them like royalty.

It was an open secret. The lunch ladies knew, the janitors knew, even the guidance counselor had her suspicions.

As a result, on the eve of last year's college admissions, more than half the students in Mr. Franklin's class, where he was homeroom teacher, decided not to take the SATs due to mental health issues, planning to repeat the year instead.

It was a scandal that still lingered in the teachers’ lounge, whispered about when new hires asked what happened to Homeroom 7.

Some couldn't take it anymore and nearly jumped from the school building.

The school had never fully recovered from the shock. The rest of us quietly doubled down on our own students, trying to make sure history didn’t repeat itself.

The incident caused a huge stir at the time.

It was all anyone could talk about for weeks. Even local news crews showed up in the parking lot, cameras rolling, trying to get a statement.

The principal had planned to fire Mr. Franklin, but the academic dean objected, saying that although Mr. Franklin's teaching methods were problematic, his college admission rate was undeniably high.

I could almost hear the debate in my head: results versus reputation, numbers over well-being.

I laughed at the time.

It was that bitter, knowing laugh you get when the wrong people win.

When more than half the students are forced into depression and don't take the test, of course the college admission rate for the rest is high!

They only counted the survivors, not the casualties.

Some opposed, some supported. The two sides argued all summer, making the principal's head spin, so in the end they decided Mr. Franklin could only be a subject teacher, not a homeroom teacher.

The compromise pleased no one, but it kept the peace. Or so they hoped.

I don't know how those parents even found out about someone like him at our school.

Maybe word got around at a dinner party, or through the grapevine of anxious parents always looking for the next big edge.

But one thing is certain:

Not a single student in Homeroom 3 would want Mr. Franklin as their homeroom teacher.

They’d heard the stories too—kids talked. The fear was real.

Meeting the principal's helpless gaze, I curled my lips.

I offered a thin smile, a gesture that said, "So be it."

"If that's what the parents want, then I certainly have no objection."

The decision was out of my hands. Maybe the parents would finally see the cost of what they were asking for.

But as the saying goes, careful what you wish for—you just might get it.

If Mr. Franklin really becomes Homeroom 3's homeroom and math teacher, it looks like I really won't have a place in this year's senior class.

The realization stung a little, but I tried not to show it. I’d always believed I could help any kid, but sometimes, you had to let go.

The principal said bitterly, "It's not officially decided yet. The academic office just had Mr. Franklin substitute a few classes in Homeroom 3, to see if the students can get used to his teaching style..."

I wondered how many would last more than a week. The experiment seemed doomed from the start.

"Let's hope there are fewer students with depression this year..."

His voice trailed off. We both knew the odds.

I smiled and nodded, making no comment on the decision.

There was nothing left to say. The machine would grind on, with or without me.

The principal left, looking worried. I watched him go, closed the door, sat back down, took a sip of iced coffee from my mug, refreshed myself, and went back to my late-night show.

I let the reruns wash over me, grateful for the distraction. There would be time to worry later.

Lunch time arrived.

The sun was higher now, warming up the hallways and making the linoleum shine. My stomach rumbled—habit, not hunger.

After enjoying a leisurely morning, I happily hummed a tune on my way to the cafeteria.

The chorus of an old pop song stuck in my head, I let myself relax for the first time in days.

I wasn't really hungry, but the cafeteria rarely makes my favorite mac and cheese—I couldn't miss it.

It was cheesy in that perfect, American way—bubbling on the steam table, golden crust on top. Small pleasures.

The cafeteria line snaked past a tray of mystery meat and a vat of mac and cheese that smelled like childhood.

Homeroom 3 was on my way from the office to the cafeteria.

The hallway was quiet, lockers still closed. I lingered for a second outside the familiar door.

It wasn't time for class to end yet.

Usually, you could hear the rustle of papers and the low buzz of voices. Today, there was only silence.

Passing by the classroom, I glanced in out of habit, only to see a room full of faces ashen as death.

A chill ran through me. Whatever was happening in there, it wasn't learning.

Sure enough, my eyes shifted, and there was Mr. Franklin, standing at the podium, spitting as he lectured.

His posture was rigid, his voice sharp—every word punctuated by the slap of his palm on the lectern.

Then, I happened to meet the gaze of the ringleader from morning study.

Tyler’s eyes were wide, panic flickering behind the bravado.

He was stunned at first, then the dead look in his eyes suddenly turned sharp and bright.

Maybe he saw an out, or maybe he just wanted someone to blame.

I ignored him and looked away, continuing toward the cafeteria.

No point in engaging—not now, not while the damage was being done.

But he insisted on coming out of the classroom, finally letting off steam, and said to me:

"See, who really knows how to spot talent and help students go further—parents and students know in their hearts."

His words dripped with false confidence, as if he wanted to convince himself as much as me.

He chuckled insincerely, "Sorry, Mr. Carter, I really didn't expect parents to trust me so much."

The apology was hollow. I could hear the nervous tremor in his voice.

I said nothing. I only felt sorry for the students in that class.

I wished things could be different, but sometimes, you have to let people make their own mistakes.

The matter of changing Homeroom 3's homeroom teacher

Word spread faster than wildfire. Within hours, teachers and students alike were whispering in the hallways, glancing at me with curiosity—or pity.

Soon caused a huge stir throughout the school.

By lunch, even the janitor knew. The news hit harder than a snow day announcement.

The principal had just announced that Mr. Franklin would take over as Homeroom 3's homeroom teacher when, not long after, the homeroom teacher of Homeroom 10, Rachel Simmons—eight months pregnant—came to my office.

Rachel moved slow, one hand resting on her belly. She gave me a tired but determined smile as she closed the door behind her.

"Mr. Carter."

Her voice was calm, even as exhaustion tugged at her features. She was the kind of teacher everyone respected—the one who never missed a school play or a teacher appreciation breakfast.

She said calmly, "Before, there really was no one to fill in, so I kept holding on, but now my belly could give birth any day. My husband's so anxious every day, afraid my water will break during class if I get emotional. He keeps texting me baby names and warnings in the same breath. I'm almost prenatally depressed—I really can't keep going. Please, do me a favor and, before things get even more critical, take over Homeroom 10."

Her plea was more than professional—it was a friend asking another friend for help. I could see the worry in her eyes, the way her hand absently rubbed her stomach as she spoke.

Me: "......"

I hesitated, searching for the right words. I wasn’t sure I was ready to start over, not after the past few days.

Rachel continued, "Everyone in our grade group knows that in this whole Homeroom 3 mess, you are in the right. So, don't let this one incident make you doubt your entire career, and certainly don't let it make you give up on all students and parents."

Her words landed with a kindness I hadn’t realized I needed. Sometimes, it takes another teacher to remind you why you started in the first place.

She rested a hand on her round belly, a gentle smile on her lips.

There was strength there, a reminder that life went on, even in the toughest of years.

"Back when we were the only two from our cohort to volunteer to teach in New Mexico, the conditions were so tough. But you said that as long as you saw students working hard, you felt like you had endless energy. What? Have you forgotten that now?"

I remembered those early days—dusty roads, leaky roofs, kids with big dreams and little else. Rachel’s laugh brought me back, reminding me how much we’d survived.

Rachel laughed even brighter: "Some things are just inevitable. Of course, I'm not asking you to be magnanimous and forgive those troublesome kids and parents in Homeroom 3—they deserve someone like Mr. Franklin. I just hope you won't give up this profession you love so easily. You get what I mean, right?"

She squeezed my hand as she left, her faith in me unwavering. It made me want to believe in myself again, even if just a little.

That day, after Rachel left, I sat alone in the office for a long time.

The clock ticked on, the world outside carrying on as usual. For once, I let myself feel everything—disappointment, hope, and a little stubborn pride.

Unlike other teachers who have families to support and can't easily quit—

I knew my privilege—I had a safety net, an inheritance I’d never needed. Some rumors even made me out to be the eccentric rich guy who taught for the fun of it.

Even if I never worked another day, I have enough money to live comfortably for the rest of my life. There were even rumors that I was a trust fund kid, teaching only to experience the real world.

But I just love the feeling of standing at the front of the classroom—it gives me a great sense of accomplishment.

I could win the lottery tomorrow, but nothing beats the rush of seeing a kid finally get it.

That afternoon, I called Rachel.

I stared at her contact for a while, then hit dial. She answered on the first ring, her voice cheerful and steady.

"Alright, go apply to the academic office. If they approve, I can take over evening study today."

I could almost hear her sigh of relief. The tension in her voice melted away, replaced with genuine gratitude.

Rachel said happily, "Helping others is better than building a mansion. On behalf of my unborn child and his dad, thank you, Mr. Carter!"

Her joke made me smile for the first time in days. Maybe this was the fresh start we both needed.

We joked around a bit, then Rachel hung up and went to the academic office to request leave.

As I put the phone down, I realized I was already making lesson plans in my head—new names, new faces, another chance to make a difference. Maybe this time, I’ll get it right. Or at least, I’ll get to try.