Merry Benson

"Merry Benson?" the teacher calls.

Snickers hiss around the room, typical of the first day of school.

"Here." Unfortunately.

"Merry Benson?" he calls louder.

There's laughter this time. Guffaws.

"Here!"

He looks up at me, his buttonhole eyes incredulous. "You'll do well, Ms. Benson, to check that attitude before you get to my classroom."

The laughter becomes a roar and my neck burns with fury. "Whatever," I mumble to myself.

Half an hour passes before the minute hand moves even once. Eyes are on me, mocking and scorning. You're such a loser. I know.

"Ms. Benson!"

"What?" I yell back.

"I asked you a question," he barks.

Nobody barks at me, unless they're a dog or they want to be treated like one. "You'll do well, Mr...whoever you are, to ask louder next time."

The laughter cuts off suddenly. There. I've disrupted the sanctity of this joke of a classroom.

Mr. Whoever has turned puce in the cheeks. But before he can say anything, I snatch my bag and head for the door. "Forget it."

So much for my annual goal to at least make it through the first day of school. Oh, well. They certainly won't miss me.

Nobody ever does.