Gemotions

"So, Mrs. Evans, you were in my class?" Mr. Peterson's voice was polite, perhaps a little too polite. He sat across from him. David found himself scrutinizing the man, searching for the slightest hint of the rigid, rule-obsessed teacher he remembered. The man's words seemed hollow.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, studying the man's expression. "Yes," he replied, his tone even, but his eyes narrowed. He could practically feel the ghost of a detention slip in his pocket. He was on guard, prepared for a fight, a challenge. He was not the boy who once quaked in fear of his teacher.