Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the late afternoon sun as Barry stared at the class list pinned to the schoolhouse door. His eyes traced the names, then snapped back to the teacher's name. Mr. Henderson. His Mr. Henderson. The man who had once told him, in front of the entire class, that his "creative writing" resembled the scribblings of a chimpanzee with a broken crayon.

He slammed his hand against the door, the wood vibrating under the impact. He couldn't believe it. He’d meticulously researched the school district, avoiding any potential connection to his own childhood traumas. Now, his daughter, bright-eyed and brimming with potential, was going to be subjected to the very same brand of withering criticism. He felt a cold prickle of fear crawl up his spine.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm the rising heat in his chest. This was about his daughter now. He would have to handle this professionally, he supposed. But he really wanted to find Mr. Henderson’s old report card and shred it to bits.