Dr. Dyle was waiting

"So, Matt," Dr. Dyle said, "you've really brought your low-class mentality to school with you, haven't you?"

"I beg your pardon." Matt was sitting in Dr. Dyle's classroom, his Biology textbook, all new and shiny, in front of him. He'd expected to use the detention to at least get a little studying done but apparently Dr. Dyle had other ideas.

"You think I don't know about your streaming thing?"

"I guess you do. Did you like it?"

"That's not what I meant. Obviously I wouldn't watch it. I'm not interested in child pornography."

"Lucky for all of us that you're not. Funnily enough, I'm not either. We don't stream anyone under eighteen. Proof of age required."

"Look, Matt." Dr. Dyle lowered his voice to a 'just us boys' level. "I understand that people probably did things like that back where you're from. I mean, it's probably no big deal in a place where half the class drops out before they hit junior year and most of the girls are pregnant by the time they're freshmen. But here on the Hill, we are trying to raise future leaders. What do you think will happen when these students are looking for a job and all the hiring managers can see is naked boo--bosoms and flopping penises?"

"Wow, that's a little stereotypical about 'where I came from,' isn't it?"

"Am I wrong?"

"You know, the people complaining about how shit poorer neighborhoods are are the ones who live in comfortable enclaves where the only hispanics and blacks they have to deal with are the ones who clean their houses and tend their yard. The ones who take their children to get birth control implants or have abortions but vote to deny birth control and abortion rights to the poor. The ones who pay their teachers nice salaries and make central city kids use twenty-year-old textbooks. Maybe you're right, Dr. Dyle. Maybe there are a lot of screwed up kids in the central city. But you know what? There are a lot of screwed up kids here as well. And I don't feel guilty at all about trying to earn the money I need to stay in my house, about helping students earn what they need to escape abusive relationships, or about empowering girls who were socially ostracized in a school where everyone is expected to be perfect."

"Well... I'm going to have a long talk with the principal about this and see if there are some sort of regulations to prevent the kind of behavior you're engaged in. And I don't have a lot of sympathy for those who blame their upbringing for being poor and addicted to **** and being violent."

"Who, exactly, do you have a lot of sympathy for, Dr. Dyle? People who are brought up rich and have plastic surgery and braces and breast implants and full-time coaches starting when they're five and personal trainers? As my grandfather used to say, that's darned white of you."

"Don't you go accusing me of racism. You're as white as I am."

"Yeah, I am. I just don't think it's something to be proud of. It's not like I worked real hard to be born white or anything."

"Fine. I'm talking to the principal. We'll see who gets the last word."

"Is detention over, then."

"Get the he... heck out of here, Matt."

"Sure, Dr. Dyle."

Matt left the classroom and hurried over to Ms. Chadra's class. With luck, he wouldn't be too late to grab a ride. Otherwise he'd be hitching again.