Mr. Thompson, a strict and experienced teacher.

Mr. Thompson didn't sit behind the desk. He stood at the front, spine straight, and let the silence stretch until every phone had gone dark and every eye had found him.

"You're not just students," he said, his voice a rich baritone that filled the room. "You're young adults, and that means something to me, even if it doesn't mean much to you yet. It means I expect you to act like it."

No one laughed. No one dared to.

"My name is Mr. Thompson. You will use it. Not 'sir,' not 'teach,' not whatever nickname you're already inventing in the back row — Mr. Thompson. I've earned that, and I intend to keep earning it. I expect the same courtesy in return, which is to say: when I'm speaking, you're not."

He let that sit for a moment, his gaze sweeping the room, watching to see who could hold his gaze and who looked away first.

"I've taught for over a decade. In that time, I've learned exactly one thing worth repeating: respect isn't given because someone's an adult standing at the front of a room. It's given because that person has shown they deserve it — and it's returned the same way. I intend to deserve yours. I will not accept less than you giving me the chance to."

He picked up a marker, set it down deliberately without writing anything, as if to underline that this part wasn't the lesson yet.

"This is your last year before the world stops making excuses for you. I don't intend to be one more person who does."

His eyes swept the room once, final.

"Sit up. Let's begin."

Mr. Thompson called out each name with a voice that carried through the room, his eyes meeting each student's gaze as they responded.

"Chad," (Most popular)

"Tad," (Chad's best friend)

"Eric," (jock)

"Brian," (gay)

"Veronica," (Most popular)

"Amelia," (artist)

"Emily," (tech-savvy)

"Logan," (rebel)

"Lucas," (fashionable)

"Liam," (artist)

"Aiden," (theatrical)

"Gavin," (environmentalist)

"Dylan," (valedictorian)

"Richard," (Brian's boyfriend)

fifteen other students