Mom stood in front of the class, removing her trench-coat, scarlet-faced, as she wore the grass skirt and coconut bra per Mr. Wilson’s demand yesterday.
“Alright, class,” Mr. Wilson called out, “You’re probably wondering why your glass of water of a teacher is wearing such provocative attire. Fret not. For you see, through no fault of your own, I’ve been noticing a lackluster performance in this class. So to boost morale, she’s going to give you a treat. She will perform a belly dance as I ask a few questions that’ll be on your next test. There’s a prize per each correct answer.” This is bullshit. What kind of principal is this? This is how you improve on productivity? I hope you burn in hell for this, you son of a bitch.
He plays some music and points to mom who begins her dance, still red in the face, but trying her damnedest to hold herself together.
“First question,” he says, reading a cue card, “What is density?” Everyone’s hands rocket in the air except mine. “Hmm, Saints,” he called out, pointing to me. I don’t say a word. “Okay, someone who knows,” he scans the room, “Willis.”