"And that, my teenaged youth, is the purpose of reading. To increase your knowledge of the world, educate yourself, and deepen your thinking," the passionate English substitute speaks broadly with her hands, moving her arms dramatically.

"I hope you will further apply this knowledge to your daily lives," she gleams, her eyes a bright blue, greatly contrasting against her dark skin. "Hemingway, Shakespeare, Christie, Rowling, Dickens, Fitzgerald--among countless others--all possessed great imaginations, and they continue to fuel the imaginations of others with what they have written. Although, at the time, many great writers faced ridicule (not unlike most artists), they continued to provoke their passions--"

The bell interrupts her animated lecture.

"I hope you will all do the same," she speaks, taking a breath, returning to reality. "You are dismissed."

The students exit. I listen to their murmurers as they do so.

"She is quite brilliant. What a remarkably complex thinker."

"...possibly the most qualified substitute educator we have had..."

"--how enlightening. To think of the torment they must have faced..."

"I quite enjoy learning of the history behind classic literature."

The irony of this situation is so rudely obvious it nearly slaps me across the face. The ignorance of my peers, and my educators, is simply nauseating. How can they fail to realize the similar situation I am in? This greatly adjutates me. And yet, at the same time, I find the discussion rather comforting.

To think, decades from now I may be the one people speak of with such empathy. I may be the one looked up upon, if I succeed. At this point in time, my fellow citizens ridicule and taunt me, but I must continue to fuel my passion, and I must never give up on my stance. However, I cannot help but feel frustration at my lack of recognition for my actions. I exhale audibly.

"Mr. Riverton?"

The substitute educator stands before me, her dark, course curls falling across her shoulders. She smiles at me slightly, her lips full and glistening. Her eyes are bright and cordial, as though she wishes to speak with me.

"I am leaving," I speak, rising. I do not wish to invoke further conversation with my educators, due to their blatant ignorance.

"Mr. Riverton I believe this young woman wishes to speak with you," she says, gesturing to the door.

A girl stands there, arms to her sides, holding my leather shoulder bag in one hand, and a notebook in the other. Her long black hair cascades down her shoulders to her abdomen; her eyes painted with shimmered powder, a deep violent to compliment her studded sneakers and elbow length arm warmers. She glances at me shyly, her expression serious, hinted with fear. I stare in disbelief.

"Sommer?"

A feeling of panic suddenly washes through my core. I rapidly gather my belongings and rush toward her.

"Have you gone mad?" I mutter softly, glancing across the corridor. Thankfully most students have entered their classrooms. Sommer stands still, firmly staring at the ground. She hands me my shoulder bag without looking up. Taking her wrist, I pull her from the classroom and into the hall. She resists, tearing her arm from my grasp.

"Come now. We must retreat to my dormitory," I speak. She glares at me from behind her hair but follows as I walk down the hall.

Avoiding all possible interactions with students and educators, we weave through the corridor, nearing my dormitory door. Voices trail through the walls, getting nearer. I break into a sprint.

"Celeste you are inclined to your own opinion, however, I do believe--" the speaker stops. "Metro? Is that you?"

I do not turn to face him, highly aware of the boy standing behind me. I exhale in frustration.

"Yes Julian."

"What in God's name are you doing? Who is this?"

I glance beside me, realizing Sommer has turned around. She pokes my side anxiously. I turn.

"A mutt girl?"

Julian dramatically steps toward us, Celeste cowering behind him. He studies Sommer, returning his glance to me, then studying Sommer once again.

"What ridiculous face paint," he speaks bitterly. "You are in a highly established, upper-class learning institution; it is extremely disrespectful to dress with such extravagance."

Sommer's cheeks redden. She bites the corner of her lip.

"She was unaware. She has never been here before," I respond calmly. He smirks at me.

"I wish you would allow the girl to speak for herself," he says.

"She is mute."

"Mute?" He glares suspiciously. "No matter. She is clearly not deaf. Go on now," he speaks to Sommer. "I am educated in sign language."

"She does not know sign language," I remark.

"How foolish!" He scoffs. "A typical mutt; completely oblivious to the world around them. Whatever is she doing here?"

I am uncertain of how to answer. I open my mouth to speak but do not have words to respond.

"Did you not hear?" Celeste steps beside Julian. "Metro said she was new."

Her response takes Julian and I aback. He returns a blank stare.

"New? What is the significance?"

Celeste sighs dramatically.

"Are you entirely ignorant to your surroundings? She is a new worker."

"I do not follow." He loops his fingers through the orange curls on his scalp.

"Did you not hear of the new arrangements made?" Celeste continues, motioning her arms. "When a new lowerclass worker is hired, a student must tour the individual around the school."

"What is the purpose of that?" Julian glances suspiciously at Sommer and me. I do not believe there is any truth to what Celeste is saying, but I remain silent, attempting to appear emotionless.

"Is it not obvious?" Celeste speaks, laughing slightly. "This way the mutts can gain respect for us upperclass." She rolls her eyes. "Come along now, Julian. We have Calculus to attend."

A mixed expression of embarrassment and confusion reflects across Julian's face. He walks down the hall, glaring at us as he passes.

"I am in your debt," I whisper to Celeste as she trails behind Julian. She does not react, keeping her eyes to the floor until they have turned the corner.

I drag Sommer into my dormitory.