My first class was algebra 2. When I walked through the door, the first thing my teacher said was, “Are you lost? Looking for algebra 1? It’s right down the hall, honey. First classroom on the left.” My face must have betrayed my emotions, because the next thing my teacher said was, “I’m sorry. I was assuming based on the number of freshmen that come up in here thinking it’s algebra 1. You are looking for algebra 1 though, right?” I could feel my face getting a little bit pink. “No. I am in algebra 2. I was in advanced math in sixth grade, so I moved on to algebra in eighth. I am not at the same level as my fellow freshmen. Thank you for trying to be kind, but this is where I’m supposed to be. I guarantee that I will make straight A’s in your class.” Ok, so maybe not straight A’s. I embellished a little bit much on that. But I didn’t say that. The teacher seemed to guess what I’d left unsaid. “Don’t overwork yourself, honey. This is a difficult class for a freshman like you.” I noticed for the first time that she spoke with a definite southern drawl, sounding just like those old western or country or whatever it is folks on the shows Opal used to watch. I started to get a little irritated. This teacher is underestimating me. And I don’t like it. I’ll show her later. Right now, I’ve got a class to pass. Later, the teacher introduces herself as Mrs. Brennard. She tells us she has 2 kids, who happen to be my siblings’ age. As the bell rings, I decided that I have mixed feelings about this teacher.