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her face. Elizabeth tried to speed through the doorway, with Tommy close behind her, but Ms. Diaz jabbed something into Elizabeth’s elbow. Stunned, Elizabeth turned, her eyes wide and her hand clenching the strap of her messenger bag that cut across the front of her body.
    â€œSorry, but you’ll need one of these,” said Ms. Diaz. She handed Elizabeth a bookmark that read: “Dwell in Possibility –” Emily Dickinson #657.
    Elizabeth crossed the room to join Kevin, who sat near the windows. She slid into a desk in front of him, and Tommy sat on her other side.
    â€œWhat’s up, Davis?”
    â€œHey, Kev,” said Elizabeth.
    â€œI told Tommy to kiss you for me. Did he?”
    â€œDude …,” Tommy started.
    â€œObviously not or he’d be in the nurse’s office right now,” said Elizabeth.
    â€œSo, I see summer didn’t melt the Ice Queen,” Kevin said and laughed.
    â€œShut it, Kev, or I’ll shut it for you.” Elizabeth sat back and scanned the room.
    On the largest wall, a poster of Shakespeare hung to the left. His large, pale forehead stood out against his dark, curly hair and the poster’s deep-red background. His lips smirked beneath his moustache, and his brown eyes glanced casually to the left, like he just told a dirty joke.
    To the right was a black-and-white poster of Henry David Thoreau. He wore a black suit jacket and a bow tie just below his wide-collared white shirt that was buttoned high up the neck. His scruffy half beard and mussed-up hair contradicted the outfit, which was way too uptight for someone who was a tree-hugging rule breaker.
    Between these men sat Emily Dickinson, straight and tall in a chair, her right arm gently resting on a nearby table, her left hand holding a flower, a violet maybe. She wore a dark dress with a high, scooped neck, topped with a tiny row ofwhite lace. It had long sleeves and pleats across the top and throughout the waist. Around her neck was a black ribbon edged in white, buttoned at the nape. Her dark hair was parted down the middle and pulled back tight. She stared straight ahead with her serious, dark, penetrating eyes. Her round cheeks led to full, unsmiling lips. Her pale, porcelain-like skin seemed to glow against the darkness that surrounded her.
    After everyone arrived, Ms. Diaz started to seat her students in alphabetical order. No surprises there. Granted, it was probably the easiest way for teachers to learn their names, but still. Elizabeth had been sandwiched between the same students for years. She had never been friends with either of her D-named neighbors, and considering the exchange she had with one of them on the bus, she wasn’t looking forward to what was coming.
    â€œTomás Bowles,” Ms. Diaz started.
    â€œHere,” he answered and moved to the seat nearest the door.
    â€œInteresting combination.”
    â€œMy mom’s Mexican, my dad’s English-Irish,” he explained. “You can call me Tommy. My mom hates that, by the way.”
    Ms. Diaz smiled and made a note on her roster. “I’ll be sure to use ‘Tomás’ during parent conferences.”
    Elizabeth took a good look at Ms. Diaz: tanned skin and black hair that was parted down the middle and fell below her shoulders in loose curls, almond-shaped, dark-brown eyes, and a full mouth painted deep red. She was petiteand slim, but she had curves. She wore a knee-length black skirt, no stockings, a business-casual purple shirt with three-quarter sleeves, and black shoes with three-inch squared heels.
    She was put together and cared about making a good first impression, knowing it could stick for the rest of the year. She also moved and spoke with confidence. Students are like dogs; they’d take over if they sensed the slightest bit of fear. Elizabeth knew Ms. Diaz wasn’t a first-year teacher, which was a good thing. Elizabeth hated first-year teachers.
    After a few