Fatal Flaws

Chapter 4

Orientation seems to drag on forever. The professor who is speaking is an older woman. I can't help thinking, looks as though she hates her job.

She's wearing a long green, purple, and gold dress, which hangs down close to her ankles. There are random different size jewels and beads spread out across the top portion of it. The jewels glisten each time she walks into the strips of sunlight coming in from the windows.

She has pinned up her short gray hair perfectly in place, not a single strand astray.

A lonely white rose barrette is clipped above her right ear. This helps to show off the sour expression she wears plastered across her face.

Wrinkles heavily mark the corners of her beady, dark eyes. At some point, she must have enjoyed life. Her age lines tell a story of laughter, love, and happiness. I'm assuming life has worn her down over the years. Years and years of dealing with disrespectful students and parents. I know I could never be a teacher. Not to children or adults. People subject them to overwork and under-appreciation. No one realizes how hard and demanding their job is.

Thick round gold-framed glasses sit along the bridge of her nose. Every time she glances down at her notes, they slide a little lower. This causes her to have to keep repeatedly stopping so that she can adjust them. After shoving them back into place, she takes a few moments to find the spot she had previously left off on.

Clearing her throat before starting back on her lecture. Her voice is monotone, making this whole situation even worse. It's like I am listening to a robot speak.

I'm honestly trying to pay attention. The longer her lecture continues, the harder it is becoming.

I pinch myself in an attempt to try to wake up.

My eyes begin drifting around the classroom. Her voice is fading farther away as I lose focus on her and begin to study the room we're in.

It's a smaller classroom. There are only ten rows of seats, five on each side. Big blue plastic bucket seats line each row. They're similar to the ones at the old movie theaters back home. These are more comfortable though, despite being made of plastic. Each seat has an armrest on the right side, ending in a little desktop area for writing. The left is wide open.

Our teacher is now standing at the front of the class, upon a high-raised platform. Her upper body is the only part of her visible due to a dark-colored podium. A small microphone has been attached to its front. The speaker increases the volume of her voice, making her much harder to drown out.

Beside the platform is an older wooden desk. Stacks of paper cover almost every inch of it. Each stack has been neatly organized. She has jammed various pens and pencils into an oversized apple container resting on the corner.

"BEST TEACHER" is scrawled across a miniature chalkboard attached to the front of her desk.

As she is speaking, a large white projector screen drops down behind her. Without missing a beat, she begins pointing out different slides. Every slide has been created using a different color, with several paragraphs on each. Several pictures are located here and there. It's almost comical, but the few pictures breathe life into this drawn-out, never-ending speech.

Once again, my focus shifts back toward the wall.

Pictures of presidents and first ladies are hanging in bright green picture frames. A few more portraits of random objects have been hung here and there. Several of the pictures surround two huge world maps that are displayed at the back of the room. Each one is labeled differently and in multiple languages.

A giant stand-up globe sits alone in the corner. A thick layer of dust covers it. I have to suppress the urge to run over and give it a big whirl. I would love to watch the colors swirl by faster and faster.