Standing like a prison guard in the crowded high school hallway, Principal Clare Donavan held tightly to her red coffee mug.
"Strait to class," she was shouting over the chatter of kids. "You'll have plenty of time to chit-chat at lunch."
William Schultz, a short, plump man around the age of twenty or so came behind her now, and cautiously tapped her on the shoulder. It was his first year teaching. The school had hired him to replace Mr. Croce, who had taught woodshop there so long he carried a perminate scent of sawdust and pine glaze.
"What?" Clare turned around. "Oh, Mr. Schultz, how are you this morning?"
"I'm fine, Mrs. Donavan," Schultz said showing a shy smile. "And you?"
"Alright," she answered tiredly. "What do you need?"
"I want to show you something," Schultz told her. "It is something one of my students made. He'll be taking it home today."
Clare showed a thin, polite smile.
"I'm sure it is lovely," she said, "but I'm afraid I am very busy today."
Schultz's eyes dropped.
"Oh," he said. "That's a shame. It's such a beautiful pigeon house, with all these little stands for the pigeons, and with such incredible detail."
"A lot of the birdhouses that come out of your class are gorgeous, Mr. Schultz," Clare said, still wearing the thin smile.
"This one's a pigeon house," Schultz corrected her.
Clare's eyebrow scrunched up.
"Why?" she asked. "There are no pigeons around here."
"Because Marius made it a pigeon house," Schultz told here a bit sharply.
"Marius?" the principal said. "Marius Hale?"
Schultz nodded.
"That kid's a punk," Clare said. "I am deeply sorry you have to deal with him as well, because I do nearly every day."
She sighed.
"Some of these kids," she went on, "just aren't worth coming to work everyday, Schultz. Everyone knows they'll never amount to anything."
William Schultz looked at her long and hard, suddenly despising the woman.
"You ever think that's because we never expect them to amount to anything? We never tell them that they could amount to anything? We treat them like a waste of our time?" he pointed out.
"Look," Clare said taking a sip from her mug. She sighed as she swallowed.
"I know you're fresh out of college, and you still have the idea in your head that all children have potential as long as we're kind and understanding to them as teachers. I'm telling you now to drop that. Time and time again, you'll only be disappointed in these no-good teens when that's exactly what they turn out to be."
Schultz bit his lower lip.
"Well we might at least ask," he said taking a deep breath, "what kind of bird the house is for."
With that, he walked away.
Behind him, Clare mumbled to herself, "a birdhouse is a friggin' bridhouse."
Then she carried on with whatever was much more important than Marius's woodshop project.
Twenty-seven years later, Principal William Schultz stood in the crowded high school hallway.
"Get to class," he calls over the students. "We have no time to chat."
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