Life's editor (open to editing).

1

"Melissa".
She doesn't look up.  Smiling at her lap, she seems oblivious to the world around her.
"Melissa, put your phone away."
She starts then, her mascaraed eyes lifting to the whiteboard, then to me.  "Sorry."
A single word, a sheepish grin.  I withhold a sigh.  That's the fifth one today, and it's not even lunch.  "Would you please solve this problem?"  I tap the whiteboard with my marker. 
With linear equations, it's easy to make a mistake, especially if you don't map out the steps.  Maybe you didn't get enough sleep the previous night, or maybe the trees were particularly vibrant and you looked away for three minutes.  It's simple arithmetic, really.  Just add a few lines here, switch the numbers there, and it's an addition problem.  x=-9, or the perimeter is 21.  If you understand the steps, and are in the right headspace for it, there's no going wrong.  And proof is easy.  Just retrace your steps, switch some more numbers around.  There's no disputing a proved answer, a product of non-negotiable rules.  What is will always be, and being is a truth, pure in its nature. 
Melissa walks up to the front of the class, studying the space between the ground and the wall.  Now she's uncapping the green marker, examining the scribbles on the whiteboard and then adding scribbles of her own.  Mapping out the steps.  When she's done, she looks at me.  For confirmation.  Because I'm the teacher, I'm Mr. Clayton.  The neckline of her tank top is too low.
"Go ahead and explain what you did," I tell her.  She shuffles aside so everyone else can see the equation.  Nobody's looking at the equation, they're all looking at her neckline, and the patches of skin visible in the holes on her jeans.
"So basically, I added two and five on this side, and then negative seven x to nine x on this side."
Specks of mascara lie under lashes, over eye bags.  Two buns on either side of her head, like Mickey Mouse ears.
"And then...Subtract this from that." 
She taps the marker from one side of the equation to the other.  Copying me.  In one ear, out the other.  Sixth grade is a mess.  Full of patchwork bodies and personalities born from fear.  Girls like Melissa, with jutting collarbones and padded bras, showing off every scrap of womanhood they discover with plunging tops and pieces of denim that barely qualify as jeans.  Or maybe they cover up with baggy clothes and dark colors, like Paige in the back of the classroom.  Instead of pride, or even desperation, they feel alien and fake, like they were sewn into the wrong costume.  Stitched into the seams of coarse fabric, stuck in a sandpaper reality. 
"And this-"  She gestures to the figure below her work, "is the answer". 
But wait, we can't forget the boys.  Woe is them, to compensate for their little boy bodies with big boy language.  Cussing like sailors down the hallway in their tiny voices, in an effort to get girls to notice.  Honestly, they might have the toughest time between the two, girls and boys.  It's either you still play with figurines or you went through a growth spurt, predator instead of prey. 
"Thank you Melissa."  I survey the rest of the class as she goes back to her seat.  "Did you all right this problem down in your notes?" 
I wait for them to finish jotting down notes, then wipe the board clean.  I'm not one of those teachers to erase the problem before the students can copy it into their notebooks.  Good notes lead to successful students, and successful students lead to a prosperous existence for all.  Accomplishment is a fickle thing, and my job as a teacher is to provide the most stable foundation for these young individuals as possible.  Benevolence is key, understanding is crucial, boundaries and firmness-
"Mr. Clayton?  I wasn't able to finish the notes for this problem.  Could you put it back up?"
...boundaries and firmness essential. 
I turn around with a smile.  "Use a classmate's notes," Write faster next time you underdeveloped terrapin.  "I'm sure someone is willing to let you borrow their notebook."
As I face the whiteboard again, I catch Kaydence tugging the hair of the girl in front of him.  On the opposite side of the room, Carter stares into space nursing his Gatorade.  Johanna is peeling off her nail polish and staring at the football players passing by outside the window.  And third row back, fourth seat in, Melissa is giggling at her lap again.
Ah, middle school.  What's not to love?