**Personal Diary Entry**
Year 11B had gone through four English literature teachers in as many months. One left for maternity leave, another quit after just four weeks. When Miss Eleanor Whitmore walked incalm, neatly dressed, youngthe class exchanged glances. *Another one. She wont last.*
The first lesson was a test from the start.
Right, open your notebooks she began.
Didnt bring em! someone shouted from the back. Laughter.
Maybe introduce yourself first before teaching us? another sneered.
Fine. Miss Whitmore, she replied evenly. Now
Miss *Whiteless* more like! a girl jeered.
Smells like she raided her nans perfume cabinet! Snickers grew louder.
Someone played donkey noises on their phone. The class erupted. While she wrote on the board, a paper aeroplane hit her back.
She turned.
Gonna cry and quit like the last one? a boy whisperedjust loud enough for her to hear.
A loud yawn. A textbook clattered to the floor. Others joined inbooks dropped, chairs scraped, someone openly scrolled TikTok.
Then, Miss Whitmore did something unexpected. She perched on the edge of the desk and spoke softlyso plainly it cut through the noise.
A year ago, I wasnt a teacher. I worked in a cancer ward for teenagers. Kids your age. Some just wanted to live till prom. Books, poems, even *talking* mattered to them.
The room stilled slightly.
One boy17, sarcoma. We read *Pride and Prejudice* aloud because hed lost his voice. She paused. He held the book even when his hands shook. Said, Wish Id cared about lessons before. Id give anything to sit in class nowno IVs, just normal.
The silence thickened.
A girl in the next bed dreamed of school. Just *being* in a classroom. Miss Whitmore looked up. Youre living their dream. Yet you act like life owes you something.
I wont beg or scold. I know what this time costs. If you want to waste itcarry on.
She straightened the pile of exercise books, adjusted her glasses, and opened the register. Not another sound was made that lesson.
After that day? No one mocked her again.
