English

He walked in well aware that, for the majority of his students, death was preferable to afterschool studies. Lucky for them, Stanley Harless had been slow to read, slower to write, and letting snails win in the race to grasp basic math; he got it. "First, we talk," Harless said, coming in to (Everybody Hates) English and setting his backpack on the ground, "about the zombie apocalypse. What if all of the movies are wrong? What if that crap's a slow creep and it's already started? How would we know? What would our next steps be?" One or two of the kids lit up; the rest eventually followed. "Okay, I'm hearing you and it sounds like a basic plan could come together, so ... now write it out. First, text the last idiot you texted and ask them about the zombie apocalypse; see if you get something back. This is the outside world and we are headquarters; what kind of skills are they bringing to the table that we can use ... or are they just bait for the traps?" everybody laughed as Harless guided them towards the next exercise. "What's your criteria for evaluating what they're claiming as a skill or talent? What are you gonna do if you know you've been tolerating them, but their friendship cannot be trusted? You gonna use supplies on them?" A hand shot up. "Hold on," Harless said. "If you wouldn't give 'em supplies, what does that say about your friendship ... and connection ... and community? GO." Lots of hands and lots of comments and a lot of hesitation to text that last idiot as directed. The hour went quickly and Harless told them to stay smart and guard their hearts as he left for the next class; it would be enough for him if they all came next week.