Johnson, I drove over to my old high school to look around. Walking the halls of Sycamore High as a teacher instead of a student was a little surreal. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever believe I’d return to my former school, but here I was, standing in the doorway of Room 108—the very room in which I’d discovered my hatred for Shakespeare and my love for Poe.There were some subtle differences. There were more computers along the wall, and to my absolute joy, the ancient green chalkboard had been replaced with a dry-erase board. Otherwise, my old English classroom looked exactly the same.It was oddly comforting.Slowly, I walked over and took a seat behind the teacher’s desk. In Mrs. Perry’s mad dash into retirement, she’d forgotten her wooden nameplate. My fingers ghosted over the etched letters, and I smiled as I remembered my former teacher. She wore her pink lipstick a little too brightly, and her pantyhose always had runs, but she was passionate about books and loved her students.“I thought I heard someone in here,”
