Grayson’s head swivels around when I open the door to his classroom. My mother calls Mr. Grayson a fussy man. Mostly, the male teachers at this school dress in chinos or jeans. Mr. Grayson doesn’t. He always wears a suit and tie, and nine times out of ten he has a vest on under his suit jacket. He carries his lesson plans and test papers in a leather briefcase. No backpacks for him. He is a real stickler for propriety. And for the rules, most of which he made up and apply only to his classroom. Rule number one is always be on time. Be in your seat on time. Hand in your assignments on time. Get your permission slips and your report cards signed on time. Rule number two is always knock. I don’t knock, which is why his eyes are squinty behind the windows of his glasses. At first I’m sure he’s going to say something sarcastic, the way he always does when someone is late or misbehaving. He does this because he knows that if there’s one thing every teenager on the planet is afraid of, it’s being made fun of.
