Anna noted that there were more empty seats than she remembered from the welcoming ceremonies of her youth. The Bridgestone Scandal - as the papers called it - had cost the school some students. This was both good and bad news for Anna. The class sizes would be smaller now, but her students would be kids of Bridgestone alumni, carbon copies of stubborn alumni who placed tradition above all else.She could already pick the problems out by glancing around. A blonde girl with diamond earrings sat with her feet up on the seat in front of her, texting on her iPhone while the school secretary gave a quick rundown of campus access points for new students.Anna got up and walked over to the girl with the phone.“Excuse me,” she said quietly. “But the presentation’s started and you need to put that away.”The girl looked up at her with disdain, her eyes moving up and down.“What are you? A senior?”“No,” Anna said. “I’m Miss Fowler, the new eighth grade teacher.”“My teacher?”
