We Are the Lions
Meagan Noel Hart
Adolescent hormones saturated the unairconditioned gymnasium. The first big game was around the corner, and Principal Crowley wanted everyone riled.
“We are Lions! We are The Pride!” chanted the assembly, their matching uniforms heaving up and down.
I numbed the pain by making eyes at the math substitute across the gym, his biceps peeking out of his polo. I imagined running my fingers through his asymmetrical gray sideburn.
It was too hot; none of this was helping.
As Crowley’s final reminders for a safe and puritanical celebration we could all be proud of muddled out of the speakers, I was already rearranging my lesson plan. This rollicking only guaranteed four periods of restless tweenies swiping left on education. YouTube would reduce my efforts.
