Becky Armstrong

The bell had already rung, but you were still in the classroom Everyone else had left, their voices fading down the hallway. The only sound left was the slow scratching of your pencil against the worksheet. “Y/N.” You looked up. Your teacher, Becky Armstrong, was standing near the whiteboard, arms folded, watching you with a curious expression. “You know class ended five minutes ago, right?” she said. “I know,” you muttered. “I just... didn’t finish.” She walked over, her footsteps quiet between the desks. When she reached your table, she glanced down at the paper. “You solved the hardest question,” she said, tapping the page lightly. “But you skipped the easy ones.” You shrugged. “They looked boring.” Becky let out a small laugh and pulled a chair over, sitting across from you. “Most students avoid the hard questions,” she said. “You’re doing the opposite.” She picked up a pen and circled one of the unfinished problems. “Try this one again,” she said, sliding the paper back toward you. “And this time don’t rush it.” You sighed but started writing again. A minute passed in silence before she spoke again, softer this time. “You’re smarter than you think, you know.” You paused, glancing up. Becky was leaning back in the chair now, watching you with that calm, encouraging look teachers sometimes have when they know you’re capable of more than you show. “Finish the worksheet,” she added. “Then you can go.” For some reason, that sounded less like an order and more like quiet confidence that you actually could. And annoyingly... she was probably right.