The bell rang and students began filing out of the classroom. Normally, Naomi was one of the first to the door, impatient to leave, his creative writing class. Today, she is sitting in his office and pouted waits to speak at the end of Mr. Albert, Michael, his favorite pupil. “It’s so unfair!” She thought. The elder stared idly at the green sign on his desk, ordering them to stay after class to discuss their verdict. “Why should he care if I n ‘m not the sale?
“Naomi, come here please, we need to discuss your performance in my class,” said Albert, Michael left.
Naomi all but stamped on the front of the classroom, more like a spoiled child of a young girl of 18.
“Have lunch next or do you need a passport for your next class?”
“Lunch,” was the sullen reply.
The professor of creative writing took Naomi’s last mission in two days too late and incomplete. A bright red D, she looked at the cover, and it seemed to be in black on each side for more than red ink.
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