Marianne Laucella faced the same difficulties as every attractive first-year teacher, and then some. She struggled to gain the respect of her students, who often attempted to treat the PhD candidate like a peer instead of an instructor. She realized that the first year is often accompanied by more stress than the already meager pay is worth. Beyond all of that, the hardest part of the job was just trying to wear clothes that prevented the students from staring at her with their eyes so wide and mouths so open that they resembled common fish.

She had tried sweaters, long dresses, cargo pants, and even, in the dead of winter, snow pants and a parka, but it seemed as if their imaginations worked harder than their brains. Eventually, she decided that her best bet was just to wear pantsuits every day until they got so desensitized to her that she might actually be able to teach some US history. The worst part about it all was that some of her classes were actually pretty great; the AP students were involved, they asked questions, and they even got to see a lighter side to the famously strict and no-nonsense teacher.

The honors class was a mixed bag, but it was really her seventh period, the small group of senior boys who had been placed in their own class by Principal Smith in an effort to “straighten them up on their path,” that caused the trouble. It wasn’t that Marianne didn’t believe in the students; well, actually, it was. Just in the first week, she had caught Jose Hernandez, the leader of the group and the one Mrs. Laucella had personally suspended, taking pictures of her while she was writing on the whiteboard. Then, when she had gone to take a drink of her coffee, she had found alcohol in it. If it were up to her, she would’ve had them all expelled for the illegal possession of the substance and for trying to sneak it into their teacher's drink. Unfortunately, after an investigation, they were unable to determine which student it had been, and Principal Smith insisted that they couldn’t expel all of them, so she had to settle for a generic apology.

But the break was over, and this time, Mrs. Laucella was determined to make a difference.

It was with that attitude that she found, on her desk Monday morning, a Teacher’s Guide to Being Helpful. Marianne rolled her eyes; another prank, she thought, except this one was a bit odd. Even though the guide seemed to be dedicated to a whole pamphlet of advice for teachers, there was only one rule in it:

Good teachers always try to help.

At least it was true. She wouldn’t have taken her job as an educator if she didn’t believe in the potential people had to always do their best. She took the strange pamphlet and placed it inside her right desk drawer so that she could forget about it until the end-of-year cleanup, where it would inevitably end up in the trash.

“Hey, Mrs. Laucella,” said Jose as he swaggered into the room with his oversized hoodie and baggy jeans, which seemed to be the style of this generation. She didn’t care for it, as she thought it was quite unprofessional. Following Jose were the four other troublemakers in the class: Peter, whose wealthy parents had kept him out of trouble for the most part until this year; Lyle, a short kid without much of a brain; Terrence, one of the only students in the class she would consider possibly gifted, but who had zero drive; and Jackson. Jackson made a habit of attempting to use AI to complete personal assignments, but he was lazy about it. Mrs. Laucella had asked Jackson to write a personal narrative about his upbringing in their small town. He had turned in a generated essay detailing his childhood spent surfing the beaches of Malibu, California. It was a dead giveaway, considering Jackson had lived in this landlocked state his entire life and had never traveled west of the Mississippi. They were truly a helpless bunch, except, of course, she had to help them, as it was her job.

"So, for today’s lesson, we are talking about the state of modern America," she began. "How did we get here? Who are some of the biggest factors of the 19th century who have led us to this post-modern capitalist hellscape which seems inescapable?"

Lyle raised his hand and asked, “Is the 19th century 1900 or 1800?”

Terrence responded quickly, “It’s 1900, dumbass. You shouldn’t be in this course; they need to move you down a grade.”

Lyle responded, “Oh yeah? Well, we’re in the same class, so who does that make the dumbass? Dumbass.”

She slammed her hand against the table. “That’s enough! I will not have that language in my classroom. Do you both understand me?”

They all looked startled, which was the intended effect. So she got back to her lesson. “The late 19th century was a time of the relentless pursuit of ambition, wealth, and greed.”

Jose raised his hand in the back of the room. This ought to be good, thought Mrs. Laucella. She pointed at Jose, who lowered his hand slowly to the ground as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“I’m sorry, Miss, I’m confused.”

“What’s got you confused this time, Jose?” Besides how to dress properly, she thought to herself.

“Well, you had mentioned language earlier. Something about inappropriate language in the classroom. But I’m confused as to what counts as inappropriate.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Jose,” said Mrs. Laucella. “I’ve heard the way you speak in the hallways. You know exactly what inappropriate is.”

Jose’s gaze was soft and sly as he said, “But seriously, Mrs. Laucella, I could really use some help.”

“Well, if you really need help,” Mrs. Laucella said before stopping herself. She put a finger to her chin as if thinking, before finally saying, “Then you should have just said so. An inappropriate word is anything that we normally wouldn’t say in the classroom.”

Everyone looked slightly confused at her explanation. She was only trying to help, but there was only so much she could say within the confines of the classroom. They all looked especially confused except for Jose, and she assumed that they must’ve come to the same conclusion as her: that it seemed like a bit of a silly question. Still, she was an educator, so it was her job to help her student.

Jose said, “I’m still a bit confused. I think it would really help me if you said some of the words we weren’t allowed to say, and then we will know exactly what we shouldn’t say.”

“Well, Mr. Hernandez, if that’s what you really need.” She walked toward them, moving between her desk and their chairs so she would have their full attention. “I will say them once so you know which you cannot say, and then they are never to be said again. Do you all understand me?”

“Yes, Mrs. Laucella,” they all said in unison. Mrs. Laucella was glad she had their attention; she would show them she was no pushover like most of their other teachers.

She said, “The inappropriate words are ass, bitch, shit, cunt, fuck, damn, and dick.”

They all started laughing, which made sense because it was unusual for their teacher to be cursing in the classroom, but she was just helping out a student. When Jose finished laughing, he said, “Excuse me, Miss, I didn’t get that one in the middle. Could you help me out and say it again?”

“Cunt,” she said with a smile, happy to help.

The rest of the lesson went by as intended; in fact, the students seemed more engaged than they had previously, as they asked a number of questions. At first, it was mostly just Jose, but he seemed to start a trend as the rest of the students started asking for help as well. Between lecturing, reprimanding, and answering, the class flew by. She did have to help more than usual, though.

For example, on the end-of-class pop quiz, Lyle asked for help with the answer for number nine. She struggled to try and hint at the biggest reasons for the stock market crash, but she couldn't find the words, so she ended up just whispering the answer to him directly because she couldn’t leave him without proper help. A similar situation happened with Jackson, who seemed particularly determined to drop his pencil as much as possible and was always asking for help as if it wasn’t right beside his leg. The worst of it was, of course, Jose, who kept forgetting the inappropriate words so much that eventually he asked if she could help him out by using one in a sentence. So, of course, she did, and the whole class seemed to get a kick out of it as their prim and proper PhD candidate teacher called Ma Ferguson a “fucking bitch.”

That night, she was just happy to get home to her husband, John Laucella, a lawyer working at the local Power Agency. They had met in the college library, where she had fallen in love with John's dopey disposition that so often directly contradicted her own. The only time he ever showed any sort of backbone was when he was in the courtroom or after a courtroom loss, where he would bring his work back home with him.

Today had been a particularly bad loss, as Marianne had heard over text, but she wasn’t expecting him to walk into the room like Charlie Brown without even a hello, heading straight for the couch.

“Excuse me,” she said, standing in front of him as he turned the TV on. “Your wife is wearing your favorite plaid pajama set, and I don’t even get a hello at the door?”

“I’m sorry, honey. You’re right. It was just a terrible day at work. To be honest, I could just really use a beer.” He put on a little pouty face, which she laughed at. She would never in her life grab him a beer from the fridge while he sat down, as if she wasn’t also working all day only to come home to work on her dissertation.

“Yeah, okay, and I would love a pedicure and a vacation to France. We both work so we can afford those things we love, just like you can afford to get up and get a beer. I had a hard day at work today too, but I came home and went straight to my dissertation.” She had already started walking away from him now. He sighed and put his head in his hands, realizing he had poked the hornet's nest.

“Look, I’m sorry. I guess I was just saying that a beer would help, not that I needed you to get me a beer.”

She stopped where she was.

“Well, if a beer would really help…” She trailed off, her eyes glazing over slightly. She stopped, turned, went down the stairs, and, in a movement that would shock the world, brought a beer over to her husband, who sat with his legs up and mouth open. “Here. Just don’t make a habit of it, okay?”

“No, of course not!” he said, almost too quickly. “I mean, of course a beer a day would help anyone in a rough spot, especially handed by a beautiful lady like my wife, but I know not to count my blessings.” He took a deep swig, took her hand, and attempted to stare into her soul. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” she said as she turned to go work on her dissertation.

The next morning, Marianne woke up with a strange sense of clarity, though her memories of the previous evening felt slightly fuzzy around the edges. She moved through her morning routine with mechanical precision. She showered, brushed her teeth, and selected a navy blue pantsuit that was sharp, professional, and entirely unexciting. It was her armor, or so she told herself, against the chaos of seventh period. She poured her coffee into a travel mug, kissed a sleeping John on the forehead, and drove to school in silence.

When she arrived, the building was still quiet. She unlocked her classroom door and sat down at her desk, enjoying the few moments of solitude before the bell rang. Almost instinctively, her hand drifted to the right desk drawer. She pulled it open, intending to throw the silly pamphlet away, but instead, she found herself opening it. There, beneath the first rule about helping, a second line of text had appeared in bold, black ink.