I've taught fifth-year Christmas leavers last thing on a Friday

Host: The school corridor was quiet except for the faint hum of old radiators and the distant squeak of sneakers on linoleum. The winter light hung low, pale gold seeping through windows streaked with fingerprints and condensation. The smell of chalk and pencil shavings lingered in the air — the scent of a thousand afternoons that had tried, and sometimes failed, to teach.

Inside Room 12, the walls were lined with posters: Periodic Table, Maps of the World, a hand-painted banner that read DREAM BIG! but sagged slightly at the corner. Desks were scattered, chairs askew, paper balls in the corners like forgotten ideas.

Jack stood near the teacher’s desk, sleeves rolled up, the ghost of exhaustion behind his eyes — the kind that only teaching could create. Jeeny leaned against the window ledge, coat draped over her arm, smiling as she watched him gather his things.

Jeeny: grinning “Johann Lamont once said, ‘I’ve taught fifth-year Christmas leavers last thing on a Friday afternoon. Basically, if you can face that, you can face anything.’”

Jack: laughing tiredly “Amen to that. She should’ve added, ‘and if you survive, you’ve earned sainthood.’”

Jeeny: laughing softly “I don’t think sainthood covers that kind of chaos. That’s more like… purgatory with homework.”

Jack: smirking “No, purgatory has more structure.”

Host: The radiator hissed, exhaling a tired sigh as if it, too, had survived another week. The light outside dimmed, the early evening swallowing the playground in slow motion.

Jeeny: sitting on a desk, swinging her legs “You know, that quote always makes me smile. Not because it’s funny — though it is — but because it’s true in the way that only teachers understand. Those last lessons on a Friday… they’re not about education. They’re about endurance.”

Jack: nodding “It’s the quiet war of willpower. You, forty restless teenagers, and the clock — the deadliest of all opponents.”

Jeeny: teasingly “And every one of them convinced that your class is the only thing standing between them and freedom.”

Jack: grinning “Which makes you the villain in their epic story.”

Jeeny: “Until ten years later, when one of them bumps into you at the supermarket and says, ‘You were my favorite teacher.’”

Jack: pausing, his voice softer now “Yeah. And for a second, all those Fridays don’t feel like failure anymore.”

Host: The light flickered, dust motes swirling in the fading glow. Outside, laughter from a few lingering students drifted through the cracked window — carefree, untamed, the sound of youth outpacing time.

Jeeny: “Lamont’s quote always makes me think about resilience. The kind that doesn’t make speeches or headlines. The quiet, unglamorous kind — the kind you build from patience and repetition.”

Jack: leaning against the desk beside her “The kind that holds the world together. Teachers, nurses, parents — all the invisible scaffolding that stops everything else from collapsing.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. Facing that Friday afternoon isn’t about bravery — it’s about commitment. You show up even when no one’s listening, because you know one day, someone might remember.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Or at least remember that you didn’t give up.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, loud in the quiet — its hands crawling toward the weekend with dignified slowness. The desks, scratched and inked with teenage graffiti, looked like tiny battlefields — proof that learning was never tidy, and neither was life.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something profoundly human about it — the way teaching tests your patience and your faith in people at the same time. You spend your days trying to light fires in minds that are already halfway out the door.”

Jack: quietly “And yet, you keep striking the match.”

Jeeny: softly “Because sometimes it catches.”

Host: The sun finally dipped below the window line, and the room filled with that dim afterglow of fluorescent light — the kind that flattened shadows but couldn’t quite erase them. Jeeny looked around, her voice tender now.

Jeeny: “When Lamont said you can face anything after teaching that class, she wasn’t just joking. She meant that the hardest moments — the ones that test your patience, your purpose, your sense of control — those are the moments that forge you.”

Jack: “Yeah. If you can find grace in chaos, you can find it anywhere.”

Jeeny: smiling “And if you can keep believing that what you do matters — even when it feels like it doesn’t — you’ve already won.”

Host: The radiator hissed once more, and then went quiet, as if granting the day its rest. Jack walked to the window, looking out at the darkening playground, where the faint outlines of goalposts stood like monuments to forgotten games.

Jack: softly “You know, every Friday I tell myself it’s the last one. That I’ll quit, find something easier. But Monday morning comes, and there I am again — chalk on my fingers, hope in my pocket.”

Jeeny: gently “That’s not madness, Jack. That’s calling.”

Jack: turning to her “Calling doesn’t pay well.”

Jeeny: smiling “No. But it pays long.”

Host: The wind outside picked up, carrying the faint scent of rain. Inside, the classroom felt warm now — worn, yes, but alive with the echoes of laughter, frustration, and all the fragile beauty that comes from trying.

Jeeny: standing, pulling on her coat “You know, maybe that’s what Lamont was really saying. That if you can keep showing up for people who don’t yet understand why you’re there, you can face anything — because you’ve already learned what real service looks like.”

Jack: smiling softly “Unconditional, unpaid, unending.”

Jeeny: grinning “And unforgettable.”

Host: The lights dimmed, the room now bathed in amber shadow. Jack picked up the last stack of papers and turned off the switch.

Outside, the hallway stretched long and quiet — the kind of quiet that only comes after chaos, sacred in its own way.

And as they stepped into the corridor, Johann Lamont’s words lingered, soft but defiant:

That true strength isn’t forged in triumph,
but in tolerance —
in the ordinary, relentless acts of those
who keep showing up
even when the world stops watching.

Jeeny glanced back at the empty classroom — the desks, the silence, the faint smell of chalk — and whispered with a small, proud smile:

“Maybe the bravest people aren’t the ones who fight wars.
Maybe they’re the ones who teach on Fridays.”

Host: The hallway lights hummed softly,
and outside, the rain began again — steady, rhythmic, human.