“Welcome to our last history class together this year,” he says.

The people around you cheer like they have just won their independence.

That was in the 1700s, you think as you roll your eyes. A grin grows on your face. You peer across the room to your best friend, Amy.

She’s rolling her eyes at you. “They’re so stupid,” she mouths.

You nod and silently reply, “Only one more class.”

Mr. Todo scratches his nails on the green, ratty chalkboard. Everyone covers their ears when they hear the shriek.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” he says as he wipes his dusty hand on his pants. You can tell how often he wipes his hands off daily by the white dust covering his grey pants.

Mr. Todo is one of the older teachers. His hair is completely grey, his glasses cover most of his face, and he is very old-timey. After this class, he will officially be retired and move to sunny California. You would have expected Florida, but maybe that is just a stereotype.

He turns on the projector hanging from the ceiling, “I have one last presentation for you. It is one about your future.”

The class groans. What could be worse than a power point during the last 40 minutes of school? You decide to let the smell of comfort take you away one last time.

You can smell the grease from the pizza entering the mix through the rusty vent. You can smell the oil and the basil and the spices and herbs and the bread. Oh, the bread. The garlic hits your nose like a punch, but you love it.

Your uncle makes the best bread. He slices it the perfect way, spreads a thin layer of butter over top, smears on a layer of freshly pulled and minced garlic, and covers that in a thick layer of mozzarella. You can feel your mouth watering at even just the thought of it.

You can hear your name being called and snap out of your daze, “Yes?”

“What is your plan,” Mr. Todo asks.

You stutter, “For-For what exactly?”

The class laughs and you can feel the tips of your ears turning red. He shushes them, “Your plan for the summer once school is out, young Watson.”

You hate teachers calling you by your last name. You would specify that on the first occurrence in each class, but most teachers continue to do it in spite of your asking. Your father’s last name was Watson, and you hate being reminded of his passing away. It has been five years at this point, but you still miss him. His name haunts you like a ghost. His name reminds you of the better days with your family intact back at home in Chicago.

You take a deep breath. It is not worth getting into a discussion about on the last day. You look at your teacher. Unlike most teachers, he seems at least semi-interested.

“I’m traveling to stay with family,” you inform him.

“Okay,” he replies turning back to the class. “Anyone doing something fun.”

It takes all of your strength to not let your jaw drop to the dusty tile floor. You decide to forget about class and go back to the vent. What is no longer tomatoey goodness smacks you in the face. You recognize the abomination to your nose: Asian soup bowls.

They must be selling anything they have left.

You turn away from the vent and look towards the wall closest to the door. The wall is practically covered in posters. Posters about history. Posters about sports. Posters of quotes. Posters about everything. Your eyes trace the headache-inducing paper until you reach the clock.