Dear Mr. Roberts, How are you? I am great! (If you delete the madness that was my life this week.) But I suppose you do not care for that… which is why you would not see me when I asked for you two days ago in the office. I digress. I am, in fact, a sinner. I have no excuse for what I did, sir. No at all. But because I am shameless, I’ll make one anyway. So here goes; I’ll build my case. In theory, I believe I’m a decent teacher. I can explain information concisely and quiet a class with a stare alone. But creating a great relationship with my students? Not so much. We went to school together, sir. You and me. You know me and my social ineptitude. I’ve been told I smile like death itself. My jokes are not for the faint of heart. Which is probably why you’re the only one who laughs. You’re rotten humor itself. But anyways, I’ve been trying new building exercises with my students. I try to talk to them more outside of the classroom and ask them about their feelings despite not even knowing my own. And you know what I realized? Food is the answer. Food. Is. Everything. So I promised a pizza party if everyone got higher then a 69% (haha) in the test. I didn’t expect much. You think I have the resources to buy pizza? You think I would spend my damn money on processed cheese? But apparently I had to freaking find some because no one got under 69. Those rascals are smart and they don’t even know it. Needless to say, they loved me that day. So I scrapped some cash together, had a party for them. And you know me, I saved a box for the staff. Especially for you. But there was this one kid. He’s shy, no one really talks to him. And you know how brutal kids are; no one gave him a slice of the pizza. And all the other boxes were gone… so I offered him. Mark my words, I said, ‘You can take as much as you want.’ He’s small, so I expected him to take one or two. Boy starts shoving slices down his nap sack like life depended on him. I didn’t let it show on my face, but I asked him, “Who are those for?“ He smiled, said, “My mom, my dad, my aunt, my uncle, my grandmother and my grandfather, my brother and my sister.” It was an 8 slice pizza. Those are eight people. I was about to ask him to stop, because , well, it was my personal box! His family could get food somewhere else. But instead, I asked, “But what about you, you didn’t take one for yourself?” He smiled and said, “I did.” “But you just said those are for your family.” “They’re inside me.” I started thinking of every triply anime I could and backed up only a little. Kudos to me. “What?” I asked. “They’re dead. I will eat in memory of them.” I couldn’t tell him anything. So I left, pizza-less, confused about if he meant he ate them and killed them, or if they just…died. But he smiled so sweetly, so I don’t know. I’m not about to ask that to a kid. So I apologize, for I could not save you a slice like you hoped I would. I am gravely sorry for this transgression. And tell you’re sister she’s free to send me postcards. Sincerely, Hanna Banana