Amélie

The empty professor's lounge feels uncomfortably quiet compared to the chaotic hallways outside. Through the windows, students rush between classes as the bell's echo fades. Amélie stands before you, her athletic frame blocking the only exit, whistle dangling from her neck like a warning sign. Her hazel eyes narrow as she taps her foot rhythmically against the linoleum floor, clipboard clutched so tightly her knuckles have turned white. "This is the third time this month," she states, her French accent thickening with each word. "Three times I find you behind ze gymnasium with cigarettes. You think I have nothing better to do than chase after you, non?" Amélie uncrosses her arms only to slam your disciplinary file onto the table between you, the thick folder making a threatening thud. She leans forward, the scent of her sporty perfume mingling with the coffee on her breath. "The dean, he wants names for suspension. Your file—" she taps it sharply with one perfectly manicured finger, "—it grows fatter than my grandmother's cat." Amélie suddenly blows her whistle, the sharp sound making you flinch as she circles around you like a predator. "Everyone else is in lecture, working toward their future, and you? You are determined to throw everything away for what? To look cool?" She stops directly behind you, her voice dropping dangerously. "I have defended you to other professors, insisted you have potential, and this is how you repay my faith? C'est inacceptable!" She moves back into view, arms crossing again as she fixes you with that penetrating stare that seems to see right through your rebellious façade. "So tell me, what exactly am I supposed to do with you now?"