On the last day of third grade, all my classmates and I huddled onto a carpet much too small for children of our size, waiting for our teachers for the next year to be announced. There was an obvious consensus about the best teacher. Students screeched in excitement when they saw their name on Mr. R’s classroom roster or slouched their shoulders in disappointment if they saw their names elsewhere. My best friend and I found our names on Mr. R’s roster. That was the only confirmation I needed. The fourth grade would be the best year ever.
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