"Morning, teacher!"
A few students from the front rows greeted the man as he entered the room. Heads turned to watch him make his way to the desk.
Without a word, he dropped a thin shoulder bag onto the table, dragged a chair back, and collapsed into it with a sharp, squealing creak that echoed off the walls. Silence fell instantly.
He scanned the room lazily, then kicked his boots up onto the desk, nudging a pencil holder to the corner with his heel.
Plain gray T-shirt, jeans, long black coat — unbuttoned but still on — and short, messy dark hair. He looked cheap, in an honest way. The worn-out boots matched the rest of the outfit — rough, but nothing out of place.
"You can call me Eric," he said. "If you need the last name, there's a full list of the teaching staff posted outside the lecture wing. I'm the only Eric on it — won't get me confused with anyone else."
He looked at the students with the kind of gaze someone gives a ceiling fan while dozing off. Yet his voice was deep and deliberate, impossible to ignore — like an organ player sliding from note to note, steady and rich, as if shaped by years behind a microphone.
Licking his lips, Eric pulled a Lost Mary from his pocket and took a slow drag. Tilting his head back, he exhaled a tight puff of vapor, then inhaled it again through his nose. Silence held. The vapor hung around him like fog.
All eyes were glued to him. Confusion and disbelief flickered across the students' faces — like tourists at a zoo spotting a kiwi bird for the first time. His sleepy gaze drifted across the crowd, pausing momentarily on each one.
"I run the supplementary psychology courses. And I'm also filling in as the school psychologist, since, well… we're out in the sticks."
He took another pull and raised his eyebrows slightly.
"It's nicotine-free," he added, almost offhandedly.
The explanation did little to comfort the students.
"Smoking of any kind is prohibited on school grounds…"
A girl from the front row broke the silence. She had her back to Adam, so all he could see was her wheat-blonde hair. Still, her voice already annoyed him.
"What's your name?"
Eric lowered his feet from the desk and leaned on one elbow, vape still in hand.
"Kimberly Reed, Class 26. Hannibal, on the Mississippi River, Northeast Missouri."
**"Buzzkill."**
"Do you know why that policy exists?"
Eric smiled faintly and stood up.
"It's part of the tobacco-free initiative adopted in most states."
"Lovely… But there's no tobacco here. It's a nicotine-free vape."
"They're banned too."
"Then what's the point of the policy?"
"To ban cigarettes."
Kimberly folded her arms across her chest. She stood firm, her tone calm but edged with passive aggression. Eric, still composed, began circling the desk slowly.
"And why are cigarettes dangerous?"
She gave a quick, dismissive laugh. For her, it was so obvious it felt almost stupid to explain.
"Hundreds of thousands die every year in the U.S. because of nicotine. Even secondhand smoke kills tens of thousands, just from being around it…"
"Impressive. You clearly know your stats. But…" — he shrugged and perched himself on the desk — "Don't you see a contradiction here?"
"And what exactly is the contradiction?" Kimberly frowned.
"Why ban something that doesn't even align with the core idea of the policy?" Eric raised a brow.
"But cigarettes—"
"Nicotine," he interrupted calmly. "That's the danger. You know how many people die each year from nicotine-free cigarettes? Roughly zero. Most deaths come from vape users who mix nicotine with THC."
He paused. Seeing the blank looks around the room, he clarified:
"Tetrahydrocannabinol. Basically — cannabis. Weed."
"Ah."
Everyone seemed to suddenly get it.
"So, shouldn't we be allowed to smoke things that don't contain nicotine or other harmful substances?"
Silence. No one knew the "right" answer. Everyone wanted to say yes — but instinctively knew it was wrong.
"No," came a voice from the second row.
"And why's that?"
Eric stepped off the desk and began pacing slowly between the aisles.
"It's hard to prove a cigarette's really nicotine-free. Right now, we only have your word for it — and that's… not exactly solid evidence."
"What's your name?"
"Shaun Howard."
He stood up and offered his hand as Eric came close.
"Nice to meet you. You're right. Both you and Kimberly are."
Eric gave a slow nod.
"But…"
"…"
_"God, the drama…"_
To Adam, it all felt like theater. Still… Eric had a strange way of keeping his attention.
"Let's say this is a real cigarette. Full of nicotine. A product that kills millions worldwide."
Eric twirled his shimmering crimson Lost Mary between his fingers.
"Why, as an adult — someone who, past twenty-one, is legally allowed to smoke — should I be banned from doing so on school grounds?"
One of the girls had been quietly watching him as he paced, and nearly jumped when he suddenly sat down next to her with a casual smile.
"What's your name?"
"…Barbara… Barbara Vasquez."
"Barbara, what would you think if I lit up a cigarette right now? Here, beside you?"
He took another slow drag and exhaled a swirl of vapor.
"…You smoke?"
She sounded unsure. Then quickly corrected herself.
"I mean… don't you care about your health?"
"Heh. Well said."
Eric turned to another student in the next row.
"What about you?"
The boy blinked, pointing at himself. Eric gave a small nod.
"I'd say… it's your right. It doesn't say anything about you, except that you vape Lost Mary… watermelon ice flavor."
"Exactly. Now let's try the same scene — but imagine I'm in a kindergarten classroom. How would you respond then, Mr. Leather Jacket in the back?"
A skeptical student, clearly half-awake until now, sat slouched near the rear. He smirked and replied sharply:
"I'd be glad they're about to kick you the hell out."
"And why would they do that?"
"Secondhand smoke."
"What if I told them it was nicotine-free?"
The student shrugged, hesitating a bit.
"You mean… like, setting a bad example?"
"Exactly."
Eric snapped his fingers and pointed toward a nearby girl.
"And you are…?"
"Just Elsie."
"You guys should introduce yourselves too," Eric said, rising to his feet. He walked over to the student in the adjacent row and rested a hand on his shoulder.
"We're getting to know each other, after all."
"John Lee..."
The boy glanced up at the teacher and spoke so quietly Adam could barely make it out.
"And you? The guy in the leather jacket?"
"Ronald Summers..."
He said it with a weight that made Adam roll his eyes.
_"As if he could've made it sound any more self-important."_
"Wonderful. Let's get back to it," Eric continued, casually strolling toward the center of the room.
"My behavior could encourage kids to see smoking as normal. That's what a lot of adults do. And I am an adult — why wouldn't I smoke? That's what we call the _association error_. It's the same thing that happens when teens look up to someone cooler than they are. They oversimplify, link the idea of 'cool' to smoking…"
He paused, then shifted gears.
"Now imagine I'm a rock star. I hit the stage every night, puffing my vape like it's part of the show. What happens when a kid — or a teenager — becomes a fan and sees that?"
"They'll start smoking too."
"Exactly, Shaun." Eric nodded. "They'll think: if someone that successful does it, then it must not be wrong. I mean — I'm a superstar. And superstars don't make poor choices, right?"
"Even idols mess up," Elsie chimed in.
"Correct. But the issue is, when we _create_ idols, we try to copy them. We mimic their habits — especially the simple ones, the bad ones. And slowly, we start to see those habits as signs of success."
Eric raised a finger.
"That's called the _halo effect_. We see one strong trait — like fame — and assume the person is equally impressive in every other way. That's when idealization kicks in. Blind belief. Because hey — idols can't be wrong, right?"
"Where are you going with this?" Barbara asked, clearly frustrated. "We don't even know the topic of today's class."
"Fair point. Sorry, Barbara. Let's circle back."
Eric ran a hand through his hair and leaned against the desk.
"The whole point of nicotine-free school policies is to reduce the chance that kids will form false associations — linking smoking with image, or success, or power. Especially when it's reinforced by the halo effect and idealization. School is where kids spend most of their time. It's where they socialize, imitate, try things out. It's the _perfect_ place to pick up bad habits."
He paused and looked around.
"But here's the catch: this only works in a certain condition. Anyone know why?"
Silence. Then a hand went up.
"Because people don't have their own opinions?" Shaun offered.
"Exactly."
Eric nodded firmly.
"Most cognitive errors, misunderstandings, bad decisions — they all happen when a person doesn't have a solid internal stance. Something they're anchored to."
He took a step forward, voice growing stronger, more alive.
"Each of you had an opinion about my vape the _moment_ I pulled it out. Every single one of you made a choice — how you feel about it, how you'll respond to it. And my actions won't really shift that. Because at your age, seventeen, maybe eighteen — your risk of _starting_ vaping is less than one percent."
He looked around, making eye contact.
"The truth is… most kids who get into substances — whether it's alcohol, cigarettes, drugs — start around fourteen or fifteen. Right when the hormones go crazy. When your mind is a mess, and you're not sure what you want, or where your life is even going."
Eric's tone softened slightly.
"That instability creates a hunger — a need to fill the chaos with something easy. A distraction. A way to escape yourself… your problems… your family…"
There wasn't a single person in the room who wasn't listening.
Even Adam had nothing to say — not even to himself.
Something strange crept in.
It wasn't just discomfort. It was deeper than that — like Eric had, for the first time, said something he shouldn't have.
With the creak of his chair, he slowly lowered his legs from the desk.
His expression shifted — as if something inside him cracked. He looked lost. Detached.
His gaze drifted out the window.
"I tried cigarettes pretty early," he said, voice lower now. "I think I was thirteen. School had just started. My parents reminded me every single day how dangerous smoking was. My teachers too — no better. We used to have these little five-minute sessions at the start of the week — lectures on the dangers of drugs, alcohol, nicotine…"
He gave a faint, hollow smile.
"To me, it was all just background noise. I didn't even _consider_ touching a cigarette…"
From the start, Adam had seen it all as a performance — a ploy to get the class interested. Teachers tried that kind of thing often. Pretending to be modern, to "connect" with the students. He didn't mind it, really. Some of them — like Constance — actually cared. They _meant_ what they said.
But most of it felt fake.
The trendy activities. The game-based learning. The "open discussions."
It all reeked of checking boxes, not changing lives.
Still... Adam didn't know what to think now.
He looked at Eric's face — or at least, at the edge of it. Just the corner of his eye, staring off into somewhere else.
And for some reason… that was the part that convinced him it might be real.
"I remember it like it was yesterday — a bright, sunny day.
One of my school friends — he was a year older than me — pulled me out during the long break between classes and led me to the parking lot.
There was this dark green Toyota, already rusting underneath, and a few students of different ages standing around. Looked like they were just hanging out, chatting, sometimes reaching into the car to grab something.
As far as I know, they were pouring beer into lemonade cans and selling it right there.
We walked up, made some small talk. A couple minutes later, I was already inside.
There were these big red cartons in the back seat.
My friend handed over a ten-dollar bill to some guy up front — dude looked twenty-five at least — and the guy dropped a full pack of cigarettes in his palm.
I didn't pay for anything. But one of the guys standing by the car slipped a cigarette into my pocket without saying a word.
When I asked how much, he just waved me off.
I found out later he was fifteen at the time.
At first, I actually thought about tossing the cigarette.
But then I forgot about it… or maybe I just didn't want to think.
A month passed, maybe more.
I was home alone. And I felt... off.
Not just sad or tired — something deeper.
Back then, I didn't even _have_ the vocabulary to describe what I was feeling.
I just knew I felt like crap. Like absolute garbage.
And for some reason, that's when I remembered the cigarette.
I dug it out of my jacket, walked over to the stove where we kept the matches, and lit it.
I coughed like hell. Spit a little. But the second one…
The second hit was _perfect_.
Nothing since has ever compared to that one.
I didn't start smoking because I thought those older guys were cool — though maybe that crossed my mind.
It wasn't because I thought I couldn't get addicted — I _knew_ the risks.
I'd heard all the warnings.
I didn't even care about those edgy film characters with cigarettes between their lips — the ones I wasn't allowed to watch.
It started because I was trying to _run_.
Hide from whatever that awful feeling was — the one I couldn't name or control.
For years, I regretted that first drag.
The second one even more.
I remember looking out the window, feeling that sudden lightness — like a weight had been lifted from me.
But that cigarette tore down the wall.
The one that stood between me and alcohol, between me and weed, between me and every other piece of crap I'd ever wanted to try but didn't dare.
And once it came down, I couldn't stop any of it.
Years of rehab followed.
Therapy.
My own pathetic attempts to rebuild a life — every single one a failure.
Night after night, I'd lie in bed telling myself, _"I'm not like them. I'll quit tomorrow."_
But that day never seemed to come."
Even the creak of the desks had completely faded away.
Those sitting in the back rows felt as if they were visiting an old childhood friend.
Like right now, each person was sitting across from a schoolmate they hadn't seen in years.
Just the two of you.
Only your words, only your thoughts.
It chilled you to the bone.
Everyone felt a kind of ache for someone they'd known long ago but had abandoned.
Even if you never regretted losing touch after graduation, now you felt pitiful for it.
"I lost a lot," Eric said quietly, "but there was no moment of revelation.
I waited for something to happen — something that would finally reach me — but it never came.
There was a visit to a psychologist, a support group, my own journey into self-discovery, figuring out the rules I live by.
In the last ten years, I trained as a psychologist, earned a teaching degree, but most importantly — I moved from running away to trying to understand.
That's the heart of psychology: understanding.
We help people realize what's happening to them, how their brain works, what it wants…"
A profound silence fell.
Eric stood up and walked toward the students.
"I want each of you to come closer. As close to me as you can."
He moved to the first row, where Kimberly was sitting.
Those behind stood and started packing their backpacks.
"No need to stand. Just come sit closer."
Sitting in the front row, Eric asked Kimberly to shift so he could see her.
"And what if I don't want to?"
Even Ronald — who looked like the type who would stubbornly refuse — was surprised by her reaction.
He was already standing in the aisle, while his friend awkwardly stood up, realizing she'd actually decided to listen.
"What's your name?"
"Reza."
She slouched back, resting her arm on the row behind her, staring at Eric like she'd known him forever.
Adam briefly wondered if Eric had ever personally offended her before.
By rights, he should have been one of the class advisors, so theoretically these could have been his students.
"Reza, why are you here?"
"I don't have to listen to you."
"What school are you going to?"
"Rockford."
"What are you studying?"
"I'll decide after my first year."
"So, psychology doesn't interest you?"
As they traded sharp remarks, everything seemed to freeze.
"No. I don't give a damn about poking around in other people's brains."
Ronald smiled slightly and leaned toward Reza, whispering something to her.
She rolled her eyes and stood up.
"Fine. I've got nothing better to do anyway."
"Thanks, Ronald."
Everyone settled in closer, their eyes fixed on Eric.
He looked over the group and smiled.
"I'd like you to sign something."
***
"Adam, we'll need to talk about your studies later. Come by the club room 163 on the third floor on Wednesday evening, at seven. Okay?"
Constance placed a hand on Adam's shoulder, looking worried. They stood in the big hall, surrounded by chatting students and teachers, discussing plans for camp, school, and college applications. Everyone was checking the schedule for events planned over the six weeks of summer.
Adam shrugged off Constance's hand and looked at the concerned teacher with tired eyes, grimacing almost absentmindedly.
"Alright."
He took the sheet of paper from Constance.
"I'll give you a personal schedule for the electives tomorrow. Spend at least ten minutes in each one. If you don't like it, you don't have to go anymore."
"I'll go, no problem, Miss Constance. Thanks."
Turning, Adam headed toward the door out of the hall.
_Damn! Hope I fall asleep tonight. Could've at least been tomorrow..._