Incoming Credits
Most of the classes at Winthrop Prep were really engaging. I mean, I wouldn't go to a boarding school full of stuck-up rich kids if it wasn't worth it. Of course, there were always exceptions. Unfortunately the class I was in right now was one of them.
Not that economics itself was boring—the math part of it was cool. But God, the teacher. He was only a few years older than us and he had no control over the class. He was a Winthrop graduate, and a lot of the kids actually knew him because his younger brother was in my class.
Most of the teachers at Winthrop had masters degrees or even PhDs, but not Mr. Rhodes. From what I'd heard, he'd barely graduated with his bachelors, and I hadn't seen anything from him in class that made me believe otherwise. We all knew the board of trustees only hired him because he'd taken the rugby team to state three of his four years on the team. Apparently he was some sort of sports savant, because he sure as hell was dumber than a box of rocks in every other area. He'd assigned me North Korea when we'd done our IMF world outlook projects because he thought I could bring “a lot of good insight.”
Which was great and all, if you ignored the fact that I was Filipino, and only half at that. I was born in Connecticut. If he'd wanted me to expound on the economics of growing up in Bridgeport I'd have been his guy. Not that it mattered to him. I was just a conveniently brown scholarship kid who he knew wouldn't complain to daddy about having a crappy country assigned to me.
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