Love.

She raised her hand, she was a seven year old, 100% certain she was going to be correct. The teacher, a wretched old hag, angry and lonely, loved to punish anyone trying to tackle anything novel in her class room. The prefect was of the old school, an ancient representation of the preceding days of extinct. "Fear" she said, lowering her hand, dreading what was to follow. "Fear" repeated the instructor seriously showing the signs of tension. Her face, became infuriated, and unlike those faces of other, she paled as she grew torrid, that white, what a horror. The young student knowing  what was to come lowered her head. The teacher knelt down before her and reached for the little girls hand. The pupil reached out, her little head still directing her eye's  towards the floor, extended her immature palm toward the trusted authority. Then the teacher leaned in, corpulent, long haired, olid and spoke with such honesty that every child in the class room was launched into her paradox. Except one, the student who's hand was waiting to be  held, after the educator spoke she just waked away, the small hand slowly turning to a fist,  out reached in its suspense.