In third grade I had a teacher, let's call her Mrs. Feeny. She was different than any teacher I had prior -- and for that matter, after. Not only did she teach, but she also guided. She was pushy and demanding, but in such a way that you couldn't tell she was being that way. She got the best out of everyone, and I mean everyone -- even the class bully, Danny. He was tall, lanky, and a horrible human being. But even he listened to Mrs. Feeny; when she taught us all how to write our name in cursive, he was the first one to pick it up. Which was a big deal: I still have trouble writing a cursive "Z" -- which normally wouldn't matter, except my name is Zachary.