There's a mug on my desk in Room 214.

It's white, with blue writing. I had a hundred of them made, and I gave one to every teacher at my school. Then three thousand more, one for every BrightPath tutor in the country. The writing says:

Kids don't need answers. They need someone who believes they can find them.

Preston told me to put it on a mug. So I did.

It's the most popular thing BrightPath has ever made. Parents ask to buy them. We give them away instead.

At that dinner in Tribeca, a table full of very rich people laughed at me for being a teacher. They thought it was the smallest thing about me.

They were wrong.

It's the biggest thing about me. It's the whole reason the rest exists.

Preston said, “Those who can't do, teach.”

I've thought about that a lot since then.

The truth is, those who can, teach. And then they keep teaching. Every Tuesday, after school, with a failing kid from Scranton. Every morning in Room 214, with a boy in big glasses who thinks he's bad at math.

And once in a while, one of them also builds something.

But she never forgets which part of her is the important part.

I'll be in Room 214 tomorrow at eight-fifteen.

Someone's going to be stuck on fractions.

And I'll wait.