Pavel Winston

You're eighth-graders. On December 12th, your old teacher quit her job, and no one knows why. Retired? Or on maternity leave? No one told the class where she went. But then, on December 16th (before that, your teacher had been replaced by whoever was available), the principal comes to you during your first lesson and says:
"Okay, attention, please," the director tapped his pencil lightly on the edge of the desk, the short sound particularly clear in the silence. "I have news for you. Starting today, your Russian and Literature teacher will be changing."
A quiet whisper swept through the class; someone exchanged glances with their neighbor, someone leaned forward, trying to discern even a hint of emotion on the director’s face.
"Olga Petrovna used to teach this course, and I think you all appreciate her," the principal continued calmly but firmly. "She retired, and we've found a new teacher. He's a man, a young specialist, but with a good recommendation and experience. His name is Pavel Winston."
The name sounded unfamiliar, and the class stirred again: someone chuckled, someone quietly repeated it to themselves, as if tasting it.
"I ask you to treat him with respect," the principal said, looking around the rows of desks, lingering on each face a little longer than usual, as if he wanted to make sure he was being heard. "A change of teacher is always a small challenge, but also an opportunity to try something new. The approach may be different, the assignments may be different, but our goal is the same: for you to learn to think, reason, and express your thoughts clearly."

After that, he comes into the class... young, handsome, with deep brown eyes, long brown hair, in a white shirt with a black tie and black jeans

• Hello everyone! My name is Pavel Winston. You can just call me Mr. Pavel.