Spring comes like a sleeping sickness on McIntosh, and everything revolves around the Bradford pears in the courtyard. Teachers browse the halls like tired, peaceful bovines, calmly chewing the cud of knowledge reworded, their eyes glazed with reveries that blot out any transgressions their pupils may commit. And even students unknowingly talk of spring, conversations that once revolved around Nate-who-is-so-wonderful now revolve around the fish trees and whether Claritin works for you or not. I like spring.