Tybalt

Adolescence is a perilous time—whether it is the adolescence of a man, or of the whole race of Man!
The physics teacher, Howard Dax, dismissed the class. He picked up a felt-covered block and erased the diagrams he had drawn on the blackboard. He noticed with annoyance that the lines were shaky, and in one place was an irregular star where the chalk had broken because of his exasperation at his pupils—or more exactly, one particular pupil.
When the blackboard was clean to the corners—Howard Dax was a very precise man—he turned around and saw that the particular pupil was still sitting at his desk. He was a thin boy of fifteen, called Mallison, whose dark, wavy hair was too long. It rose in a kind of breaker over his forehead, and he had sideburns cut to a point. His expression was neither sullen nor impertinent, but Dax had always had the feeling that Mallison was concealing intense boredom and only listened to him perforce. He was sure that the narrow, rather handsome face was on the verge of sneering. But there had never been quite anything that he could put his finger on. The boy was definitely not good at physics, yet he wasn't at the bottom of the class. The thing was that he gave the impression of being above average intelligence. He obviously could do very much better if he wanted to. Dax was convinced that he despised physics, and school in general.
Yes? Dax said. What is it? He tried to make his voice sound natural and casual.
Mallison stared at him impassively for a moment. Then he said, You don't like me, Mr. Dax, do you?
My dear boy, I neither like you nor dislike you, Dax said. He could feel his hands beginning again to tremble slightly. Damn adrenalin! I am merely trying to teach you elementary physics. Why do you ask?
Why do you give me such low grades? Mallison said, but with no sense of urgent curiosity.
Howard Dax thought that the boy's manner was altogether too adult. He didn't expect deference from a modern teenager, but neither did he like to be spoken to in such a man-to-man way. No; come to think of it, man-to-man wasn't quite the phrase. It was off-hand. And yet it was artificial: Mallison never spoke in this way to his contemporaries. He usually talked like a ... what was it? Hipster?