Chapter 1
Grade 10 students walk through the front gates like they already know where they’re going. I slow down just enough to look like I do too.
I check my schedule before I even step through the gate, just to make sure I’m not already doing something wrong.
7:30 am — Homeroom — Section 1002 — Mr. Bossman — Room 420
I follow the flow of students upstairs, even though I’m not completely sure I’m going the right way. The room numbers are big enough that I probably shouldn’t be getting lost, but I still double-check each one. 201, 202, 203… and so on.
It takes me a while before I finally realise that the first number of each room corresponds to the floor number. Room 420 must be on the fourth floor! Nice! I’ve solved a problem before even my first class.
I laugh lightly at the joke I made internally. Anyone watching would have seen me grinning at a room number. I probably look like an idiot.
I make my way up to the fourth floor.
401, 402, 403…
At the end of the hallway: Room 420.
I enter.
A few students are already sitting in their chairs as if this weren’t their first day here. They’re already talking to each other. Either they’re making friends very quickly, or they already know each other from before.
I don’t think much about it and sit in the front row by the door.
More students enter the classroom with the same confused look I had. Some enter without a word and sit down. Some ask if this is the correct room.
As the clock approaches 7:30 am, the teacher walks in immediately. Mr. Bossman. His name and his looks give off a “bossy” vibe (no pun intended). He’s an old, fat guy wearing a black suit, with a thick, long white beard and no hair on his head. The suit looks slightly too tight around him.
Wait, is that mean to say? Or think, rather.
Anyway, he also looks like he’s either constantly frowning or pissed off about something.
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Bossman begins, holding a clipboard. “I’m going to check attendance. If I mispronounce your name, please correct me.”
According to the schedule, the school gives us fifteen minutes for homeroom every day. Mr. Bossman has already used up nearly half of that time. His voice sounds like he’s intentionally putting on a fake Scottish accent. Or maybe he is Scottish.
I count as he calls out each name. There are twenty-four students in my class.
“Alright, class,” he says. “As you all may have seen from your schedule, I am Mr. Bossman. I will be your homeroom teacher and your economics teacher for the rest of the school year.”
Great. A boring teacher teaching a boring subject.
Mr. Bossman opens a slideshow on the TV screen. He says it’s where the school puts up announcements, activities, and events.
He talks in his boring voice as he clicks through the slides: a welcome message to the new batch of students, gym rules, a survey regarding the cafeteria food, other stuff that I either don’t care about or can’t remember.
He reaches the last slide and finally stops talking. The bell rings shortly after.
I look at my schedule once more.
7:50 am — English 10 — Section 1002 — Ms. Handwerk — Room 324 — P1
Students from every classroom pour out into the hallway all at once.
The group of bodies by the nearest stairwell makes my skin crawl. I look for another way to get to my next class.
There’s another stairwell on the opposite side of the hallway. It’s far, but I’d rather take those stairs than be crushed by the crowd of students.
It takes a while for me to find the classroom even though the room numbers are clearly marked.
I eventually arrive at the classroom right before the bell rings.
I sit in the front row again.
“Hello class,” the teacher says cheerfully. “I’m Ms. Handwerk. I will be your English teacher this year.”
Ms. Handwerk’s hair is so long it reaches her waist.
She spends about ten minutes talking about herself. She says she’s been teaching for twenty-two years now. She’s probably forty or something.
She asks the class where we think she’s from. I think she’s Australian. Or at least she has an Australian accent. I could tell when she said “hello.”
But I don’t answer. I don’t want to have the spotlight shine on me on the first day of school.
After that short activity, she asks the class what our hobbies are. One girl says she paints. Another mentions she bakes. A guy says he plays the piano. One by one, each person says their hobbies without hesitation. Everyone answers like they’ve done this before, like they already know how to sound interesting.
“How about you?” Ms. Handwerk asks, looking straight at me.
“Oh, I uh… I like writing poems.”
“Oh, poetry?” she says with a smile. “That’s nice. You’ll probably enjoy this class then.”
This is embarrassing. Everyone talked about their hobbies without any interruptions from Ms. Handwerk.
What makes writing stand out from other hobbies, anyway? It’s really nothing special at all. I mean, yeah, I guess this is English class, but I’m sure anyone else can write too.
Whatever.
After that whole thing, she introduces the curriculum. Now I see why she said I’ll enjoy this class; we will be studying poetry and short stories—basically literature.
I like writing poems, but not when I’m forced to write about a specific topic. I like to just write about whatever my mind feels like.
The bell cuts through the overlapping voices. My classmates have somehow already gotten to know each other well enough to be having such loud conversations.
8:50 am — Mathematics 10 — Section 1002 — Mr. Smith — Room 209 — P2
I follow my classmates as they head to the next class together. It’s as if they already have the layout of the building memorised.
I notice how some have already started bonding, a few are already close, and others walk silently.
I don’t join anyone. I just walk.
A few days ago I had told myself I would make friends here. Maybe I should start talking. I just don’t know what I’d say that wouldn’t sound forced.
The maths teacher—Mr. Smith—stands in front of his classroom, waiting to greet us on the way in.
He is tall. I’d say around 180 centimetres. He has a short white beard with no hair visible underneath his black hat.
The desks in his classroom are set in pairs, rather than single desks like in the previous two classes.
I sit in the front row again. A girl sits down next to me. We make brief eye contact, barely long enough for me to even see her face properly.
The bell rings and Mr. Smith steps inside. He immediately starts talking about maths rather than properly introducing himself. All he says is “Alright everybody, my name is Mr. Smith.”
We are already starting the first unit: trigonometry. I hate maths, but I’m good at it. I meet the stereotype of an Asian boy halfway.
Mr. Smith hands out papers before he even starts teaching. On the paper, there are ten questions. They’re all asking for the same thing, just with different numbers. Two sides, one angle, find the rest.
I already know how to do this. My old school taught me. But as I look around, I notice my classmates do not.
“Alright,” Mr. Smith says. “Raise your hand if you know how to do the questions on the paper.”
No one else raises their hand. So I don’t either.
Mr. Smith sighs. “Alright then.”
He sounds disappointed.
He starts teaching. It doesn’t help. Instead of clearly explaining each step, he talks about it like we all raised our hands earlier.
Technically, I already understand everything he’s saying, but nobody else does. He skips steps without noticing.
A few people glance at each other, confused, but no one asks.
He goes on for about ten minutes before he lets us start working.
Conversations flood the classroom immediately.
I look around me as people ask their seatmates if they understand. They don’t seem to.
Then I look to my right. My seatmate remains quiet. She is writing. She understands! Either she already knows the topic, or she’s just good at understanding even a bad teacher. Either way, that’s amazing!
Maybe I should actually say my compliment out loud to get to know her or something. But wouldn’t it be weird for some random person to compliment you? Especially since this is our first time “meeting.”
I still cannot see her face properly, but I notice her hair now. A short blackish-brown bob with bangs falls forward as she leans over the paper. She is wearing glasses too. They look almost like mine.
I look around the class once more before I start working.
I finish before anyone else in the class. So I look around again. Everyone is still working… and struggling.
I want to get up from my seat and help them, but I also don’t want to be weird or seem like I’m bragging about being “smart.”
“Wow, you’re done already?” a voice says to me, sounding almost surprised.
I turn my head toward the voice.
It’s my seatmate. She’s looking at my paper.
I nod and smile. “Yeah,” I say, a bit too quickly.
“Good at maths?” she asks, looking at me now.
“A little, I guess.”
“Sweet,” she says, glancing back at the paper. “Do you mind helping me with the last one? How do you find the rest of the angles if they only give two sides and a right angle?”
I explain it step by step, and halfway through I realise I might be overdoing it, but I don’t stop. She understands it so quickly that it surprises me. She gets it faster than I expect. I’m not sure if that means I explained it well or if she didn’t need me in the first place.
She thanks me for the help and continues working.
It doesn’t take long before she puts her pen down.
“Done?” I ask.
She nods and smiles at me.
The bell rings shortly after. I get up from my seat to hand in the paper to Mr. Smith at his desk before leaving class.
As I turn to leave, I almost bump into my seatmate in front of Mr. Smith’s desk.
“Oh! Sorry!” I say.
“It’s okay!” she says with a laugh.
Geez… that was awkward.
I pretend that didn’t just happen and walk outside the classroom and check my schedule.
10:10 am — Psychology — Section 1002 — Mr. Dickson — Room 308 — P3
10:10? Do we have a twenty-five-minute break before the next class?
I look around. Students step out of their classrooms. Some head downstairs. But there are no classrooms down there. At least, not according to the schedule.
I think it’s break right now.
“Hey,” a familiar voice calls from behind.
I turn. It’s my seatmate.
“What’s your name, by the way?”
“Oh—I’m Caleb.”
“Lucy,” she says, adjusting her glasses slightly. “Which elective did you sign up for?”
“Psychology. What about you?”
“Oh—same,” she says. “I’ll probably sit near the front again. You can come sit with me if you want.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say with a smile.
“Okay, see you there!” she says, waving and smiling.
I wave back as she walks away.
Maybe this is how it starts.
