A wave of heads rise and descend without rhythm, their speech like that of scattering sand on the beach, with the occasional guffaw and raucous cackle. Footsteps slowly close in on the door to the classroom. Inside the classroom, a human sea The noises from their mouths rise in volume, now resembling the chattering of seagulls. The handle turns, and the heads all turn to face the front, their shouting softening to hushes. 

The blackboard at the front of the classroom is a pedagogic art piece. Smears of white gather on the blackboard, one blob here, another up there. The teacher does not notice as the sides of her hands rub furiously at it, ruining a formula, leaving behind only the traces - “b2-4ac”. Screech, scritch. Her hand flies across the board, as if striking her pen against it could ignite her students’ passion for learning, but she is instead met with granular clouds of chalkdust. The wavy banners of rainbow and sparkles framing the blackboard also surround walls and boundaries of the classroom. The ones closer to the window have long since faded, in a graduated waterfall of colours. 

Across from the blackboard, is the teacher’s desk. It sits in a dark corner, with the window being just a  finger’s width out of reach. The desk is composed of a rich brown, dusted with maroon splotches, and swirls of an almost golden ochre. Flecks of sunlight diffract from the glass pane onto the smooth surface, illuminating the scattered arrangement of papers, pens, and books. The window was ajar, giving enough space for a sliver of wind to pass by. The invisible whisps passed by the edges of the desk, agitating a few loose pens, and pencils. Dull rolling ensues, and a pink highlighter clatters, hitting the ground. Wrinkled edges of students’ papers flutter under the ministrations of the breeze, revealing a name, and occasionally a grade written in bold red. Suddenly, a stronger gust blows in, and pages of a book flap open in a flurry, coming to rest with a few gentle rustles. A warm glow is cast on it, surrounding the inky letters in a cream-coloured bed.

Rows of rectangular desks fill the classroom. At the front row, the students are considerably poised, with somewhat straightened backs, and a lively gleam in their eyes, but seemingly directed somewhere beyond the board. They listen quietly to the teacher’s ramblings, at times hands labouring away on their notebooks, crafting line after line of letters, at times staring blankly in front of them. Neatly pressed uniform sleeves crinkle as their arms shift around, fidgeting with a restrained restlessness. 

Back a few rows, the restlessness only increases in intensity. Small noises begin to creep out from amongst the students. Sighing. Groaning. Whispering. Yawning. Giggling. A few actively move around, ever so close to getting out of their seats. Many legs undergo continuous form changes under their desks, displaying a scene like that of an increasingly turbulent sea. Their gradually slumping upper-bodies tell a different story, with the energy sapped out of them. The students next to the windows are free of the constraints felt by the ones closer to the other sides of the classroom. Soft blue skies shine their way instead, the dazzling blue and fluffy white reflected in their eyes. These particular students mostly lean forwards onto their desktops, shoulders in a relaxed sag. If one paid close attention, they would be able to detect a faint melody, reminiscent of rolling hills under clear skies, being hummed, and which would be accompanied by the faintest tell-tale signs of a smile. Wherever their heads are, be it to their friends in the neighbouring desks, to their scuffed shoes tip-tapping away on the floor, or to the scratched wooden walls, they are all bound to be twisted away from the teacher’s figure. 

In the back of the classroom, near the lockers, cabinets and bins are strange shapes in the form of humans. Some are so sunken into their chairs, that from an eye level view, it looks as though their figures have disappeared. Others have faces planted onto the desks, trails of drool streaking down their chins and down the sides of their desks, suffocated grunts escaping from their agape mouths. A few are chowing down on their snacks, fingers smeared with an artificial orange dust, grease surrounding their mouths. Lips smacking in delight, the noise layered under many other frequencies of sound. 

Tack, tack. The teacher finishes off her last line of working on the board, leaving the classroom to retrieve something. Her back disappears from view and the class erupts into chaos, jumping around, and pumping their fists in the air for no reason other than to cause hullabaloo. Whistles sound from the tops of the mish-mash symphony of shouts, exclamations and laughter. Hands flap and wave around in a celebratory dance, and feet leave the ground, revelling in the feeling of liberation. 

Click, clack. Click, clack. Heels approach the classroom door, and the students settle down into their chairs, and ground themselves. Feet placed firmly on the floor. Their heads directly down or facing upfront. Lips pressed into a thin line. Only the clicking of pens and rustling of pages remain.