The bell rings, echoing sharply through the cavernous classroom, signaling the beginning of class. Claudia and I take our seats near the front, sliding into the cold, hard plastic chairs attached to desks covered in faded graffiti; initials, doodles, and faint carvings of past students who long since moved on. The overhead lights hang uselessly, their bulbs long neglected, leaving the room in a state of perpetual dimness. The barred windows allow only slivers of daylight to filter through, casting faint, broken streaks across the worn desks. Our tablets provide the only reliable source of light for reading, but with their limited glow, nearly all instruction from the front of the room has to be delivered verbally. Mr. Klein stands at the front, his posture slouched, holding a stack of papers as his eyes scan the sea of nearly 200 students. He’s waiting, his lips pressed into a tight line, for the rest of the class to settle down.
I hate this. The longer a teacher stalls for late students, the more emboldened those students become to push the limits. Not that Dom would follow that logic. He, Sam, and Sabina are all in this class with me and are running late as per usual. Somehow, their absence feels louder than their presence. You’d think three students in a room this packed wouldn’t make much of a difference, but they seem to set the standard for what is acceptable for others.
Due to the lack of qualified teachers, schools operate differently to how they used to. Gone are the days of small, age-specific classes. Now, Years 7 to 9 are lumped together to learn three years of material in one combined group, while Years 10 to 12 do the same. The system crams hundreds of students into a single room with one overworked teacher for each subject. It’s an efficient method to address the shortage of qualified educators, but the overcrowding makes learning feel impersonal, like a factory line. End of school exams are more comprehensive because there are 3 years of final exams based on the material being taught that particular year. It does make the more senior students feel a lot more important… but there are clearly students who love to abuse that power too. Despite the diverse age groups, Roselyn doesn’t take science. I feel very lucky not to have that extra obstacle to overcome!
I quite enjoy science, but most of my learning has to come from the course materials and research. Mr Klein knows his capabilities better than trying to convince a crowded class of teenagers that they would rather learn science than chat with their friends. He uploaded the course outline onto the school library’s website, and it’s set out well enough for me to work my way through it when we have power.
I catch his eye briefly and there’s a flicker of recognition in his gaze. I think he appreciates my quiet demeanor. I imagine teaching this class must feel like shouting into a void. I feel some pity for him. It would be easy to go crazy in that job. Despite the noise behind me, I resist the temptation to talk to Claudia and instead keep my focus forward. Mr. Klein, standing at the front, looks younger than most would expect. He would only be in his mid-20s of age, he always sounds quite sincere and is even a bit attractive with his short dark brown hair slightly unkempt and deep brown eyes hinting at intelligence and fatigue. He’s of average height and carries himself with a quiet seriousness, though it’s clear the enthusiasm for teaching has been worn down over time. I wonder if this was the job he envisioned for himself when he graduated university. He loves science, that much is obvious… but whatever passion he may have had for teaching seems to have gone quickly!
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
A loud pounding noise cuts through the chatter as Mr. Klein slams a hand on the front desk and everyone’s loud conversations get quieter. There will never be complete silence, but a class can be taught as long as those students sitting up front and willing to learn are able to hear. “We have waited ten minutes for any latecomers, and I think it’s time we start the lesson,” he says, his voice firm but strained with patience. “Who remembers where we left off last week?”
A boy to my left raises his hand at the same time I do. He didn’t give me a chance to be chosen, launching into an answer the moment his hand shot up. “We finished by discussing renewable energy distribution and any questions we had about our assignment on it,” he says confidently. Claudia rolls her eyes beside me.
Mr. Klein nods, using the interruption to remind everybody about their major assignment. “That’s correct. We have an assignment due in two weeks and I hope everyone was working on it over the weekend. It’s worth 40% of your final grade, and I can’t emphasize enough how important that will be for university admissions or future work opportunities.” His voice is measured, but the weight of his words lingers in the air. I don’t see how it could reallyy be that important. Who in this school has the money to afford university? The United World corporation provides the distribution of energy, and the only way to work there would be through university qualifications. Being my father’s daughter won’t exactly help to get me any special considerations for an internship there. I have tried endlessly to uncover the truth about why he lost his job, why he is under indefinite house arrest, why Mum never came back… he couldn’t even give us that closure! Maybe I should ask United World directly. Just turn up at their facility and…
My thoughts get cut off as the classroom door is kicked open with a bang. It slams against the wall, silencing Mr. Klein mid-sentence. Dom strides in with Sam and Sabina trailing behind him like a self-important entourage. Their loud voices fill the room as they saunter to the back, ignoring Mr. Klein entirely. Dom grabs a football sticking out of another student’s half-zipped bag and kicks it across the room. The ball ricochets off desks, scattering papers and drawing laughter from Sam, who knocks over the same boy’s books to join in the mischief. Sabina smirks, her arms crossed, exuding a smug air of superiority.
None of them seem to hear they have been told to stay back after class. I doubt Mr Klein will bother to enforce a punishment when it comes to it.
Mr. Klein shifts his focus back to the assignment and expresses that obtaining information from different sources provides the best critical analysis and reliability of our essays. I raise my hand again. I still want good marks if only to show how different I am to the rest of the school. He looks surprised but points at me to speak. “Would interviewing one of the United World leaders in the energy distribution division make a good source of difference?” I ask, my voice steady.
A small, genuine smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Yes,” he replies, his tone brighter. “Interviewing topic experts is an excellent way to gather first-hand information. I suggest that many people try to follow the same approach to obtain reliable information for their essay.” I nod thoughtfully. Well, I don’t want that. If everyone takes his advice, it’s less likely they will say yes to giving me an interview too. I will have to try and arrange one soon.
The rest of the class drags on, with Mr Klein pretty much just reciting what is written in the textbook. Having already read this chapter, it is hard to keep looking interested and by the time the bell rings, I’m eager to leave.
