Time flows, and it is March, the season that the world calls spring.
Between dawn and morning, I step out of the house during that ambiguous time, letting out a long yawn.
“Yawn….”
It is the time for the first day of high school, which I never anticipated. Perhaps because of the time, the air is much cooler and chillier than during the day.
The first change I feel directly in my body since becoming a high school student: the significantly earlier start time compared to middle school.
As I leave the house and step out into the shared entrance, I sometimes see parents carrying little ones, holding them tightly as they take them to the kindergarten on the second floor of our apartment.
“You have to greet your older sister.”
Occasionally, some parents we don’t even know will make their kids greet us with a cheerful, “You should say hello to your sister!”
“Hello!”
“Yeah, hi~”
The way they bring their small hands together like tiny maple leaves and bow is so cute it feels like my heart might stop. Ignoring that would feel like shattering their innocent and delicate mindset, so I respond with an extra soft greeting, rolling my sounds more than usual.
The footsteps on the morning doesn’t differ much from when I was in middle school.
Last year’s stores that were open during the commute are now closed.
However, unlike last year’s path filled with a mix of boys and girls, this time, it is only female students.
The atmosphere is awkward as we all experience the first day of school together.
Instead of conversations, only the sounds of tapping on smartphones and footsteps quietly echoed.
In such a quiet street, the only conversations happening were between us, who lived in the same building.
“I hope we’re in the same class.”
“Don’t get your hopes up; you might end up disappointed.”
“Still, it would be nice to be in the same class!”
As we near the school, Shiyeon is burning with empty hopes. I heard that there’s a homepage where you can check if you’re in the same class, but I didn’t bother looking it up since it seemed too much trouble. After all, I’d see it with my own eyes soon enough.
And sure enough, Shiyeon’s hopes were completely dashed.
I am in Class 1, closest to the stairs, while Shiyeon is in Class 8, closest to the stairs on the opposite side. It’s not just somewhat far; it feels like we’ve been placed at opposite ends.
But now, we are no longer middle schoolers but high school students. The time of sulking because of being in different classes has long passed, and I see Shiyeon walking down the corridor with a bright face.
“I’ll see you after school!”
“Yeah, okay.”
After waving my hand lazily at Shiyeon, who is flapping her arms, I push through the front door, which feels like I shouldn’t use, and through the back door.
Once I enter the classroom, my eyes scan for a seating chart that’s likely attached to the teacher’s desk or blackboard.
In the back of the classroom, above the lockers, there’s a bulletin board. Seeing students glance at it before sitting down indicates that the seating arrangement along with the numbers are all there.
[Kim Mari | 8]
‘It’s in alphabetical order again.’
Names starting with ‘Kim’ are densely packed from number one onward. My seat is the second from the left, third from the front. The position is such that a glance from the teacher could easily land on me, and it gives off a subtle sense of pressure.
Somehow, it seems like I’ll likely be on the receiving end of questions. I sit down with a creeping anxiety and hang my bag on the side of my desk.
‘Huh?’
Right in front of where I’m seated. The first thing to catch my eye was a large machine device attached to the far left of the blackboard.
If I describe what it looks like, it resembles a gigantic hair straightener stuck to the blackboard.
That thought quickly vanished when I saw the word “Water Wash” inscribed on the sticker affixed to the device above it.
‘Do blackboards get wiped with stuff like that these days?’
Even when chalk marks are left for too long, they don’t come off easily with a cloth; I wondered if that could work instead. A desire to operate it just once nestled itself deep inside my mind, but not wanting to be labeled as the crazy girl, I remain silent for now.
After all, I will have to see it repeatedly throughout the year; I can hold out for a little while longer.
As I squint at the blackboard, I hear a cheerful voice next to me.
“Hi!”
Startled, I caught off guard by the lively first greeting that felt somewhat overwhelming.
I knew someone was sitting next to me, but I didn’t expect them to talk to me suddenly.
“Oh, hi….”
That was my first encounter with a high school friend, who would be seated next to me until we decided to switch seats. The name of my desk partner is Sung A.
With a first impression that was friendly enough to strike up a conversation, she started making friends with others even while I slumped in my seat.
During breaks, she made sure to introduce herself around.
“Mari, do you study well?”
During class when we couldn’t stray far from our seats, she began digging for information about me.
“I gave up on that.”
“I thought you’d be good at studying….”
I answered those questions moderately while quietly accepting her goodwill, as there was no reason to decline.
Looking at her, I thought… how should I put it… She was chatty, but good at studying, seemed a bit silly yet was diligent, and didn’t curse unnecessarily? She gave off an undeniable chairwoman vibe; she seemed like the type who would fit well as a university group project manager….
Ah, isn’t this a compliment?
Anyway, true to her diligent and friendly first impression, when they said there would be extra points for performance evaluations, Sung A immediately raised her hand.
Following the homeroom teacher’s instructions, she became the temporary class leader, and since there were no other candidates for the bothersome role of class president, she naturally became the president as well.
In the first lesson, we talked about what we would learn while watching the teachers introduce themselves and looking at the table of contents of the textbooks.
“You guys never saw this in middle school, right?”
“Yeah~”
Among those moments, a senior science teacher tantalizingly tapped on the machine attached to the left side of the blackboard.
As a few students responded with an appropriate “Yeah,” the teacher, smiling, pressed the button a couple of times.
Then, a sound reminiscent of a massage device resonated, and the machine attached to the blackboard began moving slowly to the right.
The spot where the machine passed was damp enough to reveal a deep green hue, replacing the light green of the blackboard.
“This is the power of science, kids.”
The science teacher beamed as if he had created that machine himself. No need to rush outside to the corridor, making a ruckus and creating a white powder that would be bad for our lungs; just pressing that button twice would do the trick.
For students, it was a beneficial introduction to the times.
Of course, not everything was automatic.
“By the way, the blackboard eraser? You have to change the water container every day, you know?”
During the closing ceremony, while lightly informing us about the school updates and ending the session, the teacher spoke about the things that needed attention with the automatic blackboard eraser.
I thought it might be one of those annoying “Do it yourself every day” stories…but…
“Class president?”
“Yes?”
“Let’s do this until a vice president is decided, okay?”
“Yes~”
As expected, class presidents and vice-presidents are the easiest targets for homeroom teachers. From a teacher’s perspective, there are no students more useful than those willing to be voluntary slaves.
“Since we’re on the topic, shall we pick one right here? Anyone want to?”
Since the mention of vice president came up, the teacher seemed intent on holding the election for vice president right away, using the closing session as leverage.
Whether it’s for performance evaluations or anything else, becoming the vice president meant every day emptying that rusty canister.
Even those who had shown a hint of interest in becoming vice president suddenly held back, finding the thought of changing that canister too bothersome and started looking around for understanding from others.
It was a field of silence, a barren wasteland.
As for me? I obviously had no intention of taking it on voluntarily no matter what.
During class, when it got dull, it’s always “class president” or “vice president,” with an endless stream of questions from the teachers.
Being called upon repeatedly but unable to answer is embarrassing enough.
Having to sit comfortably at the back and not even being able to catch sleep, the thought of being a slave for a year just for a few points in peer evaluations was unappealing.
“Alright then, shall we decide this with a game? Gather in groups of four in a square and play rock-paper-scissors. The winner becomes the vice president. The three seats beside the class president will have to be filled.”
However, deciding this has nothing to do with my opinions. This is an absolute game I do not want to lose, more serious than settling meal costs.
The dark game of rock-paper-scissors began, a whole year’s worth of slave contracts and dignity on the line.
We, seated right next to the class president, formed a group of three for the game.
Three girls who barely knew each other huddled together, an awkward atmosphere filling the space as we chanted the nationwide common phrase.
“If you don’t throw, you lose; rock-paper-scissors.”
Instinctively, I extend my fist on cue with “scissors.”
One fist, two scissors.
I won! The moment I internally cheered for my victory, the words “the one who wins becomes the vice president” came back to me.
With a mix of joy from winning and the cognition of not wanting to win, a very complicated feeling washed over me.
Ah, if I win, I have to play in the next round, right?
When I simultaneously defeated two players in the first round, I thought it was a fluke.
The first step in accepting the role of vice president: Denial.
“Rock-paper-scissors.”
In the second round, after a fierce battle, victory.
The second step: Anger and Fear.
‘Damn, what if I really…?’
Still, I held onto hope, knowing that there were two chances left.
In the third game, I easily won by beating two opponents at once.
The third step: Bargaining.
‘Right, I can just lose in the finals.’
In the final round, a tense one-on-one rock-paper-scissors game, all eyes on us.
“Rock, paper, scissors.”
I threw out paper, but my opponent also threw out paper.
Instantly, we continued with the next chant, omitting the first part.
“Paper.”
I threw out paper again, but my opponent threw out rock this time.
At the end of the two rounds, I achieved victory.
The final stage in accepting the vice presidency: Giving up and complying.
‘I knew this was going to happen, damn it….’
“Wow, you’re the vice president next to the class president? What’s your name, number 8?”
The teacher seemed impressed by the fact that I became the vice president next to the class president and exclaimed in awe.
As he called out my number and asked my name, I just felt like flipping my desk in frustration about school life and all.
The expressions from my classmates surrounding me, showing relief that “as long as it’s not me,” couldn’t have been more disdainful.
“Kim Mari.”
Sitting there looking as disheveled as a beaver whose carefully built dam was washed away, I recited my name with an expression resembling that of someone who’s lost everything.
