class

The class is quiet.

I like quiet but I do not like these people, and I do not like the quiet of the people I dislike.

They’re sitting in front of me, three people bowed in irritating silence as their breath gasps quietly onto the faux wood, their pencils grazing the paper beneath them and the material of cheap hoodies scratching. In some ways I wish to become more tolerant of people, I become irritated at some very slight things and it greys my view of their character.

I see them in the hallway and I grimace.

I pretend to type up Art Critical notes as they complete what appears to be Maths. They keep looking up but they do not look at me. I am thankful for that. I am not an angry or easily unsettled person by any means, I act generally very civil and use my quiet nature I have possessed ever since primary school, to my advantage. One of them is writing viciously across her paper and she keeps looking up, I want her to stop. I am polite and I work moderately hard, I am not a noticeable personality. When I leave this school, no one will remember me. Half of my teachers barely know my name. I think I am ok with that.

I am unsure of the paintings I am studying for Art, they are abstract and messy, half-finished and scratchy. If I was to turn my portfolio containing such pieces to the exam board, it would most likely be batted back into my face, scratchiness and all. My teacher repeatedly knocks her jewellery against her desk, it jumps and chimes upon the surface. She shuffles paper now and asks someone at my table if they are alright. No one answers.

I have just come from a music lesson, in which I played my violin to a tedious piece in a tedious book. Repetition of bars, the clumsy movement of fingers, the rubbing of my pale hand up and down the fingerboard as I shift position. It is always the same. The constant anxiety of doing something wrong poisoning my chest, the same. My music lesson interrupted a quite uninteresting Human Biology lesson, a course I can see myself receiving a very unimpressive grade. However, it was revision, and I need as much revision as I can get.

The girl in front of me laughs into her breath in the quiet and whispers to someone else at my table, she is doing geography. She bites her nails, the sound of her mouth unpleasant and combs her fingers through her hair. I think she likes noise. As for me, you can barely hear my breath, silently inhaling and exhaling through my nose. My figure is straight and unmoved – the boy in front drums his fingers – and the only noise I let ring into the open air is the clicking of my keys as I type. I like quiet.

The grinding of chairs in the classroom below can be heard, the distant male voices travelling through the halls. The undefined thumping of feet everywhere, the class is finishing. I pretend to do work in the next tab one last time.

I save this post,

and I publish.

Eilidh.