"Eza and Jenny have scored the highest marks."
The teacher's voice rang through the classroom. For a moment, the noise stilled — then came a soft wave of whispers, surprise and curiosity curling through the air.
Eza grinned, her ponytail swaying as she straightened her posture. Jenny, beside her, smiled too — small at first, then brighter when she saw Eza's expression. Their copies rested neatly on the desk, the red marks of well done glinting in the afternoon light.
A few students turned to look at them. Some smiled, some just stared.
From the back bench, Julie peeked out, her eyes wide with mock awe.
"Top scorers again? What do you two eat, numbers for breakfast?"
Jenny laughed, the sound light and unguarded.
"Maybe you should try it, Julie. Tastes better than noodles."
Eza tilted her head, smirking. "She'd still get confused whether to multiply or chew."
Julie gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "That's mean!"
Anny leaned forward from the next row, resting her chin on her palm.
"Don't fight, geniuses. Leave some marks for the rest of us or the report card will look like a horror film."
The small group burst into giggles. The tension that had hung over the class moments ago melted into a soft buzz of laughter.
Then — the classroom door creaked open.
The math teacher stepped in, her sandals tapping sharply against the floor. The laughter died almost instantly. She placed her books on the desk, her eyes scanning the room over the rim of her spectacles.
"All right, everyone, enough talking. Open your books."
Chairs scraped softly. Pages flipped.
Jenny and Eza shared one book between them. Their shoulders nearly touched. The faint smell of chalk and paper filled the air.
The teacher turned to the board and began writing equations. Her handwriting was brisk, sharp — the sound of the marker against the board cutting through the quiet.
"Now," she said, capping the pen. "I want you all to solve question eleven."
Eza immediately leaned forward, pen in hand, her lips moving silently as she worked through the numbers. Jenny, beside her, read the question carefully, her brows drawing together.
She began writing — slowly, tracing each step, making sure it made sense. The rhythm of her pen was steady but unhurried.
Eza's pencil, however, moved fast, smooth, like she already knew the path.
Jenny paused halfway, checking her calculation, her tongue slightly pressing against her lip. She adjusted a number, then wrote again.
When she looked up briefly, she saw Eza's copy already filled halfway through.
Eza's glance flickered toward Jenny's notebook — quick, assessing — before she looked away again, expression unreadable.
---
French Class
The afternoon light slanted through the high windows, cutting soft golden shapes across the desks. The air smelled faintly of chalk and the sharp tang of whiteboard cleaner.
A woman stood at the front — a local guest, dressed neatly, her hair tied back. When she spoke, her voice was smooth, the words unfamiliar and melodic.
"Bonjour, mes élèves," she greeted, smiling.
A few students echoed her hesitantly. Some giggled.
She began to read from a small storybook — her accent lilting, every r rolling like a hum.
Jenny sat near the middle, her pencil poised but unmoving. Around her, the class murmured along, tracing each word on the page.
She tried to follow, eyes darting from one line to the next. The sentences blurred together. The rhythm of the teacher's voice seemed too quick, too light to catch.
Jenny leaned closer to Eza. "Eza… where is the teacher?" she whispered, her brow furrowed.
Eza pointed gently at the paragraph, her fingertip landing halfway down the page.
"Here."
Jenny's gaze followed the movement — carefully, as if afraid to blink and lose it again. She nodded, whispering a small, "Thank you," before trying to catch up with the words being read aloud.
But the teacher's tone danced too quickly again, skipping over phrases Jenny hadn't reached yet.
"Eza," she whispered once more, tapping her pencil nervously against the desk. "Where is the teacher now?"
Eza exhaled softly, not impatient but distant. She leaned forward and pointed again — this time not tracing the words, only placing her finger on one, the exact spot.
Jenny's eyes locked on the word as if it were a lifeline. But as the reading continued, the line shifted, the sound of the foreign syllables tangled together, and the class turned another page.
She hesitated — wanting to ask again.
Her lips parted. Then closed.
She could hear the others answering when the teacher paused to ask questions. Eza's voice, calm and sure, floated above the rest.
Jenny stayed quiet.
When the teacher smiled and said, "Très bien," to the class, Jenny looked up, smiling faintly too — even though she hadn't understood what it meant.
The sound of the language lingered in her ears long after the class ended — foreign, mysterious, and strangely beautiful.
As students began to pack their bags, Eza turned to Jenny, her tone casual.
"You'll get it soon," she said. "It's easy once you listen properly."
"Yes! I will."
---
English class, but the teacher was absent.
"Do you know how to braid hair?" Eza asked, her ponytail high and perfect.
"Yes, I do," Jenny replied softly. She lifted a lock of her own hair. "This—" she said, a little proud, "is done by me."
Eza, leaned forward, her elbows resting on her desk. "Then you can do ours!"
"I have a idea, how about we do each other's braids?" another girl added— that was Julie, "I have brought comb," her laughter always came too quickly. She waved a pink comb like a small trophy.
Jenny's fingers dropped from her hair. "I don't want to. Our hair can get messy."
Eza blinked, tilting her head. "She said she brought comb. Don't worry nothing will happen."
"I still don't wanna." she softly said, her voice was low and hesitant.
"You told me you know how, right? If it gets messy you can fix ours."
"We can do it in the bathroom," Eza said, brushing her bangs aside.
Jenny lowered her gaze, eyes fixed on her shoes. "I don't want to," she repeated, quieter this time.
"Come on, what's your problem?" Julie scoffed, rolling her eyes. She shifted in her seat, crossing her arms impatiently.
Eza leaned closer again, her voice sharp now. "Why? You don't know how to do it right?"
Jenny swallowed. Her face felt hot. "I do know," she said, almost whispering, "but I don't wanna."
Before the silence could stretch further, the teacher entered the classroom, the click of her sandals sharp against the floor. The room straightened instantly.
She sat on her chair, adjusting her glasses. "Today," she began, placing her books down with a thump, "we'll continue from the previous chapter. Eza, tell me how many questions we did yesterday?"
"Ma'am, we did till question seven," Eza said quickly, "and you said you'd check our copies."
"Thank you. Alright, we'll start with question eight."
The room filled with the sound of scribbling pens. The teacher's voice rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and pages turned. Eza's hand moved swiftly, her letters small and neat. Julie kept up too, her handwriting confident.
The others in the classroom, some were copying and some were taking down almost perfect notes.
Jenny's, in contrast, trembled. She paused at every few words, mouthing the spellings, her brow furrowed.
When she couldn't keep up, her eyes darted toward Eza's notebook. For a moment, relief softened her face—but Eza, sensing her glance, quietly pulled her notebook closer and covered it with her arm.
Jenny froze. Her hand hovered midair, then slowly resumed moving. Letters formed unevenly, words missing. Her paper looked like a patchwork of guesses and silence.
The bell rang, shrill and sudden.
Jenny's shoulders eased—but only slightly.
Chairs screeched. Students stood, laughing and stretching, rushing to submit their copies. Jenny followed quietly, holding her notebook to her chest, her fingers leaving faint smudges on its cover. When she handed it over, she avoided the teacher's eyes.
The class thinned as the teacher left. The air lightened again — whispers, jokes, footsteps.
"Jenny," Eza said, turning in her seat, a grin tugging at the corner of her lips. "Spell 'example' for me."
Jenny blinked. "E… um…"
Eza smirked. "You don't know, right? It's E-x-a-m-ple. Easy." She looked at Julie, who giggled behind her palm.
"Okay then—spell Mathematics."
Jenny's voice was barely a whisper. "M… a… t… h… s…"
"You don't even know that one," Eza said, her tone louder now. "What about Science? Do you know Science?"
Jenny sat there, her fingers tightening around the edge of her notebook. A small knot formed in her chest. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
"I can bet you don't even know how to spell 'bottle,'" Eza added, giggling.
Jenny didn't reply. She just sat there—shoulders hunched, lips pressed thin, pretending to rearrange her books until everyone left.
---
Her footsteps soft against the tiled floor.
Jenny pushed open a stall door, her movement slow, deliberate. Afterward, she stood by the sink, washing her hands, watching the thin streams of water twist around her fingers.
The door creaked open. A younger girl stepped in, hair tied in uneven pigtails.
"You're the one who ruined our New Year performance, right?" she said casually. "The teachers were talking about you."
Jenny looked up, startled.
Jenny forced a small smile. "Ah… I'm sorry," she whispered, drying her hands with the edge of her sleeve.
The junior blinked, said nothing, and left.
Jenny stood there a second longer, the dripping tap the only sound.
---
Flashback.
Bright stage lights. The music loud. Jenny in her glittering costume.
She had memorized every step, every turn. But when she spun, her shoe caught the edge of the mat.
She slipped.
A sharp pain shot up her leg. The audience gasped.
Jenny bit her lip, eyes wide with panic, but she stood again, limping, finishing the routine even as the music outpaced her.
Applause came anyway, but she couldn't meet anyone's eyes.
End of flashback.
---
Jenny returned to the classroom.
The laughter from the hallway echoed faintly through the open door.
"Example," she whispered under her breath. "Mathematics… Science…"
The letters were wrong. She knew they were. Still, she wrote them again, slower this time.
Her eraser smudged the page.