Hooligans at Zoosville

As if it's not enough to bear with a bunch of hooligans throughout the school day, my IIT class welcomes me with thrice the number. I make it a point to come right on time, if not a few minutes late, to prevent my eyes and ears from being abused to great extents.

However, circumstances fail to ever favour me, and i, for the first time in eternity, turn up a whole 15 minutes early. I curse myself for my bad time sense, and search for an empty seat, trying my best to ignore the lingering smell of sweat, intermingled with that of worn-out school uniforms and mud-stained shoes.

The first hooligan of the day accidentally shifts his foot a nanometer from it's original position, only to leave me stumbling across the room, trying in vain to regain my balance. I avoid eye contact with anyone as I reach my seat. Spare me; I get embarrassed enough at school as it is.

Sadly, my choice of place is far from perfect. Unlike the usual set of brains between whom i can sit and pretend to fit in with, I'm surrounded by a bunch of dirty, sweaty, and, yes, giggly guys, who can't keep their mouths shut for more than two seconds.

The guy next to me stares, as though it's perfectly illegal for a girl to sit next to him. Some hooligans in front of me take out their phones, cunningly hiding them, placing them in the perfect position so as to be able to message each other, yes, EACH OTHER, though out class. Clever, you might think. Not quite. Especially when you're sitting right behind them and hear them bursting into fits of laughter every time they receive an SMS.

The boy on my right is sincerely doing last week's homework. Okay, maybe not a hooligan after all, but who said scribbling away undecipherable math sums is any better than under- bench messaging? The continuous scratching of his pen somehow annoys me more than deep-voiced giggles.

Metres and metres away from my inches-from-hell sitting place, a guy sits on the windowsill, twirling his pen and, yes, talking(?) to a group of girls. He occasionally runs a hand through his hair. I roll my eyes so hard, it hurts. I stuff my hand into my pocket to prevent myself from hurling my 10-inch math book onto him. Yes, the scene looks that unbearable.

Two girls walk in even later than me(and to think i never thought it possible). They make their way towards their seats. They don't topple over any one's feet. They don't find their seats between the craziest attention-seeking prats of all time. The guy next to them smiles and says hello, and is not revolted by the fact that a girl is sitting next to him. As though by a stroke of luck, their eyes miss the guy on the windowsill.

I groan out in frustration, only to be met with another terrified, get-out-don't-sit-next-to-me look from the guy on my left. Well, at least someone finds me intimidating.

Just then, the 'professor' walks in. Silence ensues. The pen stops scratching. The giggling in front is, miraculously, controlled. The boy on the windowsill jumps up as though he's just been struck by lighting(how i wish it were true...).

Peace at last. =)