READ NOVEL ONLINE Chapter 213
Time flows, and March whispers that the world is spring.
Between dawn and morning, in that ambiguous time, I step out of the house, letting out a long yawn.
“Whoa… ugh.”
The time for my first high school commute, which I hadn’t been waiting for at all.
Perhaps because of the time, the air feels much colder and chillier than during the day, greeting us.
The first change I’ve felt directly since becoming a high school student.
The commute time is much earlier than it was in middle school.
Around the time I leave the house, as I step out of the common entrance, I can see people bringing kids to the daycare on the second floor of the apartment, holding them tightly.
“Say hello to your sister.”
Sometimes, parents I’ve never met before would tell their kids to greet us, saying, “Say hello to your sister~.”
“Annyeonghaseyo!”
“Hey, hi~”
The sight of those tiny hands clasped together and their little bows is so cute it feels like my heart might stop.
Ignoring them feels like crushing their pure and fragile innocence, so I usually respond with a softer, more exaggerated tone than usual.
The morning footsteps aren’t much different from middle school.
The stores that were open during last year’s commute are now closed.
But unlike last year’s commute, bustling with both boys and girls, this time it’s all female students.
The first commute, where everyone is still awkward.
Instead of conversation, only the sounds of smartphones tapping and footsteps quietly echo.
In such a quiet street, the only ones talking are those of us who live in the same house.
“It’d be nice if we were in the same class.”
“Don’t get your hopes up, you’ll just be disappointed.”
“But still, it’d be nice if we were in the same class!”
As we near the school, Siyeon is burning with futile hope.
You can check on some website whether it’s Nice or Ace, but I didn’t bother to look.
I’ll see it with my own eyes anyway, why bother?
And sure enough, Siyeon’s hopes were beautifully dashed.
I’m in Class 1, closest to the stairs, and Siyeon is in Class 8, closest to the opposite stairs.
Not just a little far, but completely at opposite ends.
But we’re not middle schoolers anymore; we’re high schoolers.
The time when we’d sulk over being in different classes has passed, and Siyeon walks down the hallway with a bright face.
“See you after school!”
“Yeah, sure.”
I wave lazily at Siyeon’s flailing arm, then pass through what seems like a forbidden front door and quickly head to the back door.
After entering the classroom, I roll my eyes around, looking for the seating chart that’s probably on the teacher’s desk or the board.
The bulletin board above the lockers at the back of the classroom.
Seeing the students glance there and sit down, it seems the seating chart with numbers is there.
[Kim Marie | Number 8]
‘It’s in alphabetical order again.’
The surnames starting with “Kim” are densely packed from number one.
My seat is the second row from the left, third from the front.
A position where a slight turn of the eye from the teacher’s desk would reach me, giving me a subtle sense of pressure.
A position that seems just right for getting called on.
Sitting down with a wave of anxiety, I hang my bag on the side of the desk and…
‘Huh?’
Right in front of my seat.
The large machine attached to the far left of the board catches my eye first.
If I had to describe it, it looks like a giant flat iron attached to the board.
But that thought quickly disappears when I see the word “water wash” on the sticker attached to the top of the device.
‘Do they clean boards with that these days?’
Chalk marks used to stay for a long time and were hard to wipe off even with a rag, but will that thing work?
A desire to try operating it once settles in a corner of my mind, but I don’t want to stand out and get labeled as the crazy girl, so I stay quiet.
I’ll be seeing it all year anyway, so I’ll just bear with it for now.
As I furrow my brows and stare at the board, a unfamiliar voice comes from the side.
“Hi!”
Startled, a somewhat burdensomely lively first greeting.
I knew someone was there, but I didn’t expect them to suddenly talk to me.
“Uh, hi…”
That was the first meeting with my high school desk mate.
My desk mate’s name is Kim Seong-a.
True to her first impression of being friendly enough to talk to me first, she went around introducing herself to others even while I was slumped at my desk.
During breaks, she’d make herself known around the class, and…
“Marie, are you good at studying?”
During class, when she couldn’t move far, she’d try to gather information about me, who she had to sit close to.
“I gave up.”
“You seem like you’d be good at it…”
Answering such questions appropriately, I quietly accepted her goodwill, which I had no reason to refuse.
Watching her, I thought…
She’s talkative but good at studying, seems a bit cheeky but diligent, and rarely uses profanity?
She’s the type who would fit perfectly as a group project leader in college.
Wait, is that a compliment?
Anyway, true to her diligent and friendly first impression, she immediately raised her hand when the homeroom teacher mentioned extra points for performance evaluations.
Following the homeroom teacher’s instructions, she became the temporary class president, and since no one else wanted the troublesome role, she smoothly became the class president.
First period, a time for teachers to introduce themselves and talk about what we’ll learn from the textbook.
“You guys haven’t seen this in middle school, right?”
“Yeaah~”
Among those times, the elderly science teacher lightly tapped the machine attached to the far left of the board and spoke.
When some students answered “Yeaah” in an appropriate tone, the teacher grinned and pressed the button a couple of times.
Then, a sound similar to a massage machine starting up echoed, and the machine attached to the board slowly moved to the right.
The area the machine passed over was dampened, and the light green board turned a deep green, revealing its moistness.
“This is the power of science, kids.”
The science teacher, proud as if he had made the machine himself.
No need to go out into the hallway and puff out white powder that’s probably bad for your lungs to clean the board; just press the button twice.
For the students, it was a good opportunity to feel the flow of the times.
Of course, not everything was automatic.
“This board cleaner, you have to change the water tank every day.”
Lightly sharing school news during the closing time.
The teacher mentions the part about the automatic board cleaner that needs attention, delaying the closing time.
I thought it might be a bothersome story like, “You’ll have to do it every day, so figure it out yourself,” but…
“Class president?”
“Yes?”
“Until a vice president is chosen, you’ll handle it temporarily, okay?”
“Yes~”
As expected, the easiest targets for the homeroom teacher are the class president and vice president.
From the teacher’s perspective, there’s no student as useful as these voluntary slaves.
“Since we’re on the topic, should we pick one right now? Anyone interested?”
Taking advantage of the vice president topic, the teacher immediately tries to hold the closing time hostage and conduct a vice president election.
Whether it’s for performance evaluations or whatever, becoming vice president means having to change the water tank of that hunk of metal every day.
Even students who were briefly interested in the vice president position now find changing the water tank bothersome and start looking around.
No one raises their hand, completing the wasteland.
Me? Of course, I have no intention of volunteering.
When solving problems, teachers would call on the class president or vice president, bombarding them with questions.
You’d get called on a lot, and if you couldn’t answer, you’d be embarrassed.
Sitting comfortably in the back, unable to even nap, I don’t want to wear the slave collar of a one-year contract for a few performance evaluation points.
“Alright, then let’s decide with a game? Form groups of four in a square and play Rock Paper Scissors, the winner becomes vice president? The class president’s spot is for three people.”
But deciding that has nothing to do with my will.
A game of Rock Paper Scissors where you absolutely don’t want to lose, more than betting on food.
A dark Rock Paper Scissors game with a one-year slave contract and humiliation at stake has begun.
Since the class president is right next to me, we’re a group of three.
Three girls who aren’t particularly close huddle together, and in the awkward atmosphere, we chant the nationally common phrase.
“If you don’t throw, you lose, Rock Paper Scissors.”
For some reason, instinct and intuition lead me to throw “paper.”
One rock, two scissors.
I won! I internally cheer, but then the teacher’s words about the winner becoming vice president come to mind.
The joy of winning clashes with the realization that I shouldn’t have won, creating a very complicated feeling.
Ah, if you win, you move on to the next round, right?
When I won two people at once in the first round, I thought, “No way.”
The first stage of accepting the vice presidency: denial.
“Rock Paper Scissors.”
Second round, a fierce battle ends in victory.
Second stage of accepting the vice presidency: anger and fear.
‘Damn it, am I really going to…?’
But there’s still hope with two chances left, so I hold onto the lifeline of hope in my heart.
Third round, I easily win against two people at once.
Third stage of accepting the vice presidency: bargaining.
‘Alright, if I lose in the finals, it’ll be fine.’
Final round, a one-on-one Rock Paper Scissors showdown with everyone watching.
“Rock, Paper, Scissors.”
I throw paper, but the opponent also throws paper.
Without delay, we move to the next chant, skipping the first part.
“Paper.”
I throw paper again, but the opponent throws rock.
After two matches, I’ve won.
The final stage of accepting the vice presidency: giving up and accepting.
‘I had a feeling this would happen someday, damn it…’
“Wow, the class president has a vice president next to her? What’s number 8’s name?”
The teacher, seemingly impressed by the class president having a vice president, calls my number and asks for my name.
I just wanted to flip the desk and forget about school life.
The relieved expressions of the classmates thinking, “As long as it’s not me,” made me feel so bitter.
“Kim Marie.”
Slumping in my seat like a beaver whose carefully built dam has collapsed, I monotonously recited my name with a look of having lost everything.