Saved by the Bell

Saved by the Bell

            I woke up to that all too familiar, demanding shout of my history teacher. I never understood why eighth graders had to learn about seventeenth century art in Zimbabwe. I also had no clue why my history teacher was not fired the first year he taught at this school. Even that dilapidated desk of his was more interesting than his rambling lectures. His gaunt figure appeared thinner than the chalk he used to scribble the near nonexistent lesson plan. Although he possessed a booming voice, his tone was more monotonous than that same bedtime story moms tell every night. It was no surprise that I wanted to fall asleep.

            Recalling that I went to bed at 3:00 AM that morning, my heavy head collapsed onto the rock hard desk, and my droopy eyelids began to shut again. Questions resonated through my mind. Why did I stay up so late? Why can't I think straight? Why did I even bother coming to school? My conscience gradually drifted away, and I was dragged into another one of those fantastical dreams about actually passing this lackluster class.

            I was startled by another echoing shout. "Young man, you better stop sleeping in my class or I'll mark you absent!" It was difficult not to obey his commanding tone, but catching up on sleep outweighed the consequences of ignoring him. He bellowed again. If my eyelids were not already half closed, I would have rolled my eyes and maybe mumbled a meek response. Instead, I just stared dumbly at the teacher, with a face probably as blank as brand new printer paper. Obviously disgusted by me, the teacher returned to his dreary Zimbabwean art lecture.

            Relieved that I could get another four seconds of sleep, I quickly let myself get carried away by my urge to close my eyes once again. Expecting another gruesome shout, I braced my ears for the incoming bombardment of shrill demands. Three seconds passed. Four seconds ... five seconds. But no shout ever came.

            I was about as clueless as an infant solving a jigsaw puzzle, and my mind began racing. What is going on? Why isn't the teacher shouting at me? Has he even noticed me yet?... Yes, that must be it. I crammed in another four seconds of sleep until I awoke again to my puzzling situation. My bloodshot eyes remained half closed, but I secretly snuck a peek behind me in the silent room. I had to find out what was happening. My best friend was texting on his phone, and the class bully was busy strangling the scrawny midget adjacent to him. Even the teacher's pet was not paying any attention. So it was not just me who found the lecture unexciting. Still, I could not get a look at the teacher, and was unaware of what he was doing. There were no sounds coming from the front of the classroom, making the situation even more mysterious.

            Suddenly, I could feel his piercing gaze. Immediately, my skin contracted and firm goose bumps spread across my arms, legs, and neck. The teacher was undoubtedly staring at me. Embarrassed, I focused my eyes on the blackness of the dark desk, making sure not to move an inch. But nothing ensued. I relaxed and held back the yawn that reminded me I was extremely sleepy.

            Just as I was closing my eyes, I realized that I had second-guessed myself, and was one hundred percent certain my teacher was glaring at me. I did not know how to escape my dilemma: ignore the teacher and get some nominal sleep, or obey his commands and remain un-rested.

            Another pensive moment of silence ensued, and I reminded myself that compliance is not always of utmost importance. Reassured, I could finally get my precious sleep back. Relief swept across my mind, and I once again floated back into my unconscious land of fantasies, subconsciously expecting the inevitable shout.

            But it never arrived. Still aware of my teacher's gaze, I continued to keep my eyes shut and head down behind the dark cave of my folded arms. I wished to explore the surroundings of that cave, though I was afraid and reluctant to meet the wrath of my teacher. I was stuck in a discomforting situation.

            My worries were saved by an acute and intense resonance: the bell.

            I let out a sigh of relief almost as powerful as a gust of wind from Mount Everest's summit. My shaking right hand sloppily rose to meet the steady steams of sweat trickling down my neck. Slowly ascending out of my seat, I took great caution to avoid the awkward eye contact with my history teacher. I trudged out the door, yawning consecutively on my way to the language wing. For the first time in my life, I wished history class had lasted longer.