CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: CLASS MATTERS
She chose Victoria to write the names of students making noise? My eyes flicked back to the front of the class, unease spreading in my chest. That big girl—Benita—looked far too mean, and even scarier when she glared. I didn't envy Victoria at all.
Without hesitation, Victoria tore a piece of paper neatly from her notebook. She set her pen down with determination and scribbled a name.
"I swear, I think she wrote your name down," a student whispered nervously to Benita, glancing at her from the corner of her eye.
Benita's head snapped up. "Victoria, show me your paper. Let me see something." Her tone was sharp, edged with threat.
But Victoria, steady and calm, ignored her completely. Her eyes didn't flicker, her pen didn't pause.
Morayo, who had been pretending to read, turned to see who was speaking and caught Benita's glare. She didn't flinch. Instead, she gave Benita a glare of her own, full of quiet challenge. The air between them seemed to crackle with unspoken warning.
Benita hissed through her teeth. "I swear to God, if my name is on that paper and this woman beats me for it, Victoria, I will deal with you. I'll talk to the seniors and make sure they send you on the worst errands. You'll hate every single one."
Her threat hung in the air like smoke. A few students shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting between the two.
Victoria didn't flinch. She didn't even bother to look back. Instead, she calmly wrote down another name. The pen scratched the paper firmly, as if she was more determined with each threat hurled at her.
She kept at it, eyes sharp. Whenever someone whispered or giggled, she'd glance up, pinpoint the culprit, and scribble down their name. No mercy. Even as she occasionally lowered her head to read her book, her ears stayed sharp, ready to catch the slightest noise.
I, on the other hand, buried my head in my maths text. I didn't dare speak, not even a mutter. I wasn't sure if Victoria might write my name too, and I wasn't ready to test her patience.
Just then, the door creaked open. John entered.
He slid into his usual seat beside me, his face expressionless. But my eyes immediately fell on his hand. Red marks. Angry, raw stripes like lashes across his skin. My chest tightened. Beaten. He had definitely been beaten.
I stared without meaning to.
"What are you looking at? Focus on your studies," he muttered sharply, catching me.
I quickly gave him a small signal with my hand to keep quiet. He frowned.
Across the room, Victoria had paused. She glanced at John and raised her pen slightly, giving him a subtle signal. Her expression was serious—she was writing down noise-makers.
I froze, afraid she'd add his name if I so much as breathed. Quickly, I turned my head back to my notes. I wasn't about to be the reason John got into more trouble.
Moments later, the classroom door opened again. Mrs Mustapha strode in, her eyes immediately sweeping over the room. The tension was palpable. Everyone fell silent.
"Where is the list?" she asked firmly.
Victoria stood up, her composure steady. "These are the names of students who were disturbing the class with their noise," she said, handing over the folded piece of paper.
Mrs Mustapha unfolded it with care, her lips tightening as she scanned the names. "If you hear your name, step outside."
Benita's friend leaned towards her and muttered loudly, "If she didn't write John's name, that's favouritism."
But she had barely finished before Mrs Mustapha's sharp eyes found her. "You there—girl beside Benita. Come out!"
"Ma?" The girl clutched her chest, shocked.
"Yes, you. Weren't you just talking while I'm in the class?"
The girl's face fell. Without another word, she rose and walked out to the front. The class snickered quietly.
"If you hear your name, come outside," Mrs Mustapha continued, her eyes on the list.
"Benita."
The room stilled. Benita dragged herself out, her eyes burning holes into Victoria. Her glare promised revenge.
"Fatima."
The earlier girl lifted her hand. "Ma, I'm already outside."
Mrs Mustapha's brows knitted together. "Shame on you. Your name is on the noise-maker list again, Fatima. Is this how you'll spend your years here—making noise?" She shook her head, disappointment clear.
Then, turning to the whole class, she raised her voice. "Haven't your seniors told you that anyone who scores less than fifty percent on their report card will repeat the class? This school doesn't play with failure. If you don't read and work hard, you will repeat!" Her voice was sharp, slicing into the silence.
A few students shifted nervously in their seats.
The teacher returned to the paper. "Joshua."
A short boy trudged forward, head lowered.
"Matthew."
Another student shuffled out.
She continued reading the list, one by one, until nearly ten students stood before her. She shook her head, her lips pressed in tight disapproval. "Lazy. All of you. Instead of reading, you chose to make noise. I pity you. I only hope you don't repeat this class." She folded the list neatly and tucked it under her arm.
But before she could leave, Fatima blurted, "But ma, Victoria didn't write John's name on the list."
The class went still. A ripple of whispers ran through the room.
Mrs Mustapha raised an eyebrow. "What is it with you and John? Do you like him?"
A loud scream of laughter erupted from the class. Students clapped their hands, some hitting desks, the noise booming.
I turned to glance at John. His jaw tightened, irritation flashing across his face. He looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him.
"No ma!" Fatima stammered, cheeks burning. "I'm only saying Victoria was biased. When John entered, he started talking to his seat partner—"
"Do you hear yourself?" Mrs Mustapha cut her off. Her voice was sharp, cold. "When John entered… when John entered! You must dislike John very much to be this cruel. Or is it jealousy? Whatever it is, stop it."
Fatima shrank into silence, eyes on the floor.
Mrs Mustapha turned back to the group of noise-makers. "Bring the books you were reading. If you fail my questions, you'll be cutting grass outside for punishment."
Groans followed, but none of them dared to argue. They fetched their books quickly and followed Mrs Mustapha out of the room.
The class quietened.
I leaned slightly towards John. "What happened to you? Why did you come to class late?"
His face snapped towards me, irritation clear in his eyes. "Why are you asking me that kind of question?"
I blinked at his tone. "Because of the marks on your hand." I gestured gently, my voice soft.
He looked at the marks, then at me. His lips pressed into a line. "It's none of your business." He dug into his bag, deliberately avoiding my eyes.
I looked down quickly, cheeks warm. "Sorry. I didn't mean to pry. I just thought… maybe it's because you sit beside me that you don't like talking to me."
John stopped. Slowly, he turned to look at me. His eyes softened, if only slightly. He nodded once and said, "I'm just uncomfortable talking to people I've just met. And I hate sharing things with strangers."
His words hung between us, firm yet honest.
And though his voice was cold, something in his eyes hinted at a story untold.
For the first time, I wondered what secrets John was hiding—and whether I would ever uncover them.