POV: HELENA IVYRA.
The last few days of vacation flew by, as fast as Senna in Monaco.
After returning home, I simply rested for the rest of the vacation, while reading the book I recovered from the library.
Although it wasn't particularly exciting, I managed to keep it company during the following days.
It was the kind of reading that doesn't leave a mark, but provides comfort. It was this kind of silent company I needed.
Something simple, that didn't demand much from me. Something that simply filled the blank spaces of long, lazy days.
Then came the first day of my last school year.
That morning, I woke up to the alarm clock quietly ringing at 6:30 AM.
The soft sound was enough to pull me from my light sleep.
It was the first day, and my body seemed to know it even before my mind fully woke up.
The classic routine was reactivated, and my muscle memory seemed to recall the old tradition, like a rusty gear being put back into use.
I got up slowly, with an almost ceremonial care not to make noise, as my mother was still asleep, and the last thing I wanted was to wake her.
The whole house was enveloped in that typical morning silence, broken only by the distant sound of fine rain hitting the roof.
The weather was curious; for a regular February, the day was slightly cold due to the rain, which was certainly strange but no novelty.
Living in the south of the country, in a valley near the coast, meant constant encounters with sudden cold snaps and rain at the most unusual times of the year.
And that morning was no different.
The cold wind entering through the window cracks, combined with the humidity of the dawn, created an almost autumnal climate.
Nothing typical for the month, but it made sense. Sometimes the weather likes to play with our expectations.
I wrapped myself in the hoodie I left hanging on the chair the night before and went straight to the kitchen.
The morning routine was the same as always, but on that occasion, each step seemed more conscious.
I turned on the kettle and started making coffee. The water took a few minutes to heat, time I used to mentally organize the next steps: backpack, uniform, review materials... everything was already separated since the night before.
Even so, the habit of checking everything one more time was uncontrollable. While the coffee slowly brewed, I took the opportunity to open the kitchen window.
The sky was overcast, covered by heavy, thick clouds that promised more rain for the rest of the day.
The street began to show classic signs of hustle, with that subtle mist floating over the asphalt, typical of colder mornings.
I drank my coffee in silence, feeling the warmth of the drink contrast with the cold in my fingers.
Soon I went to my room, put on my uniform, that familiar set, the characteristic light blue shirt with a torch logo on the right side, under the chest, which felt almost the same as wearing a team shirt.
I finished dressing, quickly checked myself in the mirror, applied a quick touch of makeup, simple foundation, light contour, and concealer, nothing too flashy, nothing too simple.
I took my backpack, checked my notebooks and pencil case one more time, and left, closing the door with the same care as before not to wake my mother.
Even being a simple, side street, almost unnoticed in the middle of the city center, mine had its own charm.
The sidewalks, still wet from the overnight rain, formed small mirrors reflecting the morning sky and the people who quickly started walking with their factory vests heading to work.
The facades of the houses, mostly old, with low walls and rusty gates, seemed to silently observe the routine of passersby.
The bus stop was a few steps away, almost at the corner. It was one of the few advantages of living where I do: accessibility.
As I approached the stop, I started to see more movement. People grouped together, some with backpacks, others just observing the street flow. Many faces were strange to me, which was no surprise.
Every year, new students arrived. After all, our city only had one high school. Which led everyone to the same place, eventually.
It was common to see different people at the beginning of each year, and 2020 would be no exception.
I leaned against one of the walls nearby, pulled my hoodie closer to my body, and observed the behavior of the people around me. Some chatted animatedly, laughing loudly and sharing vacation stories.
Others talked about soccer; I heard mentions of state championships from a group further away, where two boys passionately debated some team. Further to the side, a group of girls commented on parties that had happened over the weekend.
"Damn... it's only the first week of classes, people are already ahead of themselves," I muttered to myself, frowning in a mix of incredulity and slight amusement.
However, what really caught my attention was something more subtle: the reduced number of people on their phones.
Most people interacted with each other, chatting, joking, and teasing each other. There were only five or six people engrossed in their phones.
'Well, it's just the first day, right? We'll see how it goes in a few days…'
Time passed slowly, as it always does when you're waiting. But it wasn't long before the characteristic sound of the bus engine approached.
There it came: the usual worn yellow. Scratched windows, faded paint, marks of time stamped on every corner of its body. It was practically a fixed character in Brazilian school life.
The doors opened with that sharp creak, as if protesting another day of service. In a few minutes, the bus filled.
The scene was always the same: backpacks squeezed between bodies, people trying to find a spot in the back, others preferring to stand, perhaps out of habit, perhaps out of strategy.
After all, the bus had to cross two entire neighborhoods to reach the school. It was enough to justify the morning rush.
'Typical Brazilian education system…'
I held firmly to the support as the bus jolted into motion for the first time.
The journey, as always, was long. The city was slowly waking up.
Shops opening their doors, cars filling the streets, pedestrians rushing across crosswalks with bags and umbrellas. It was an almost choreographed routine.
Horns blared like an annoyed metronome, marking the accelerated rhythm of the morning. I watched everything through the window.
Raindrops ran down the glass in crooked trails, distorting the images outside. I thought about the traffic.
The irony of a small city only having traffic jams at two times of the day: in the morning, when all go to work, and in the late afternoon, when the factories release their employees.
It was funny to think that our city, so small, managed to imitate the chaos of large metropolises, only at very specific times.
As the bus moved on, I remembered the route. It was almost automatic. I knew exactly when each speed bump, each curve, each point where the driver braked too hard would come.
The school was in the south zone, and I lived in the north zone.
Finally, as we went down the last steep street before the school, the building appeared before me.
The facade was long, several windows stretched along a long corridor, with a blue paint forming the sign: João Batista Middle School. With two floors and that detail that always made me laugh: the zigzag side ramp.
The only access to the second floor; the engineer must have been crazy when he designed that.
'Hmph... They'll never be physicists, hehe…'
Even so, it was so characteristic of the school that it became part of the place's identity.
The central courtyard opened right after the gate. It was wide, with rows of benches aligned. Lunch was served there, and it was also where meetings took place before classes.
In the middle of the courtyard, a small stage used for events, presentations, parties... and, of course, on that first day.
The corridors branched out like veins: the first, with administrative rooms, coordination, principal's office, meeting room.
The second, with third and second-year classrooms, side corridors for the library, science and computer labs, as well as the art room.
Further back, the first-year corridor, as if they wanted to keep freshmen away, and on the second floor, more second-year classrooms and another computer lab.
A public school that, from the outside, impressed. It had an extensive courtyard, with several small sports courts or for magical combat training, with centralized platforms for spell practice.
The problem was what happened inside. The structure was good, yes. Better than many private schools out there. Unfortunately, the quality didn't extend to all areas.
The teachers were, for the most part, kind and hardworking. But there were exceptions. It always has. And the students? They were complicated. I passed through the gate with firm steps.
But still feeling that slight chill in my stomach. The kind of chill that warns something is about to begin.
As soon as I entered, I immediately headed to the right to the classic mural that contained the class schedules; on this occasion, it contained the classes and their students.
Taking a quick look, I found the section that contained the third years. I began to search carefully for which class they had put me in, until I realized I was in class number one.
"How convenient..."
Already knowing where I would study, I just turned to go to the classroom... However, a familiar face greeted me right away.
"Good morning, friend! It's been a while, huh?" Renata said, with her playful tone early in the morning.
"It's not even 8 AM, and you're already so excited?" I replied, remembering what it was like to deal with her.
"Of course, on the first day of school, we need to be excited, right?" she commented, as she walked past me and looked at the papers stuck to the wall to see what her class would be.
I looked around and noticed that the school had undergone some small changes during the holidays.
The flowerbeds had new plants added, a section of the paint was redone in the characteristic dark green with a white stripe. I noticed more details, however...
I heard Renata's voice calling me.
"Huh... Helena, look at this, did you enroll me in this with you, by any chance?"
Going back to the mural again, I saw her looking at a sheet of paper further in the corner, near the end, where no other student was paying attention.
The sheet, with a strange drawing of... sunflowers?
"Enrolled? What do you mean?" I asked, finding the question strange since I don't do that kind of thing.
"Look here, a new, different class opened... And apparently, we're in it," Renata replied, pointing to the mural.
As I approached, I saw the sheet with a list containing several names, but among them were ours.
Scanning the page, below I found another sheet with the same sunflowers around. And this one only had a title: Special Class - Sunflower Project - 2020.
'What do you mean by special class?'
Reading the next section, it was just nonsense that tried to say everything and at the same time said nothing useful.
"What new idea had the coordination geniuses thought of for this year..." I pondered for a few moments, not understanding the reason.
Renata, realizing I wasn't understanding, called me.
"Shouldn't we go to class?" she asked.
"It's a good idea..." I replied, turning to her.
"Apparently, we'll have a long year ahead of us, right..."
"It's senior year, Helena! Of course we wouldn't have peace in our last year..." she exclaimed.
"Was it so hard to have a normal year?"
That was the question that remained in my mind at that moment.
Let's see if, at least, I find an answer to that question...