The benches in Class 11A weren't made for comfort. Cold metal, chipped here and there, with our initials scratched into them like battle scars. I sat down beside Sarthak, the steel frame giving its usual clank under our weight. He immediately began tapping his pen against the desk — tak, tak, tak — like he wanted the whole row to feel his rhythm. My elbow vibrated with each hit.
In front of us sat the Adityas. Monitor Adi, back straight, head high, the kind of guy who could make sitting look like discipline. Chacha Adi was his exact opposite — slouched so low it looked like he wanted to melt into the bench. Both of them were already whispering about something, probably plotting trouble. At the very front of our row sat Shashwat, neatly set up with his notebook and pens aligned like he was giving an exam.
The door creaked. Our English ma'am stepped in, arms full of books, expression calm. Instantly, the low buzz of chatter died.
"Good morning, class," she said, her tone warm but clipped.
"Good morning, ma'am!" the whole class echoed back. Some sharp and loud, others barely above a yawn.
Attendance went smoothly, her face still easy. But the moment she opened the book, her eyes sharpened. Teaching mode. No more softness.
I was trying to follow along, but ten minutes in, Sarthak nudged me with his knee. I looked at him. He grinned and slid a folded piece of paper under my arm, his movements exaggerated so I wouldn't miss it. The paper made a loud crinkle against the steel desk. I flinched, thinking ma'am had heard, but she kept writing on the board.
I unfolded it. His messy scrawl read:
"Count how many times ma'am says 'therefore' or you are not a boy."
I nearly burst out laughing. My lips twitched, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek. I scribbled back one word:
"Deal."
I tapped the bench ahead and slid it forward to the Adityas. Chacha Adi read it first. His grin spread instantly, eyes lighting up with mischief. He elbowed Monitor Adi, who groaned like a parent watching a child break rules — but even he smirked. The note made its way to Shashwat at the front.
He spun around, chair scraping so loudly across the tiles it made half the class jump. "What nonsense is this?!" he hissed, waving the paper.
That's when his elbow slammed down onto the desk — a BANG so sharp the whole row stopped breathing.
Ma'am's head shot up. "Shashwat? Something funny?"
He froze, face pale, posture snapping straight. "No, ma'am!"
The class snickered under their breaths. I bent over my notebook, hiding my grin.
Then the game began.
Ma'am pointed at the text. "Therefore, the poet conveys—"
I glanced at Sarthak. He held up one finger, eyes wide with mock drama.
A few minutes later: "Therefore, we can conclude—"
Two fingers.
"Therefore, it is evident—"
Three fingers.
Each 'therefore' made it harder to stay still. My shoulders shook from holding back laughter. Sarthak was trembling beside me like he was about to explode.
Chacha Adi, meanwhile, was keeping score. He pulled a stub of chalk from his pocket and scratched tally marks onto the steel bench right in front of him. Each screeeeek of chalk echoed across the room, making it ten times harder not to laugh.
By the time we hit five 'therefores,' I was practically dying. Sarthak's face was red, his hand covering his mouth. Chacha was barely containing himself, glancing back at me with a devilish grin every few seconds. Even Monitor Adi was shaking his head, trying not to smile.
Finally, Shashwat couldn't take it. He slammed his palm on his desk. THAAM! The whole room jolted.
"Enough!" he whispered fiercely, eyes blazing at us.
The class went dead silent.
Ma'am's gaze locked on him again. "Excuse me?"
He stiffened like a soldier caught red-handed. "N-Nothing, ma'am!" His voice cracked on the word 'nothing.'
Half the class burst into muffled laughter, mine included. I buried my face in my notebook, shoulders jerking with every laugh I tried to suppress.
Ma'am gave him one last glare before continuing the lesson. But for us, the lesson was no longer English — it was survival. Every 'therefore' felt like a landmine.
The final count when the bell rang? Eleven therefores.
Sarthak scribbled the number on my notebook and underlined it twice, shaking his head dramatically. I leaned back, smirking at Shashwat, who was still red from embarrassment. Poor guy. He wasn't escaping this one.