The sharp, pungent odor of a Sharpie marker filled my nostrils as I removed the cap with a ‘click’. I watched with disinterest as color blossomed against my skin, staining it a deep purple. The stupid mark would take forever to get rid of; I knew from experience even scrubbing didn’t work. Whatever. Boredom hit me like a tidal wave, pulling me into a deadened stupor. It took all my willpower not to fall asleep. Time dragged sluggishly; seconds, minutes, hours all stretched to an immeasurable length. Groaning, I glanced up at the clock at the end of the room. 2:30, it ticked at me cheerfully, mocking me with its faceless grin. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Half an hour to go. Half an hour cramped in this tiny room with its ugly fluorescent lights and uncomfortable plastic chairs. Half an hour of pretending to pay attention to another subject I don’t give a crap about. Half an hour until I can leave this godforsaken prison for the weekend. Half. A. Freaking. Hour.
I couldn’t breathe. The room was suffocating me with its bland white walls and motivational posters. “Aim for greatness; reach for the stars and anything is possible!!!!!!,” they blared obnoxiously. Obviously, one exclamation mark wasn’t enough to get the point across. As if to emphasize it even further, the message was written in Bright Red Capital Letters. Triple bolded and underlined of course. Every so often, snippets from the most boring lecture in the world, by the most boring teacher in the world would drift my way. I heard phrases like “X is equal to the square root of Y” and “The sum of an infinite geometric sequence is U1 over one minus R.” My teacher' grey handlebar mustache quivered with excitement as he recited a string of meaningless equations. Boredom encompassed me, dragging me into the depths of apathy. Would this class never end? Someone elbowed me in the ribs. Hard. I emerged from my daze with a splutter of exasperation. What. Now?

“The answer please,” Mr. Porter’s nasally voice rang out irritably. Even his name was boring. Wait… Was he talking to me? The glare he sent my direction assured me he was. If looks could kill…

“Uhhhh,” my mind drew a blank. I wasn’t even sure what the question was. I stared at the desk, hoping to find some sort of hidden message there. Nope. All I saw were messy initials carved into wood, multiple proclamations of undying love, and even what looked like an upside-down monkey eating the moon. Huh. I rubbed my finger over the grooves on the worn-out table, my eyes focused on the carvings. It was funny what you could learn from defaced school property. Now I knew that ‘M.J hearts J.D 4EVA,” “Emily A. iz a loozer” and that a monkey was apparently big enough to consume the moon in a single bite.

“The answer. Now. I am not going to ask again.” Mr. Porter snapped. Oh yeah. Crap. What were we talking about again? Mr. Porter was using his ‘serious’ voice, which meant I had approximately five seconds to respond.
Five. I don’t know.

Four. I wasn’t paying attention.
Three. This class sucks.

Two. I give up.
One. I have less than a second to answer the question…
“Fifty-nine,” I blurted out. Despite my complete lack of interest in the subject, my hands started to tremble. I felt beads of sweat form on the nape of my neck, running in rivulets down my back. This reaction was stupid, pointless even, yet I could feel my confident demeanor start to crack. Under Mr. Porter’s sarcastic stare…I crumbled. Withered, like those stupid flowers at home that nobody ever bothered to water. Hot, prickly shame raised the hair on the back of my arms and reddened my cheeks. I couldn’t take it anymore. This school. This class. This stupid freaking room with its stupid freaking posters and its stupid freaking teacher. A dam of emotions that had been carefully bottled up all day threatened to burst forth…
The clanging of metal against metal bought me back to my senses. The blessed sound that signaled the end of another day; it’s shrill sound had never been more comforting. I wanted to dance, and yell, and melt into a puddle of relief but I forced myself to maintain my composure as I gathered my books and slipped out the door. Is it to clichéd to say I was saved by the bell?