I couldn't say anything else because the next second, we heard the door open again.
The teacher walked back into the classroom.
Honestly, if she had abandoned us for the whole day, I would've filed a complaint. Then, I'd become the voice of the students, take over the school through a rebellion, and then…
"Alright. We'll take attendance first, and then each of you will introduce yourselves. Student in the corner… please stop muttering to yourself."
Oh, it happened again.
She pointed to the student sitting on the far right of the first row, signaling them to begin.
""Uh… yeah, I'm—
And so, the introductions began. I'd be lying if I said it didn't leave me a little impressed. Everyone seemed to have something noteworthy to share—one had trained in Chinese opera, another had a passion for Joan Baez's songs, and one girl mentioned she had just returned from abroad after touring with some obscure traveling circus, where she discovered her love for Gypsy music. What really caught my attention was when one girl casually mentioned she had taken lessons from the same person who taught Amy Winehouse to sing—something I wasn't sure I believed.
Then, it was the so-called "queen's" turn.
"Good morning, everyone. I'm Ana Abantino. I like my songs and my voice. If I had to admire anyone, it would be myself. I've been studying how to have the best voice possible for as long as I can remember. I like this country's food, though Italian isn't far behind. Oh, and dogs. Thank you."
When I first saw Abantino, her majestic appearance led me to mistakenly assume she was one of those fair-minded people. It wasn't hard for me to recognize her arrogance, though.
I lifted my gaze slightly, as if looking at something behind her, so she wouldn't notice. But even though her attitude rubbed me the wrong way, I couldn't help but admire her style.
I hadn't mentioned it before, but Ana Abantino was undoubtedly one of the most attractive people I'd ever seen.
Her style was refined—from her flawless skin to her long hair, the color of aged, noble wood—that warm brown with coppery glints when touched by sunlight—falling in soft waves down to her waist, as if each strand had been meticulously carved. A lighter, almost golden streak framed the left side of her face like a discreet signature of artifice.
I noticed that for a moment, her eyes—gray, almost translucent, with a mole near the left one—fixed on me… no, on my sister.
They weren't eyes that invited conversation, but rather an inquisitive stare. That's how it felt to me—like a predator's gaze.
The uniform, usually impeccable on others, seemed to rebel against her: the tie hung loose, the top button of her blouse undone, as if she despised the elegance everyone else worked so hard to cultivate, creating a whole new standard of style, as if she herself had rewritten the definition of elegance. Small silver earrings glinted mockingly with every movement.
I said she was pretty, but it wouldn't be wrong to say I was a little afraid of her, too. She exuded that queenly aura—though I think she leaned more toward some ancient emperor who'd have you killed for daring to look at her.
Anyway, the arrogant girl's turn ended, and the next students introduced themselves.
Then came Emilia, who gave the most boring, rehearsed speech I'd ever heard.
This girl tries way too hard.
When it was my turn… well, I couldn't judge Emilia. I, too, had spent all morning thinking about what to say.
"Uh, I'm Lucas Vilcanoba, and I like… uh, I like Charles Dickens' novels. Uh, yeah, I'm… a fan?"
I screwed up
I wanted to say something interesting, to be the most fascinating guy this class had ever seen.
But what the hell was I doing, seeking approval from a bunch of kids? I just sat back down, resigned and a little proud of my introduction. Then it was Maria's turn.
"I'm Maria Vilcanoba. I also like my voice."
And she slumped back onto her desk.
It's moments like these that make me envy my sister—until I remember again that she's useless.
"Alright, now that everyone has introduced themselves, I hope you all get along and avoid causing trouble over the next three years. I've been a teacher at this academy for 15 years, and I've seen great friendships born within these walls—well, not exactly these walls, since they tore down the old building, but you get the idea."
Only she laughed at her own joke.
"Anyway, as I was saying… Without further ado, let's begin class."
She proceeded to explain the course syllabus. Apparently, Mrs. Marlin was a math teacher—though I had expected something more exotic, like a retired jazz keyboardist who played in some American bar to make ends meet but never made it big because she broke a finger or something.
I couldn't forget that this was a prep school, and core classes were still an important part of our education.
She explained the school's system. First, courses were divided into basic and specialized classes. For this department, the specialized ones had to do with vocal training and lyric composition.
In a way, it was like college. Not that I'd ever been to one, but my online friends had told me you could choose your courses. The high school had a quota of mandatory core and specialized classes. For the specialized ones, each student could decide which to take based on the kind of artist they wanted to become. There were vocalists, lyric writers in this department, and, more rarely, singer-songwriters. You could even take courses from other departments, but you had to be careful to meet your credit requirements.
For this first term, the specialized and core classes had already been chosen by the institution, so we didn't have to worry about it.
Then, she went over the syllabus for her math class. As she explained it, I realized that not using my brain for so long had made me forget everything I was supposed to have already learned.
I remembered that man's message—he told me not to worry about the specialized courses. I wouldn't be graded on those, but at the very least, I had to make sure I didn't fail the core classes.
I felt like these people were subjecting themselves to torture by willingly accepting this kind of system. I couldn't imagine passing both types of courses—obviously because I had no vocal talent, and even if I did, my laziness would win out.
It was true—these kids were pushing themselves through what was almost a double school day.
And just like that, classes ended.