"Miss Cristina, it seems as if this class isn't of your interest." My head snapped up as I realized that I had dozed off on the teacher. The class woke up from their long half-sleep state, holding their breath at the sudden comment. The 6th graders' class below, usually bustling with sound, was quiet, giving the impression that even though we were a floor apart, they were looking forward to what was about to happen. The teacher tapped her foot lightly against the cement floor, with the same shoe model from the last five years, waiting for an answer. "If you aren’t interested in my class, you can leave." That shocked me to the core. Finally, some backbone. 

The comment threw me off guard, and no words came out of my mouth, as it hung wide open, and my mind went black for a second, and I could just stare at her shoes; they were the same model from five years ago or more, and I can assure you they went out of style in the 90s, but they remained somewhat intact, accompanied by the same navy blue plants and the old school teachers’ t-shirt as the previous years, even before I was born. It was my first. The first time I heard that kind of proposition, one that sounded endearing and wrong, I can’t say that I didn’t feel inclined to accept the proposition. Yet, at the time, grade submissions were only two weeks away, and with them, the parents' meeting, I knew I could tempt fate by making a reckless decision. I closed my eyes. Today wasn’t the day for my recklessness. Trying to regain my composure, I suppressed the unruly thoughts that crossed my mind, some darker than others. 

When I opened my eyes again, she was still there. She was still standing, waiting for my answer. I didn’t dare meet her gaze and instead focused on the clock. I think it was heaven’s blessing because the Lord knows I couldn’t stand another minute in that class when the clock’s hands marked five minutes before the bell. I mumbled an apology. The clock was a tick closer to ringing, fast to finish its round. 

I always thought it was foolish how teachers wanted us to remain awake when they didn’t make the slightest effort to interest the class. I mean the teachers who try. Those clowns are the energetic ones, but no amount of enthusiasm could make me listen to the phrases I’ve heard a thousand times again. For me, they will always be ignorant, rambling about how much they like a piece, a theme, or whatever they talk about as if we care, living blissfully in their ignorance. Like in a bubble that I desperately want to pop. 

I hate those teachers. I don’t hate passion, especially when it is motivation, but when those motivations don’t allow you to connect with the class, it becomes a barrier. And I always found it funny because, usually, they are the nicest teachers; they didn’t complain about our general laziness, as noise filled their classes.

"Are you feeling okay, Miss Cristina?" they asked sweetly when I fell asleep in their classes. Every time, every day, I lied. So smoothly, the lie goes out of my mouth. It was simply too easy, the truth, but it wasn’t the first time, and with time I have picked up the talent. 

I always stared at them with a face. I was often told it was a family face because people swear my brother makes the same face as I do. It was a life-stinks-me (I-hate-you) kind of face that made us seem unapproachable, and my art teacher says that it made us look like we hated everything, and that wasn’t exactly a lie. My best friend says that it made it seem like I was judging everyone, looking them down, condescending to them, and watching out for any mistake to then smirk. And that was true in teachers’ cases; I stared at them waiting for them to take a false step to make a comment that is not sarcastic on the surface but is full of poison, and sometimes I wished they died from it. Some even said that I hated them, and they don’t know how right they are. 

I recall sleeping through most of a lesson with one of those teachers, one I particularly disliked, and it's quite amusing because nothing happened that day. She didn’t do anything, pretending as if nothing had happened. Sometimes she came by, tapping my shoulder, asking if I was awake, and I always replied, "I am just closing my eyes."

I faintly remember how she would just smile and pursue another student, who continued pretending that he was doing something rather than the game of tic-tac-toe, and to nobody's surprise, the rest would write with invisible ink because the page was still blank; a sheet that at the end of the class would end up on the floor, empty but unusable, forgotten by the students of a classroom that didn't interest them, surrounded by pencils and erasers and pencil sharpeners and notebooks that had also been left behind. In the last ten minutes, I woke up, finished the task assignment, and went back to sleep without a care. That same day, a friend asked how I did so well when I spent the whole lesson sleeping. Zoning out just means your brain has switched over to autopilot. This can happen when your brain recognizes that you can complete your current task without really thinking about it. That's how easy things are. So my answer was simple: 

"I do great because I understand the topic. I can hear with my eyes closed, not completely asleep, and lastly, I know what they want to hear. "

I argued and debated with teachers, asking why they chose that theme, that poem, that assignment. We argued, with them always struggling to make me stay awake through the lecture. In exchange, I did it to annoy them and see how they reacted; I admit that it makes me happy when they can irritate me. It gives me satisfaction how they scramble for my approval. and something to do. 

They are superb people, very nice people. eyes-hurt-from-the-shine type of people. And that just throws me off. For me, a grumpy 15-year-old girl who doesn’t know what the hell she is going to do with her life, their motivation towards their classes, and the excitement on their faces when they talk about a topic just made me feel disorientated. And I try hard to pay attention, to see what they see when they talk about something, to see if their excitement rubs off on me, but it doesn’t. Every day, I struggle to keep my eyes open and to find their classes interesting, but my mind is in other places. I don't need to pay attention to do a good job, a great job, and I think that is the charm of my boredom. I fall asleep because I find that their classes are way too easy to engage my mind, and a way to feel entertained is by arguing, throwing tantrums, or simply having my eyes for a moment. Their classes weren't like science or math, which were more engaging. They didn’t need my dedication. Their classes aren’t dull; I am just bored and tired of feeling that despite how much lack of attention I possess, I still do well in their subjects. And it is frustrating. 

"Earth to Cristina," the teacher called out loudly. I snapped out of my daze. I was still in the same room, talking about something I couldn’t recall, with the same teacher, and the clock hadn’t moved an inch.