Ellen knew that today’s biology class would be a nightmare. She skimmed through the textbook at the end of summer – just to familiarise herself with the syllabus before the term started – and as soon as she saw the chapter about the human reproductive system, her heart sank, because she knew what to expect.
There would be audible snorts and giggles and furtively whispered remarks around the room, especially at the back of the class. Ellen understands her teacher’s withering glares in that direction. If she were trying to get through this chapter, she too would bark “silence!” and slam her hand against the desk.
It takes a brave student to risk the wrath of Ms Harmon, but the back-of-the-class gang will no doubt screech over their lunch desk that all the talk about sperm and eggs was so funny, they just couldn’t help it.
Ellen is supposed to find it funny too, of course – she’s well aware of that. This lesson is meant to send her into helpless paroxysms of laughter; it should be hilarious beyond words.
Only a month into First Year and she’s already bored by this place. Her classmates are hopelessly immature. How is she going to stick it out for the next six years? The others already think she’s too weird, too serious, too intense.
Ellen knows what she wants. She will get top marks in her exams, she’ll be accepted into the most prestigious accounting programme that’ll take her, and she’ll be out of here as soon as possible.
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