Presentation Day

When Gizem's eyes opened to the dim morning light, she remained motionless in her bed for a moment. The sharp sound of the alarm had filled her room, but for a few seconds, she just stared at the ceiling, listening to herself. She pulled the blanket up to her chest, her fingers curling around the rough edges of the fabric, as she noticed the sound of waves seeping through the window—soft, rhythmic, like the pulse of the town. Slowly, she sat up, perched on the edge of the bed, and let her bare feet touch the wooden floor. As the coolness spread through her skin, a whisper rose inside her: Ten days, Gizem. Ten whole days. This place is no longer a shadow, but a reality. The sea is always the same, the waves are always the same… But am I changing?

She stood in front of the mirror, put on her navy blue skirt, adjusted the collar of her white shirt with her hand, and threw her cardigan over her shoulders. She looked at her reflection, and as she brushed her hair, her thoughts quickened: Today is project day. We’re presenting it to Ms. Ayşe. Beyza and I did a good job, but what if she doesn’t like it? If I were in Istanbul, I’d be working on the fair with Zeynep, laughing. Here, everything feels… heavier. I need to figure out this town—why is it so quiet, why is it so overwhelming?

She opened her bag and checked the project file: notes they had collected from the shore, Beyza’s drawings, Ece’s photographs. She picked up her journal from the corner of the desk and flipped to a page, reading what she had written the night before: “Day 9: The project is almost finished. Beyza is amazing, and Ece helped too. The class is still chaotic, but I’m getting used to it. Pınar and Beste won’t give up, Yiğit… He’s an interesting one. The town feels like it’s whispering something to me.” She picked up her pen and scribbled a few more words: “Day 10: Presentation day. Let’s see what happens.” She closed the journal and thought to herself: This town feels like a test. Everyone has a role, but me… What’s mine? I don’t know if I’m ready, but I can’t turn back. She slung her bag over her shoulder, quietly opened the door, and went down to the kitchen.

Nuray had already set the breakfast table. Toasts were sitting on the counter, alongside olives and white cheese, while the steam from the boiling water in the teapot fogged up the windows. Her hair was tied up, her movements quick yet calm—it was as if the town had given her a certain serenity too. Hakan was at the edge of the table, his glasses slipping down his nose, buried in his newspaper; with his tall frame, he sat slightly hunched over, his coffee cup trembling slightly in his hand.

“Good morning,” Gizem said, picking up her fork as she sat down, her voice still thick with sleep.

Nuray looked at her, a small smile on her lips. “Good morning. Isn’t today project day? Are you ready?” There was no trace of the strictness from a week ago in her voice—curiosity had taken its place.

“Yes, mom. Beyza and I will take one last look at the shore,” Gizem said, taking a bite of her toast. If I were in Istanbul, mornings wouldn’t be rushed. Mom would brush my hair, we’d laugh at breakfast. Here, everything feels like a duty.

Hakan lifted his head from his newspaper and looked over his glasses. “The shore, huh? Is the scent of the sea as nice as your project?” His eyes twinkled with quiet amusement.

Gizem grinned. “The sea makes everything beautiful, dad. The waves on the shore… It’s like they’re talking to us.” Are they really, or am I just reading into things?

Nuray raised her eyebrows slightly. “It’s a good project, it’ll be good for the town too,” she said, with rare approval in her voice. “Do you need anything?”

“Maybe you could help me organize the file tonight,” Gizem said, throwing a small smile at her mother.

“Alright, we’ll take a look,” Nuray said, stirring her tea, her eyes scanning Gizem thoughtfully.

Gizem finished her breakfast, grabbed her bike, and stepped outside. As she pedaled through the narrow streets of the town, the wind hit her face, tossing her hair around. The streetlights had turned off, fishermen were gathering their nets by the shore, and a stray cat lazily strolled along the roadside. This town is like a rhythm. Every day is the same, but is it me who’s looking at it differently? The school building came into view in the distance—its gray concrete walls and wide windows still felt a little foreign, but the fear from the first day was gone.

Beyza was waiting for her by the shore, her short brown hair swaying in the wind, a notebook in her hands. “Gizem, look at this,” she said, opening a page. A drawing of a seashell, with notes beside it: “Plastic waste from fishing boats.”

“This looks amazing,” Gizem said, pulling out the file. “We also added Ece’s photos. I hope Ms. Ayşe likes it.” As she flipped through the file, a thought crossed her mind: Maybe this project… Maybe this is how I leave a mark here.

Beyza smiled. “She’ll like it. Even the waves are with us.” She drew a small circle in the sand with a stick, her eyes drifting toward the sea.

“The sea is always saying something,” Gizem said, placing the file back into her bag. “Come on, we shouldn’t be late.” They got on their bikes and pedaled toward the school.

When they reached the schoolyard, students were gathered in groups, laughter filling the air. They locked their bikes and opened the door to class 12-A. The classroom was buzzing with activity. Pınar and Beste were whispering in a corner, Emre was animatedly telling Mert something, and Selin was buried in her notebook. Yiğit was sitting in the back row, his dark brown hair falling over his forehead, absentmindedly twirling a mechanical pencil in his fingers, his eyes fixed not on the class, but on his desk.

Emre noticed them. “The eco-warriors are here! Did you guys save the sea?” He pounded the table, laughing, his messy hair falling over his forehead.

Pınar smirked. “I’d be surprised if they did. What even is their presentation? A video of them picking up bottles from the shore?” She gave Beste a knowing look, flipping her long black hair over her shoulder.

Beste giggled. “Maybe they’ll play wave sounds in their PowerPoint!”

Gizem rolled her eyes and sat down at her desk. “Maybe one day you’ll actually do something,” she said, calm but sharp. If I were in Istanbul, Zeynep and I would laugh at this. Here, I grit my teeth.

Pınar raised her eyebrows. “Well, look at that, she’s grown bold!” But she fell silent, turning back to whispering with Beste.

Beyza leaned over to Gizem and whispered, “Ignore them, they’re just tense.” She placed her notebook on the desk, her short brown hair falling over her face.

When Ms. Ayşe entered, the class settled down a little. She carried a thick folder, her glasses perched on her nose, her voice tired but firm: “Presentations are starting. Who’s up first?”

Mert stood up. “Us, teacher!” He turned to Selin. “Come on, your highness.”

Selin clenched her teeth. “Don’t call me that, idiot!” She grabbed her notebook and walked up to the board. “We researched the town’s water sources,” she said, her voice shaky but clear.

As Mert opened the slides, a random photo of a cat accidentally popped up, sending the class into a burst of laughter.

“What is this, Mert?” Emre shouted, pounding the desk. “Is the water source a cat?”

Mert turned red. “Wrong file!” He looked at Selin. “You should’ve opened it!”

Selin snapped angrily. “You’re always this incompetent!” Ms. Ayşe frowned but didn’t say anything.

Next up were Gizem and Beyza. As Gizem walked up to the board, her heart sped up. What if she doesn’t like it? But this is our work. “We worked on marine pollution,” she said, her voice shaky at first, then growing stronger. “We collected samples from the shore. Fishermen’s waste mixes into the sea.” Beyza displayed the drawing, and Ece’s photos appeared on the slide—plastic bags, bottles, trash caught in nets.

Ms. Ayşe took notes. “Good. Your data is solid, and the examples are impressive,” she said with a rare smile. Pınar rolled her eyes, but Beste stayed silent. Gizem thought to herself: Maybe I do belong here.

Emre and Kaan’s presentation turned into chaos. Emre drew a funny caricature of Ms. Ayşe on the board, and the class broke into laughter again. “This is our environmental problem: the teacher!” he said, laughing.

Kaan took out his earbuds. “Cut it out,” he said, calm but firm. “Waste is serious, Emre.” He showed a screenshot on his phone—trash dumped from a fishing boat.

Ms. Ayşe sighed. “Emre, be serious, please. But Kaan, good point.” The class settled down a bit.

Yiğit’s group was last. In a calm voice, Yiğit said, “We focused on coastal erosion,” presenting the data in a table. He had led his group well—everyone fell silent, listening.

Ms. Ayşe’s eyes lit up. “Impressive,” she said.

When the bell rang, class ended, and the break began. A poster was hanging in the hallway: “Talent Contest—Saturday.”

Emre shouted, “We’ll mess up basketball again, Mert!”

Mert grinned. “Just pass the ball and we’ll see!”

Pınar smirked. “We’ll win with dance,” she said, giggling with Beste. “Just like last year.”

Beyza turned to Gizem. “Should I join with a drawing?” she asked, a hesitant excitement in her voice.

“Of course,” Gizem said, smiling. “I might… consider writing. I used to like it.” If I write something… Would it be about this town, Istanbul, or myself?

From the back rows, Yiğit’s voice reached them as he spoke to Ece. “I’ll probably do something with the guitar,” he said calmly. “Music fills the stage.” He absentmindedly scratched a mark on the desk with his pen.

Gizem overheard and thought to herself: Music? Yiğit… Both on the field and the stage. He really is different. But she didn’t go up to him. Instead, she leaned back in her seat, opened her journal, and scribbled a few lines:

“The presentation is over, and Ms. Ayşe liked it. There’s a festival—should I write something? Yiğit mentioned music, but I don’t know what I would choose.”

The break ended, and the class began to fill up again. Instead of Ms. Ayşe, Murat Bey walked in for the math lesson. Middle-aged, bearded, holding a stack of papers, he scanned the room.

“Today, we’re doing a short quiz,” he said, his voice cheerful yet authoritative. “The project was tiring, but math won’t wait.”

The class filled with groans.

“Hoca, wasn’t the project enough?” Emre whined, slumping onto the desk with laughter.

Mert shrugged. “Selin takes notes, we survive,” he said with a mocking grin.

Selin lifted her head. “Lazy idiot!” she snapped, slamming her notebook onto the desk.

Murat Bey began handing out the papers. Gizem took one and scanned the questions—tangled equations, graphs, functions. What is this now? Just when I thought I could relax after the project…

She picked up her pen and looked at the first question—an equation, simple factoring. Okay, I can do this, she thought, starting to solve it. But the second question was a graph analysis, and she got confused. Where is the x-axis increasing, what is decreasing? If I were in Istanbul, I’d study with Zeynep. Here… I’m alone.

She gripped her pen tightly, drew a line, and wrote a rough answer. The third question felt more familiar—a derivative problem.

Yes, I know this, she thought, solving it quickly. But time was running out. The classroom filled with the sound of pens scratching on paper, Emre’s occasional muttering, and Pınar whispering with Beste.

Focus, Gizem, she told herself, moving to the fourth question. A system of equations, two variables. If I solve this, it’s enough, she thought. But her hands had started to sweat. She solved it but realized she had made a mistake in the last step. She erased it and started over.

Her heart was racing. Will there be enough time? Math is important for Boğaziçi, don’t be stupid, she scolded herself. She barely managed to write a guess for the fifth question when the bell rang.

Murat Bey collected the papers. “Everyone, stop. Time’s up,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

Suddenly, Pınar stood up, holding a piece of paper. She whispered something to Beste, then approached Gizem’s desk.

“I think you dropped this,” she said, her voice dripping with fake politeness, placing the paper on Gizem’s desk.

Beste giggled, her eyes gleaming.

Gizem frowned and opened the paper. Inside was a caricature—a girl in a clown outfit, with the caption: “The new girl’s quiz score: 0.”

The classroom erupted into laughter—Emre pounded the desk, Mert whistled. Gizem’s cheeks burned, her eyes stung, but she pressed her lips together. Again? But I won’t give up.

She slowly crumpled the paper and tucked it under her desk.

Beyza immediately leaned in. “Ignore them,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “This is stupid.”

Pınar smirked. “It’s just a joke, don’t take it so seriously!” she said, turning to Beste with a laugh.

But at that moment, the paper slid toward Murat Bey—whether Beste had pushed it or not was unclear.

The teacher picked it up, glanced at the caricature, and frowned.

“Who did this?” he asked, his voice hardening.

The class fell silent.

Pınar shrugged. “I don’t know, teacher, it was on the floor,” she said in an innocent voice, but her eyes flickered nervously.

Murat Bey held the paper up. “Is this a joke? You’re drawing cartoons in the middle of class?”

His gaze landed on Pınar, then swept across the room. “One of you better speak up, or you’ll all get zero.”

Emre laughed nervously. “Hoca, I swear I didn’t draw it!” he said, but his voice wavered.

Beste whispered, “Pınar, you idiot, why did you put it on the desk?”

Pınar flushed. “Shut up, you laughed too!” she hissed, panic creeping into her voice.

Gizem lowered her head, but a small smile flickered inside her. This time, it backfired. She glanced at Beyza, who gave her a tiny nod, smiling as well.

Murat Bey crumpled the paper and threw it in the trash. “This is my final warning. The test results will be announced next week,” he said and headed for the door. The bell rang, marking the end of the lesson.

The class stirred. Mert stood up. “How many did you get, Emre? Five?” he grinned.

Emre shrugged. “I probably passed. You?”

“Maybe fifteen,” Mert laughed. “Selin definitely got a perfect score!”

Selin lifted her head. “I wish. Around eighteen,” she said with a hint of disappointment in her voice.

Pınar turned to Beste. “I think I got sixteen. You?”

Beste giggled. “Fourteen. But the cartoon was more fun!” She nudged Pınar with her elbow.

Emre shouted, “Gizem, what about you? Did you save the sea again?”

Gizem shrugged. “I don’t know… around twelve,” she said, calm but firm. Average. Not bad, but not enough for Boğaziçi. She thought to herself: I need to work harder.

Beyza whispered, “Twelve is good. I got ten, don’t feel bad.” She smiled and gathered her notebook.

Kaan took off his headphones. “Eighteen,” he said calmly, without looking at anyone. The class went silent for a moment.

Emre whistled. “Kaan is flying again! Yiğit, you?”

Yiğit lifted his head from the back row. “Around sixteen,” he said calmly, tapping his pen on the desk.

Pınar raised an eyebrow. “Is everyone doing better than me or what?” She grinned at Beste, but there was tension in her voice.

Gizem packed her bag and walked toward the door with Beyza. Twelve… Average. But I won’t give up. She got on her bike outside and pedaled through the town’s streets. The wind hit her face, and the scent of the sea filled her lungs.

When she arrived home, Nuray opened the door, and the smell of food wafted from the kitchen—olive oil beans.

“How was the project?” Nuray asked curiously, holding a plate.

“It went well, Mom. Ms. Ayşe liked it,” Gizem said, setting her bag down and taking off her cardigan.

Hakan lifted his head from the couch and folded his newspaper. “Did you leave a mark at least?” His eyes twinkled as he placed his coffee cup on the table.

Gizem smiled. “I think so, Dad. The presentation was good, but the day was… interesting.” She sat down and looked at the plate her mother had set in front of her.

Nuray raised an eyebrow. “Interesting? What happened?” She poured a glass of water and leaned on the table.

“We had a test in math,” Gizem said, picking up her fork. “Pınar played a prank on me, drew a cartoon. But the teacher caught her, and it backfired.”

Hakan laughed. “Look at that, the town girl isn’t backing down! What did the teacher do?”

“He threw the paper away and scolded her,” Gizem said, taking a bite of beans. “And the test… I did average, about twelve.”

Nuray nodded. “Twelve isn’t bad. You’ll improve with study.” Her voice was supportive as she sipped her tea.

“Yes, Mom. I still have a long way to go for Boğaziçi,” Gizem thought to herself: But I’m starting to find a place here.

Hakan took off his glasses and placed them on the table. “Project, test, pranks… This town is keeping you busy. What will you do for the festival?”

Gizem hesitated for a moment. “Maybe I’ll write,” she said, her voice soft but determined. “I used to love it.”

Nuray smiled. “That’s great. You’ll write and read it to us,” she said, gathering the plates.

Gizem went to her room, lay on her bed, and wrote in her journal:

“Day 10: The project is over, Ms. Ayşe liked it. Test score: twelve, average. Pınar failed, I won—silently. I’ll write for the festival. I will leave a mark in this town.”