9

The room shifted the moment Mr. Nakano leaned back against the desk and waved us on.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Figure it out. I’ll just be here pretending to supervise.”

And with that, the class burst into motion.

Chairs scraped as people leaned across aisles, voices overlapping, hands waving. For the first time since yesterday, it felt like the class was breathing together instead of thirteen individuals trapped in the same room.

“Cooking!” Aoi said brightly, raising her hand like she was in court. “We could make food for the seniors, like bentos or sweets to give them energy. Everyone loves snacks!”

“Free food doesn’t count as entertainment,” someone muttered, though a few students nodded thoughtfully.

“I’ve got it!” Yuuto jumped up from his seat in the front, slamming his hand against his desk dramatically. “Comedy show. I’ll be the lead, of course. I was born for this role.”

Groans filled the room before anyone could even answer.

“No way.”

“Too risky.”

“You’ll get us all in trouble.”

“Don’t underestimate my genius!” Yuuto cried, spinning to face the room like he was on stage already. A few people laughed anyway, which only fueled him more.

“Quiz,” Rika said flatly from her desk near the windows. Her tone cut clean through the noise. “We could run a quiz show. Educational, challenging. Something to stimulate their minds while preparing them for exams.”

Half the class groaned this time, but at least she had her supporters.

“That’s so boring,” one boy complained.

“It makes sense,” another girl argued. “We’re supposed to be cheering them on, right? What better way than to prove they’ve got it?”

Haruka raised her hand gently. She’d been quiet most of the discussion, listening carefully. “What about music?” she suggested. “A live performance. We could sing or play instruments. Something fun, uplifting.”

That idea actually got a reaction. Heads turned, eyes lit up. A few students started murmuring about karaoke or bringing instruments from home.

And just like that, the conversation sparked all over again.

One group debated skits versus a comedy act. Another started imagining what food would be easiest to make in bulk. The more serious ones considered quiz formats, while the louder voices pushed for a full-blown concert.

The room was alive in a way it hadn’t been before. People laughed, argued, scribbled notes, waved their hands. It didn’t matter that half the ideas were impossible or ridiculous — it mattered that everyone was talking, that the class was starting to sound like a class.

A sound cleared from the front of the room — Mr. Nakano, dragging everyone’s attention back in an instant.

“Well,” he said, rubbing his chin like he’d just solved some great mystery, “clearly, my children, you’re all very enthusiastic. That’s good. That’s healthy. But if you want this to actually work, you’ll need a leader.”

He looked out over the class. “So… who wants the job?”

Almost every hand shot up.

Except mine. And Haruka’s. And the quiet guy beside me, who still hadn’t moved since morning. The boy with headphones near the back didn’t bother either, nor did the kid sitting all the way at the edge of the room, chewing calmly on the end of his pencil.

Mr. Nakano let his gaze linger on us for a moment. Then he pointed to the guy that chewing the end of his pencil.

“You. Shohei Tanaka. Congratulations. You’re now both class representative and the leader of this project.”

The room turned in unison, all eyes locking onto Shohei.

He blinked, smiled sheepishly, and scratched the back of his head. “Sure, Mr. Nakano.”

A ripple of chatter spread. Some people seemed relieved, others surprised, a few whispering questions about who he even was.

I didn’t know him either, not really. But he didn’t look bothered by the sudden attention. Just relaxed, like he’d been handed a heavy bag and decided to carry it anyway.

Haruka leaned forward in her seat, her voice soft but clear. “So, Shohei… got any idea?”

Shohei leaned back in his chair, resting his elbows against the desk. He didn’t rush to answer Haruka’s question, just thought for a moment while everyone watched.

“Well,” he said finally, “we don’t have a big class. Thirteen people isn’t a lot. If we put all our effort into just one thing, it might feel a little thin.”

A few students nodded quietly.

“So instead of choosing one,” he went on, “why don’t we do a kind of mini-festival? Everyone can take part in smaller groups. A skit, a quiz corner, maybe music, maybe even snacks to hand out. We split into teams, and the seniors can enjoy different things all in one place.”

For a second, the room went still.

Then Yuuto slapped his desk. “Yes! I can headline the comedy corner. I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire life.”

“Absolutely not the headline,” someone muttered.

Aoi raised her hand, smiling. “If it’s a festival, then I’ll do cooking. We can make something easy, like cookies or rice cakes. Portable, no mess.”

“That could work,” Haruka said softly. “And I’d love to do music. Maybe a song performance.”

“I’ll prepare a quiz,” Rika added, already adjusting her glasses like she was planning it out in her head. “Educational, but fun. Multiple-choice format.”

“That doesn’t sound fun,” Yuuto said immediately.

“It will be,” Rika replied, deadpan.

The chatter started again, small groups forming, ideas bouncing around. For such a small class, the room suddenly felt big.

Shohei scratched his head, smiling faintly at the noise he’d stirred up.

“See?” he said. “This way, everyone gets to do what they’re good at. Nobody’s left out, and we’ll actually look organized.”

It was simple. But it worked.

Even I had to admit, for someone who’d been handed the role out of nowhere, Shohei made it sound easy.

To be continued