Chapter 2, Part 4 - Do Understanding Teachers Exist?

Fifteen minutes later…

«Sorry for the delay, I had a small setback.»

Those were the teacher’s first words as soon as she stepped into the classroom. Let’s just say her arrival shattered a budding dream of ours—and by “ours,” I mean mine and the entire class’s.

The possibility that she might not show up at all, and that we might therefore get a free hour without lessons, had begun to feel real. And for once, we all seemed united in hoping that our wish would come true.

Everyone had taken part in that collective thought—even those who love studying, even those who always do their best at school. Everyone wanted to escape their books, even if only for an hour.

There was one potential danger, though: a substitute teacher might appear and ruin that infinite possibility. Yet we all knew that something like that would never happen.

Why?

Because there are too few teachers, and they can barely manage the classes already assigned to them. Everyone has a role, and no one is left without one.

I’m sitting at the very back of the classroom, yet I can clearly see the teacher’s desk. She’s there, slowly freeing herself of the things she wore before leaving home: yes, her padded jacket and her bag, filled with who knows how many sheets covered in concepts still unknown to us… or at least, that’s probably the case.

When the teacher explained out loud why she was late, Marco didn’t hesitate to reply. His tone was strange, as if he were joking about it, almost mocking the authority standing before him.

«Take your time, prof, no need to rush.»

He sits in the front row, which is pretty strange considering his attitude. I mean, why would someone who just wants to fool around choose to sit right in front of everyone? It’s not a strategic position—every single movement he makes is under the teacher’s eyes.

I know they sound like normal words, but I’m sure he said them just to draw attention to himself. That comment wasn’t empty or random: there’s a reason he’s always talking.

On top of that, I know his attitude is provocative, because right after that he turned toward his two accomplices and said something else, still wearing that usual smirk of his.

I don’t have proof, but I’m sure it wasn’t anything nice. After all, the students sitting behind him seemed to have heard something, because they burst out laughing almost immediately.

If I remember correctly, since the beginning of the school year Marco has made several “appreciative” comments about the teacher—not in a pure or genuine way, but with a certain hint of malice. To put it simply, I mean comments about her looks and her supposed beauty.

I don’t think it’s appropriate to think that way about a teacher. In fact, I don’t think anyone would want to be the target of comments like that. Even though, by saying this, I’m basically denying the existence of people who actually enjoy such remarks—and that’s obviously a rather hasty conclusion. The world is vast and full of all kinds of people, so many that we can’t even imagine the things they might do, things that would seem strange or even sick to us.

Oh, just to be clear: he never said any of that in front of her. They were just comments he made around his classmates, and since I’m someone who always keeps to herself, I happened to overhear them.

I have no idea how the male mind works at this age or in situations like this. Maybe it’s normal for boys to start feeling certain things. I suppose it also has to do with the fact that she looks quite young for her age, which should be around thirty.

I don’t know… thinking about these things is embarrassing, especially because I feel completely unfit even for the idea that one day it might be my turn. At my age I should probably be interested in these things, in relationships and what might come after, but right now they don’t seem important to me. They feel distant, unreachable, and only time will tell whether that will ever change.

Ah—enough with these stupid thoughts. They’re not good for me, and if I keep going I’ll end up red as a tomato.

I lift my gaze slightly to see where the teacher is now… Huh?! Wait! I’m not ready! She can’t come this way without warning! Hey—don’t tell me I didn’t hear what she said because I was lost in my thoughts?!

Yeah. Just like always.

Okay, she’s coming. She’s correcting the notebooks of the students sitting in front of me, and then she’ll reach me. It’s fine. I’ve done my duty, I don’t have to be afraid of anything… even though she might say something, and that would mean trouble.

Thank goodness those three aren’t completely evil. If they’d wanted to, they could’ve kept my notebook and made me look like an idiot. I mean, I could’ve said I forgot it at home but had done the homework—but teachers don’t always believe that, and sometimes they decide otherwise, without much mercy.

Someone might ask: won’t the teacher notice that they copied from you? It depends. Since today’s exercises were grammar analysis—ones the teacher insisted on repeating because of the class’s low level—everything should go smoothly.

They’re relatively simple, so even if she doubted they did them on their own, she might still think they managed. A bit of effort. A spark of determination. Although there’s one possible problem.

I don’t actually know if I did them correctly. I assume I did, but I can’t be sure. So if there are mistakes and she checks carefully, she’ll see they’re all the same. Even just noticing three identical notebooks could make her suspicious. Still, she often just gives them a quick glance, and that might save us.

She prefers correcting them on the board, calling someone up to solve them. More often than not, it becomes an excuse for an unexpected oral test—and if you don’t know how to do the exercise once you’re there, it’s obvious the homework wasn’t yours.

As you can imagine, I never want to be chosen for something like that. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But that’s just my perspective. Others don’t want it because they’d rather avoid choosing between a good grade and a bad one—which could even lead to a fight with their parents.

I imagine what they might think, and in doing so I end up hurting myself.

The universe isn’t really attacking me. Not when it’s only my body acting according to rules I still don’t understand.

This is just how I am. And maybe there’s something bigger behind it. It’s not my fault if I’m like this. I’m not denying my own words—at least not if it turns out I truly have social anxiety. I can’t diagnose myself. I can believe it fits me, but without a professional’s confirmation, I’ll never know the truth.

No one connects this to my silence. Not everyone knows disorders like this exist. People think I do it on purpose, that I don’t want to excel, that I don’t try hard enough, that I choose to stay in my own world. But that’s not true.

I’ve always said I want to overcome these difficulties, but no matter how much time passes, I can’t. Even when I’m given a task and fail to complete it, the few people I know tell me I’m not trying hard enough, that I could do it if I wanted to, that I’m smart enough—and that the only reason I fail is because of my lack of willpower.

I hate the word effort. I hate it even though I wish I didn’t. It’s a powerful word, one that speaks of inner strength, but I don’t think it should be associated with me. Not the way everyone does.

I’m useless—that’s why I can’t finish anything. I don’t do it on purpose. I gain nothing from failing. Why would I sabotage myself? Why would I choose to disappoint the few people who believe in me?

And when my body gives in and accepts defeat, my mind follows, becoming a tangle of sadness and quiet anger.

Only now do I realize the teacher has finished correcting Marco’s group. Everything seems fine; none of them looks worried. That means no consequences.

As soon as she turns to correct the next person’s notebook, Marco turns toward me, wearing his usual grin. As if celebrating a victory, he raises his thumb in an “OK” gesture.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel looking at him right now. I mean, he wasn’t exactly kind earlier, so…

Watching the teacher approach has a certain effect on me, the same feeling I get when we’re called on just to continue reading. In those moments, you can be chosen randomly or in order of seating, which lets me calculate how many people are left before it’s my turn. I don’t think that’s unusual—everyone wants to be ready when their moment comes.

The classroom is anything but silent. No one really cares whether others’ homework is correct, so everyone is doing their own thing. That’s why the room is filled with noise—well, really just one: chatter.

Everyone’s talking, making it hard for the teacher to hear the students she’s correcting. So every now and then she has to ask for quiet. She doesn’t do it harshly; she’s actually quite polite.

«Please, guys, could you lower your voices a bit?»

She says it more than once, but nothing really changes. At this point, there’s only one explanation.

Her authority is fading—or maybe it was never there.

I guess I’ve been a little harsh in my thoughts about teachers. Some of them really don’t let you breathe, and at the slightest noise they turn into beasts. But her? She’s never been overbearing. She’s never imposed herself. And maybe that’s the problem—if you don’t instill fear, no one listens.

Sofia Veronelli.

It bothers me that the class doesn’t give her the respect she deserves. She’s kind. She’s good at her job. Why not make an effort for someone like her? She’s the only one who’s tried to understand my difficulties, the only one who’s given me a bit of trust.

That’s why I can’t fail.

That’s why I have to do my best in her subject.

Not because I love it, but solely because I appreciate how she treats me.

She’s almost here now.

Honestly, I’m curious. I wonder what she’ll say, whether she’ll stay silent. The words of teachers like her matter to me—I feel like I have to treasure them, whether they’re praise or criticism.

And I can relax. The exercises are correct. I have nothing to fear.

«Finally, I’ve reached you, Kaede.»

My notebook is right there on the desk, ready to be examined. Probably one of the last times it will be, judging by how few pages are left.

Everything’s fine—until I realize she’s not looking at my homework.

She’s looking at me.

Waiting for me to speak.

I lift my head and look at her, a little intimidated.

«How are you today? Are you feeling a bit better than the other day?»

Yes… the other day. The first time I’d cried at school.

I’m not proud of it. I just showed everyone how much of a crybaby I am, how I can cry over nothing.

My hands are clasped together, my fingers fidgeting.

«Y-yeah… a little.»

She smiles at me, trying to reassure me, and that makes me incredibly happy.

«I’m glad to hear that. You don’t have to worry so much—it was just a bad grade, and you have plenty of time to make up for it. Take your time, and I’m sure you’ll do great in front of your classmates.»

In front of everyone? Me? Really?

Too much. Way too much confidence.

She’s overestimating me, but why? I’ve only been decent these past months. I don’t think I could ever really stand out, especially in front of all those faces.

I always think the same thoughts, the same worries, the same complaints. I can’t help it—they scare me.

«A-and if… I can’t do it?»

I’d expect some kind of physical gesture of reassurance, but she just smiles.

«You know, Kaede, you can’t think like that. If a soldier went into battle already convinced they’d lose, they’d never give their best. You need to trust yourself. Truly trust who you are. Only then can you succeed—and I’m sure you will.»

The same cycle of words. That’s how I’d describe the speeches people give me to encourage me.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate them—I do. I’m glad people care. Maybe that even makes me someone who just wants attention.

No… that’s not true.

I just mean I’ve heard all this so many times I’ve lost count.

The problem is that these words never lead to results. And the proof is right here: I’m still the same Kaede.

I don’t want to think about it now. I just need to listen.

«Can you promise me you’ll give it your all in the next activities?»

I try to look her in the eyes, but I fail almost instantly.

«I-I promise.»

«Good. I’m counting on you.»

She leans closer, to look at my exercises more carefully—and to hear me better.

«Now then… I see you let those three in front copy from you.»

What?!

How does she know?!

She hasn’t even looked at mine! Did she realize it earlier?! Of course—she’s not stupid!

Oh no… I don’t like this. I really don’t.

My mind goes blank, though my body barely reacts—just a slight change in expression.

«I-I… um…»

«Relax. I’m not accusing you, and I’m not going to punish you. I just wanted to hear it from you. And your face already gave me the answer.»

Damn it—my face never hides anything!

«Y-yes… it’s true… but—»

«Tell me, why do you let them copy? I don’t see a good reason, unless you’re just trying to help classmates who clearly don’t want to study.»

She’s never seen how they treat me.

Because they only act when teachers aren’t around—and I’ll never be the one to say it. Never.

No one must know. It would cause too many problems. Enough to ruin my everyday life.

«I-I h-help—»

«I see. But I’ve never seen you talk to them. Actually… I’ve never seen you talk to anyone. You should try socializing a little more, slowly, one step at a time.»

Ah, yes… rubbing salt in the wound.

«I-I’ll try…»

«Maybe I could organize some group activities, even homework ones. I think that way you might make friends with someone in class.»

No.

Stop.

Don’t.

That’s too much.

Those ideas terrify me. Their glow is blinding.

Those aren’t small steps.

She wants to throw me into a battle royale with no escape.

…Mm.

I just nod. I don’t have the strength to argue.

«Oh, it’ll be great, trust me. Shy little Kaede will open up to the world and form new bonds. I can’t wait to see it happen! You want to meet people, don’t you?»

Is she crazy?!

«Trust me—if you follow my advice, you’ll become the most popular girl in school. Everyone will want to know your routine and your passions.»

The more she talks, the closer she gets.

Too close. Way too close.

I don’t like this—please, step back.

And me… popular? Impossible.

I don’t even have a routine, let alone interesting passions. I’d go from “popular” to laughingstock in half a second.

«Were… you popular?»

Her enthusiasm fades instantly.

«No. I was the biggest loser in class.»

She lets out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh.

«I see…»

«They used to play all kinds of pranks on me—stealing my things, putting liquids or dirt on my chair, even dunking my head in the toilet. Typical high school stuff.»

Typical?!

Will that happen to me too?!

I don’t want to end up with my hair soaked in toilet water… even if it’s technically clean at first—no! Stop! This is a nightmare!

I can’t even imagine it.

I mean, just look at her: blonde hair, blue eyes, a body Marco makes disgusting comments about. Can someone like that really have been a “loser”?

Well… maybe.

And I’m not even considering that back then she might not have looked like this at all.

«But don’t worry. I don’t think anyone here is cruel enough to do things like that to you. And why would they? You keep to yourself, sure, but you’re a good girl—maybe even too good, since you helped those slackers. You’re not the type to get into trouble, unlike me. I was pretty rebellious.»

Rebellious? Her?

It’s not that strange, really. Teachers were students once, just like us. Of course they had their own phases.

Even the strictest teacher might have been a rebellious teen once. People change. They learn. They look back and cringe at the things they did. But those things are still part of who they are.

What would a rebellious person look like? How should I imagine one? My first thought is someone dressed in black, but that’s just clothes. Anyone can wear an angel’s outfit and still be terrible.

She says there are no evil people… but she’s wrong.

Very wrong.

The “slackers,” as she calls them, scare me. Not because they don’t study—but because of the way they look at others. Like everything is a game. Like people aren’t people, but toys to use when bored.

And yet I keep living my days the same way.

Identical.

Predictable.

Safe.

I wake up, go to school, try not to be noticed, do my homework, go home. A never-ending loop. Maybe that’s what keeps me going—knowing what comes next, not having to face the unknown.

«You know, Kaede,» she says softly, «sometimes we build our own cages. And staying inside feels safer than stepping out, even when the door is open.»

I don’t reply.

Not because I don’t want to—but because I don’t know how.

Throughout the whole conversation I’ve barely spoken, only muttering a few meaningless words. Saying anything now would contradict everything that came before.

Part of me wants to believe her. Wants to think she’s right—that this is just a phase, that one day I’ll be able to look people in the eyes without my heart exploding.

But the other part… the quieter, more tired one… knows it’s not that simple.

My cage doesn’t have a door.

Only walls that slowly close in.

And I just stand still, hoping no one notices.