I’ve chosen a seat I like, a few rows back, and now wait with quiet apprehension. Only three other boys are already sitting. The one next to the second window, near the back, has swollen red eyes, but the rest of the boys are prancing around, buzzing with excitement. Some seem to be friends from before. I envy them. I just watch and wait. When a tall, bespectacled man enters and closes the door, the noise gives way to a criss-cross rushing back to places, and I have to brace myself, as my new neighbour jostles past, reclaiming his seat by the wall. With a big, welcoming smile, the teacher walks across the room, and places his old leather briefcase on the nearest corner of the desk. Standing back for a moment, he soberly takes time to reposition his case accurately, before finally pulling out the chair, and making himself comfortable. He then leans forward, right over the desk, beaming once again, and introduces himself. A familiar order now sets in, as he deliberately pulls out the register, and quietly realigns his case. I hope it stays this calm. I’m usually near the end of roll call, and I settle a little. The boy with the reddened eyes avoids my gaze and stares out through the iron bars fixed to the outside of the open window. Embarrassed, I move my attention away, up the thick walls and then down from the high ceiling. The desks aren’t marked or scratched at all and I like the wooden chairs. They’re modern and angular. With only two stout legs, running from the backrest down to the floor, they are steadied by sturdy feet. For a while, I touch and feel the smooth shape of these feet with the soles of my shoes. Sensing a change in the class, I plant my feet on the ground and look up. The attention of the children is newly focused, as the teacher makes a sprightly announcement.

He then calls, “Adam Vera?” and looks around expectantly.

I quietly raise my arm. He smiles in acknowledgement, and then moves on, calling out the last few names, but most of the boys are now staring at me. When he’s finished, he stands up, and moves a few steps closer. He talks to me, but I don’t understand. He continues, kindly, and I stare at his two gold teeth, but it’s hopeless. He won’t give up, though, and starts to use his hands. This is too much for some of the boys, however, and they surge forward, hopping and miming, as they repeat a variety of words over and over. Right in front of me, one particular curly red-haired boy is cranking an imaginary box in front of his face, and excitedly shouting, “Film, film, film.”

I’m confused, but after a little more upheaval three of the boys leave and soon return with a film projector.

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