Morning arrived with an unusual sight: the door of the sophomore classroom, grade 10's pride, saw two tardy students.

One hour earlier:

Joanna's eyes fluttered open to the harsh reality of running late. Panic gripped her as she hastily donned her school uniform, hurriedly navigating her morning routine before bolting down the stairs. Each step echoed thunderously in the cavernous silence of the house. From behind, Aunt Lisa's gentle voice admonished, "Slow down, dear."

Her father, seated with his breakfast in the living room, was unaccustomed to such a clamorous morning. Even in bygone days, his younger daughter had learned to tread quietly from an early age. With a stern glance, he reprimanded, "Why the rush at this hour?"

Joanna's momentum faltered; she grasped the stair banister, immobilized by contrasting needs—punctuality against parental disapproval, anxious tears welling involuntarily.

Seeing her stricken expression, her father turned his attention back to his meal without further comment.

Aunt Lisa nudged Joanna gently, "Best get moving—it's nearly time."

Out the door she went, breath held until outside the threshold, where relief mingled with urgency. Her commute to the city spanned a tedious half-hour bus ride—a pathway she was not yet familiar with, leaving her to wander the bustling streets at a loss amid morning commuters.

Sunshine bore down, beads of sweat forming as indecision mounted. Left or right? She bounced anxiously on her toes, on the verge of tears, until fortune smiled in the shape of a schoolmate's familiar figure.

Matt’s tall frame brushed past her as relief surged. She latched onto his sleeve imploringly, "Could we head to school together?"

Matt shrugged her grasp off without pause.

Undeterred, Joanna quickened her pace to keep alongside him.

"Shall we…" she gasped, “take the bus? We’re… running late.”

Indifference marked his silence, unperturbed.

She persisted stubbornly, "We’re… late… shall we—”

Finally, Matt halted.

Joanna's hopeful expression met a curt, “Bus fare?”

“Uh?” she fumbled through her pockets, “Last night’s hundred still stays.”

Undismayed, Matt forged ahead, indifferent to her meek protest about the errant payment made by another girl for journey fare.

“They’re gone.”

Matt’s brow creased, a hint of impatience surfacing. Hesitation gripped Joanna, yet she reached into her backpack to produce a crumpled fifty-dollar bill—memories of her grandmother whispering regretful reluctance only she could hear.

Chilled by the morning breeze, she wiped at her eyes, and relief flared as Matt hailed a taxi. In gratitude, she whispered, “Thank you.”

Silence marked his reply.

...

Euphoria crumbled under the weight of tardiness—such was the solemn fear Joanna bore as she barreled into class, half the English lesson already elapsed. The ever-amiable Mr. Smith descended to question, "Why the delay today?"

Flustered, Joanna opened her mouth to apologize but, at that moment, Matt leisurely entered, offering coolly, "Went to the airport last night—slept late."

Mr. Smith frowned, "Why so late at the airport?"

Then, his gaze fell to Joanna, "And you?"

Snagging on an opportunity for excuse, she nodded eagerly, "Same reason."

Her exaggerated antics stirred laughter among classmates.

Mr. Smith sighed in exasperation, “Well, then, stand outside and contemplate your mischief.”

Thus, the sophomore classroom bore witness to an uncommon scene—two students standing outside, pondering their transgression.

Joanna, her history characterized by responsibility as class president, stood humbled like a sunflower facing the sun.

Conversely, Matt bore no such resignation, posture stiff and barely concealed disdain simmering beneath a whispered, “Dimwit.”

“What?” Joanna muttered, bewildered, wondering if she'd misheard.

Matt's silence persisted, dismissing any uncertainty.

When, twenty minutes later, Mr. Smith beckoned them inside, Joanna discovered her legs wearily tingling. As she hobbled back to her seat, she noticed the murmuring gestures from peers.

Turning, she found two classmates suppressing giggles and caught her deskmate, Lucy’s, counsel, “Your shirt's on backward.”

Realization was swift and mortifying. Attempting discreet rectification in her chair, Lucy announced once more, “Still wrong.”

Laughter erupted; snickers echoed as Lucy loudly alerted much of the class to Joanna's plight. Joanna wished for invisibility, pleading quietly, “Could you keep it down?”

Lucy, unperturbed, “Was I loud?”

Joanna fought back the notion of malice, elaborating, “You said it so everyone—”

She stammered on, “Found out.”

“They know, they know,” Lucy remarked carelessly, “Pay heed next time.”

Joanna obscured her face with a water cup, swearing she'd see no repeat embarrassment.

...

A break saw her slip into the restroom—a sanctuary with separate stalls. Just entered, the shuffle of footsteps and the titter of voices disrupted her thoughts.

Their gossip touched on subjects to follow, one stated, “Literature’s next.”

Another piped, “How amusing! The new girl’s reading was gold—couldn’t stop laughing.”

A mimic among them imitated in jest, theirs laughter full-bodied.

Efforts to calm herself faltered; buttons proved elusive beneath quivering fingers, her palms hot with frustration.

A call of “Hurry up—it’s starting,” unspooled their mirthful soiree, their footsteps receded into stillness.

Dripping taps underscored solitude as Joanna tentatively emerged, straightened herself before the mirror though imperfections lingered. With a splash of cold against flushed cheeks, she reminded herself: their amusement bore no malice, intended only in jest.

Not ridicule… she reassured through watery eyes, bisected by a tight-lipped sob.

...

Since meeting the Mandarin-challenged peer, Ms. Lee insisted Joanna grasp the self-conscious spotlight in reading. Her recitations often poised class-clowns quaking.

Ms. Lee's meticulous corrections voiced an unattained pursuit—the same phonetic finesse beyond her grasp, fueling merriment.

Missteps concluded, Joanna returned to her seat amid Lucy’s peevish glances. Brow braided in displeasure, eyelash flick too demure within its irritation.

A scrap of paper flashed, ‘You’re stalling progress.’

Joanna’s pulse quickened, features set still against blackboard’s focus.

A follow-up note thrust terse, ‘You draw attention deliberately!’

Ignoring invitation to engage, her posture rigid as a plucked string.

Lucy implored, ‘Why refuse response!’

How to reply? Your incision slices my peace. Joanna’s throat throbbed, grieving naive trust, thinking Lucy friend.

...