Self Inflicted

"Tee-cha," hisses Aysha as I am about to enter the classroom, "we wait here, okay?"

I stare in confusion at the three girls huddled together outside the door. "Why? It's time for class--"

Melis and Gamze shake their heads. "Inside so bad smell," whispers Gamze. She leans forward, peering through the open door at the boys in the classroom. "Dis-gusting."

I take a step into the classroom and back out immediately. All three windows are open in the classroom and a strong wind is blowing through, but that still hasn't managed to do the job. The boys won't meet my eyes, and no wonder.

Aysha taps my arm and raises her eyebrows. "You see?"

I nod. It's clear that someone has over-indulged in beans. One of the boys is a chronic offender. It's happened often enough before and he's practically cleared the room every time. You think he'd learn what to avoid eating, especially just before a class!

That afternoon, I'm going down the stairs behind a young teacher wearing three-inch heels. I can only marvel at her speed: the stairs, made of polished stone, are treacherous, and even in my sensible teaching shoes, I take them at a cautious granny pace. Even as I shake my head at her breakneck descent, she trips and goes flying. I watch in open-mouthed horror as the woman's books and CD player clatter down the stairs and she lands in a rumpled heap at the bottom. Before I can offer to help, she struggles to her feet, gathers up her books and clacks off, limping, her stockings hanging in shreds. Poor woman, but really: in heels like that she ought to know better!

Next morning in class, there is a thud followed by a scream. Ilker, a great loutish youth who practically sits on his neck and -- if I didn't stop him -- would try and sleep his way through the entire class-- is clutching his forehead, his features contorted in pain. He rocks back and forth, moaning, and for a brief moment, I panic: this kid is clearly having a stroke! But before I can reach for my phone, Ilker's features relax and his mouth, open in agony, snaps shut, lips compressed. Still wincing from pain, he uncovers his forehead and turns to his neighbor, pointing to his eyebrow and gasping out a question in Turkish.

I put down my book and move towards him. "What's wrong?"

Whimpering, Ilker points to his forehead. A couple of days ago, he had his eyebrow pierced and he's been proudly sporting one of those largish studs that sticks out on both sides. Ilker obviously isn't used to it yet; when he smacked his head down on the desk as he often does, it must have hurt like billy-o. Watching him, I am torn by conflicting reactions: Poor Ilker and Idiot.

The following Monday, Bulut sits in class, looking dazed and sullen. In the back of the classroom, a hinge on one of the chairs is in desperate need of an oiling: every time the kid sitting in it leans forward, there is a high-pitched metallic squeal that makes us all cringe. Every time it squeals, Bulut's face turns pale and he winces.

"Are you sick?" I ask him, frowning. His face is ash-colored and he looks like any minute he could fill a plastic bag.

Bulut starts to nod, then shakes his head -- and winces. Now I get it: Bulut has a hangover. It's not like it's the first time he's come to class like this either.

Really, some people just don't learn!

That evening after my very last class, I make my exhausted way upstairs to the teachers' room and stop, horrified. The door has been locked; my key is inside, along with my coat, bag, and the key to the ladies' room. At this hour, the janitors don't know who is still teaching and who has gone home, and they are all too likely to lock up before us last stragglers can collect our things. I am joined by one of my colleagues who is also without her key. There we stand with our CD players, stacks of homework, and pile of textbooks, longing for our coats and bags -- and the ladies' room key. And this is the third time this very thing has happened, to the both of us.

Sigh. Some of us never learn, do we?