“BAH BAH BAH BAH!” The built-in alarm clock on my Nook was going off, and it was time for another day of school.
I sat up in bed and let out a small, “Meh,” as I hit the snooze button and collapsed back into my wonderful bed. If only I could just stay here and forget about school completely. That was not the case.
“Eli!” My mom called. “The bus will be here soon!”
I quickly stood up and changed into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. I bounded down the stairs and crammed my breakfast in my mouth, still chewing as I tied my shoes. Grabbing a piece of gum out of my Mom’s purse (The bus was coming around the corner at this point, so I wouldn’t have time to brush my teeth) and sticking it in my mouth as the fresh flavor of Spearmint began to contort my breath into something more appealing, I grabbed my backpack and headed out the door.
Panting and boarding the bus, I took a seat and hung on. Screams of nearby children filled my ears as the rickety excuse for an automobile headed around the corner. The interior was never clean, but when compared to my classroom at school, it was spotless.
The rain continued to patter on the windows of the bus as it pulled to a halt in front of Longfellow Elementary. I stood up with a sigh and began  to approach the backside of the place of learning I had attended all my life. Never before had I hated this school with such a burning passion.
I haven’t had an experience just as bad as 5th Grade. It wasn’t my classmates. It wasn’t an older kid bullying me. No, it was my teacher who bothered me.
Mr. Conrad B. had only taught school for 2 years prior to his arrival at Longfellow, and it showed. He was inexperienced, and believed in lectures, textbook work, more lectures, and ruling over our class with an iron thumb. This would of course change as we began to cry in protest at his awful teaching methods, but today, that was not the case. Well, not yet anyway.
My fifth grade classroom was a nightmare. Empty discarded pop cans littered the floor behind Mr. B.’s desk, which for the record, was covered in paper work, more trash, and may not have even been a desk for all I knew. Desks weren’t lined up in nice, neat rows.  Nope, Mr. B. would rather that we just scattered around the room.
“As you can see,” Mr. B. concluded. “Fractions should not be a problem, and you should be able to multiply them with ease.”
This was the peak of the day. Mr. B. was about to assign us 30 problems from our Saxon; A Math Mindset textbooks, and we would soon have recess. Even though recess would indoors today because of the nonstop rain, at least we would get to have a small break before we would be forced to do more work.
“Pages 39-44 will contain today’s assignment,”Here, Mr. B. paused to let us groan. “Now quit complaining, and get to work.” Standing up, the dictator of a teacher stood up to retreat to his desk.
The stern tone he had just used told all of us that he would get the final word, and a blanket of silence and sadness fell over our class as we got to work. The only noise we heard the rest of the hour was the ping of Mr. B.’s computer turning on.
At long last the bell rang, and we were allowed to begin playing board games. I walked over to my friends, and instead of asking them which game to play, I pulled out a chair and collapsed as if I had just gotten home from work.
“I know how you feel,” Piper J., my friend since 3rd Grade replied. Now, Piper was pretty short, but when compared to me, a tall, lanky 5th Grader whose shadow would suffocate those smaller than I was, Piper was a mouse that could fit in my shoe.
“It’s only the 17th of September, and I’m…” She continued, but I cut her off.
“Ready to pull a Katniss and threaten to eat nightlock if Mr. B. gives us another assignment like the others?” I interjected, running my fingers through my hair. “I’m seriously sick of it already.”
We proceeded to chat it up and bad mouth the class for the next fifteen minutes before the bell rang and we were told to “Get back to our seats, now.” and to “Open our Literacy Visions textbooks to page 13 and use the prompt located there.”
I began to do so, but it was hard to focus when the prompt was something along the lines of, “When was the last time you did something embarrassing? Write 13 adjectives to describe your house.”
I shook my head and wondered why the heck this counted as learning, but knew that I would have to do my work despite my opinions. Especially because I had a power hungry dictator for a teacher.
Either way, eventually the lunch dismissal bell rang, and our class began to make our way down to the lunchroom. We were being chatty in the hall though, which resulted in a hall duty telling us off. But there was something off about the 5th Grade today, as if the “sanity” piece of our mental puzzle was missing.
It probably had something to do with being cooped up all day, but this much was clear. We were a ticking time bomb, and we were on edge, close to exploding.
30 minutes later, after the lunch period ended, we all got first and second recess taken away, and would be forced to stay inside the following afternoon and read teacher provided material. I really don’t know just what we did exactly, but it was sure monumental.
The rain began to fall in one of the thickest sheets I’d ever heard, and there was a small conversation going on throughout the class as we did our Scott Foresman work. All of the sudden, a loud, “BOOM!” shook the school, and AJ S. proceeded to let out one of the girliest screams any of us had ever heard.
This was classic AJ. He specialized in disruptions and distractions, annoyances and irritations, you name it. And even though teachers seemed to despise him, AJ was a pretty good kid, and this was probably the last grade in which he would behave this way.
AJ’s message was clearer than the overcast sky outside. Mr. B., who was watching a Youtube video at the moment, did not seem to care when just AJ was doing it. So, he wouldn’t care if 26 students banded together and screamed at the next clap of thunder, would he?
Assuming the latter, at the next, “CLAP, C-C-CLAAAP!” we all imitated AJ and screamed.
“Excuse me?” Mr. B. growled. “When did you get the idea that shenanigans like that were okay?”
“I didn’t do it,” One of my classmates said matter-of-factly. “They did.”
“Whatever,” Mr. B. said. “Back to work then.”
We did not go back to work though. We had nothing to lose. There would be no recess tomorrow. Tomorrow was Friday. We just did what we had been doing; screaming at the thunder.
Loudly, Mr. B. cleared his throat.
“What?” AJ asked, sniggering. “We’re just kids. Thunder scares us.”
The day went on for the last hour with us screaming, Mr. B. doing nothing. Eventually, Mrs. M. walked in.
“Mr. B.! Why on Earth are you letting your class get away with this?” The 6th Grade teacher raised an eyebrow.
“S-sorry.” Mr. B. said, obviously flustered. “W-we won’t do that again.”
Just then, the dismissal bell rang, and without permission, all 26 of us stood up, grabbed our things and just walked out.
And the fact that AJ leaned into the room, said, “I’ll leave you two to discuss this in peace,” and shut the door was the icing on the cake.
As President Snow from The Hunger Games said, “Every revolution begins with a spark.” We were fifth grade rebels, and that day was our spark.