Student work – Saturday Morning
The Saturday sun streams through the blinds as I lounge at my desk. I sit in such a way on the desk chair that my thighs are over resting on one arm rest whilst my lower back is over the other. I am browsing various videos of people whose pride lies in their ability to keep their school lives organised and take delicate, pretty notes about the various functions of the functions of cells, how they take in nutrients and how they get rid of waste. However the videos I am watching aren’t about the cells, rather about the contents of their school bag; the sleek black metal water bottle, the gleaming white phone, the costly wireless earphones, and the scratchless silver laptop that is as thin as a sheet of paper and perfectly fits the aesthetic of all the other belongings.
“Oi Dan!” my Dad shouts from the end of the hallway, his torso and head peeking out from the doorway leading to the kitchen.
“You doing work?”
I pause momentarily. “No”
“Get onto it, you’re at the new school now where all the kids spend as much time sleeping as they do at a tutoring centre.”
“Yep,” I answer automatically.
His body disappears from the doorway back into the kitchen.
I lug out my dictionary-thick folder from my backpack, which is resting against the wall, and thump it onto my desk, a somewhat satisfying, weighty clunk sound resonating out of the desk. I flick through the separators of my folder, stopping at the section for maths worksheets and pulling them out, quick as an experienced librarian. I lay out my small pencil case, my calculator, and my worksheet and get to work.
I fiddle with the clicker of my pen as I read the first question.
I rest my feet on the floor rather than on the wheels of the chair, and I freeze. My dad bought a plastic chair mat recently to prevent the wooden floor from being scratched by the wheels of my desk chair. I lift my feet, feeling the slight stickiness of the mat lightly resist my attempts.
I can no longer focus on my maths homework, or any work for that matter. This slightly sticky mat will distract me to no end.
This will not do.
I emerge from my room, a discoloured green bucket, sloshing with water, in one hand and a dripping grey mop in the other. I figure that if I wanted to mop this mat in my room then I may as well mop the whole house, and that’s exactly what I do. I work through each room, each corner, each treated wooden plank and do away with any bit of dirt or dust. I move from the hallway and into the kitchen, my Dad observing me over his extremely dark coffee in a stone-coloured mug as I mop.
“That’s not how you mop,” he says.
I stop. I pick up my bucket and my mop.
“Ok.” I respond, as I take the bucket and mop back to the cleaning closet.
Evan Yi (Year 11)