It’s about 7 a.m. The lights come on in the writing center. Pity. That didn’t happen last week; must have been spring break. Within the next twenty minutes, freshmen begin to file in. The bell rings. Someone sits on me. Partway through class, the boy I’m holding up sticks a piece of gum on me. I am disgusted. I long to smack him, but alas, I am but a simple desk.
It is time for Stinger. A new set of students enters the classroom, and a girl takes her seat on me. She turns on a laptop, and I soon become warm. Thank you, girl. The room was cold, but you have given me relief from this trial.
Sixth period. The next group of students sits around me, but I am left empty. I seem unwanted. I am reminded of my father. I weep quietly from the depths of my plastic and metal soul.
Eighth period. This is a Latin class. I am shoved against my desk brethren to form tables. I feel that this is an invasion of my personal space. A student writes a filthy word on me. I pray for the junkyard.
Finally, everyone leaves. The lights are turned off and the door is locked. I feel peace in this, but I dread tomorrow.