On the Ceiling

My classmates are on the ceiling again. I don’t know how they get their desks all the way up there. The teacher asks someone to read the next page in the textbook, one of them raises their hand, and when I look around, they’re gone. They read the page so effortlessly from the ceiling, even with all of that blood rushing to their head. I don’t get it. Do they even know they’re up there? I received quite a boost in my allowance recently, ever since mom published that one article in that one journal last year. I tried to “spend it wisely” as they say. Twenty thousand dollars for one year, just to come to this school. A school where my classmates sit on the ceiling. Maybe coming here was the wrong choice.

Let’s start over.

My classmates are on the ceiling. That’s where their desks happen to be, so it makes perfect sense for them to be there. My inheritance gave me the opportunity to attend this school. I’m very lucky, it seems. Above me, the other students raise--or lower, in their case--their hands, and take turns reading pages from the textbook. Their desks look perfectly normal up there, fluorescent batons rest at the feet of their desks, and the acrobat students maintain perfect composure even as their faces shift through various colors of the rainbow.

My desk sits by itself, uninvited to the ceiling, in the corner. I sit with it, also by myself. Motivational posters, and school mottos watch me from the walls. One of them has a picture of the school’s founder, some ancient guy from the turn of the century or something, of course. His eyes follow me, down to the movements of my pen, like a haunted painting housing the ghost of some blue-haired grammarian English tutor. The teacher, a tall middle-aged Frenchman who looks like he attended the same photo shoot as the founder, stands at the front of the classroom, somewhere between the floor and the ceiling. He listens to the students read and gives small remarks whenever one finishes. “Very good, well done, who’s next,” something like that.

That’s all fine. Except, now nobody raises their hand. The teacher looks at me. The whole class, even the posters on the wall, look at me. I guess it’s my turn to read from the book. The words float over the crude wood pulp, bobbing up and down with the swells of the pages in front of me, and soon I become lost in those pages, and I have no chart or compass to find where they start or end.

Arms made of light, blinding light, reach up from the floor and grab me. They’re hot, burning even, and they hold my eyes wide open. I look at the page, sweating, struggling, and I read. I don’t know what it is I’m reading, but I suppose something is better than nothing. Maybe, if I can keep it together and spout a page worth of words for the class to hear, they’ll stop watching. Surely, staying afloat on a makeshift raft is better than sinking entirely.

I finish reading and the class directs its attention back to its own books. The teacher hands me an automatic "very good." I'm pretty sure I didn't read anything from the book, no I'm certain of it, but if it gets me out of the burning limelight then I don't care. Except the arms are still embracing me. They extend and slither around my body becoming constraints. Their light is so strong, and it burns my eyes, so I force them shut.

Perfect.

I see only on my own terms.

But I can't keep my eyes closed forever. The teacher might think I'm sleeping, or worse, the ghost of the school founder might think I'm sleeping. I don't think he can do anything, being trapped in that poster and all. Still, I'd rather not find out. But where? Where can I lay low for the rest of class?

The notebook! Of course, it's so inconspicuous. I struggle, reaching into my bag, and pull out a small black notebook. It fits in one hand. This book is certainly no ocean.

Beige lined pages cage me in safe from the gazes of classmates. Or the teacher. There're some doodles in here, some notes, superficial mostly, and on some pages so impromptu music notation. Ideas for piano melodies to play for uncle when I return to the estate.

I hate looking at the other students. I imagine we all probably come from similar backgrounds if we’re attending this school. I know I’ve seen at least two of my classmates dropped off on campus by helicopter. That’s great, I’m not saying it isn’t, but when they’re not here, what do they do? Do they paint? Do they play rugby? Do they help with family businesses? Or do they just sit on the ceiling, like they are now, and gossip about whichever country’s prime minister’s kid they sit next to in class, also on the ceiling? I bet none of them even know who David Hume is, or play piano, or read music notation. In the hallway, I know they mostly just whisper and giggle to each other about superfluous nothings. So, I’m probably right. Their favorite hobby probably is in fact sitting on the ceiling.

The arms of light tighten their grip on me. I’m sweating more now, but it doesn’t bother me like before. Maybe because I’m down here, and everyone else is up there. Who’s around to notice that my uniform is sweaty? I really am burning up though. Maybe I could go to the infirmary, but that would require calling attention to myself. It seems, for now, I’m stuck.

Eventually class reaches the end of the chapter. Usually we’re still reading by the time class is dismissed, but I guess this chapter was a bit shorter than normal. The teacher starts asking questions about what we read. I hope he doesn’t call on me to answer because I didn’t catch any of what was read today.

I’m still in the confines of my little notebook, but I half listen to what some of the other students are saying. All half baked responses if you ask me. Something something something about Candide being a positive character even in the middle of a tragedy. In my opinion, we’re just wasting time reading whatever irrelevant nonsense Voltaire put on paper. We should be reading Jonathan Swift insead. The arms of light coiling around me become hotter. If this keeps up, I really think my uniform will combust.

The unthinkable thing finally happens, and the teacher calls on me to answer. Of course.

"What is the significance of Candide's house and garden at the end of the story?" the teacher says.

Frankly I have no idea. I also don't think it really matters. I mean, I don't know the specifics, but he got a happy ending, I think, after all that stuff he went through. Isn't that good enough? Is there any significance to it at all? Maybe Voltaire just decided to calm down at the end of the story. Maybe not. I missed a lot of details today, so I only have like half the story to draw from. Why couldn't the teacher ask me about Gulliver's Travels instead? That's way more interesting in my opinion. I guess it doesn't matter though.

I stay silent. I stay like that for a long time. The waters that I previously floated on top of are now frozen, barely, and any small imbalance will shatter the ice and freeze me like Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic. Only I'm not a famous actor, or good at painting. I must answer. Just like before, just make it up and no one will notice.

"The garden signifies the reward for staying so optimistic throughout the story," I say, sheepishly.

"Uh-huh, anything else?" the teacher says.

"Well, no. That's it, I think."

"Alright then, you there, in the first row, can you answer the question?"

He moves on. I guess my answer isn't good enough. I figured as much. Whatever, it doesn't matter anyway. In fact, I could be using this time to write more music to show uncle. He always gets a kick out of my playing. He says I sound really good on the new grand piano at the estate.

Another student picks up where I left off, adding only minor details to what I said. For some reason the teacher likes their answer better, even though they said essentially the same thing. Go figure. It's always like this. Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm the problem. Something about me just doesn't click with the other students or the teacher, they can't stand to be associated with me, hence they move everything to the ceiling. It's not my fault they're so thin. Thin enough to see through.

It’s becoming difficult to breath. The arms are so tight, I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. They hold me tighter than anything in the world, any hug from nana, any restraint in the hospital, any force of gravity, or any embrace of the dark at night that I fear so much.

“Class will be over soon, so before you go I’m giving a pop-quiz,” the teacher says.

Some of the students groan from the ceiling. Others, I assume, don’t care either way.

The teacher continues. “The quiz has only one question, and you each must answer before you leave here today. Everyone will take turns from one corner of the room to the other.” There’s a long silence. It feels long anyway.

“What does it mean to be alive?”

What does it mean to be alive?

This is stupid. There’s no answer to something like this. As I think about the pointlessness, students begin answering. My vision is blurry. The skin on my arm where the ropes of light hold me blisters and burns. I should care more, but, for some reason, I just can’t.

The first student answers. They give a heartfelt response about their own reason to live. It was sort of nice. I listen to the rest. The next student stands and gives a speech. Masterful webworks of sentences and metaphors and stirring immaculately inspired prose echoes from their voice to what I can only assume is true heaven. The next student is the same, and the next and the next. Each student, from the ceiling, blesses the room with words that can only be described as absolutely divine and I’m struck each time, my very core is held against the wall and force fed words that may well in fact carry the overarching reason we’re all alive.

I want to jump and sing and dance and I want to transcribe the words I never thought existed to my little black notebook. Of course, I must spread this joy to everyone else!

But the light, it’s too strong, and it holds me in place, fused to my desk. Alone. In the corner. On the floor.

The teacher reaches me, finally. I can’t see anymore, except indistinct blurs. I’m honestly too tired. I can’t answer. I couldn’t, even without this light compressing my lungs. The light from the floor is much brighter and stronger now with everyone waiting for me. It consumes me. I can’t do it. I have to let them down. I can’t join them.

Everything becomes white.

Everything dissolves.

Everything is hot, even though I can’t feel my skin.

Like the others when they go to the ceiling, I’m gone. I wonder if I’m floating, or maybe sinking. No, I know this feeling. I’ve reached for the sun, thinking I could hold it in my human hands, and now I’m melting. Please, oh great light, take me somewhere. Anywhere but here. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now. I guess summer vacation really is over.