Break time is the best time

The time jeers at us, passing leisurely, as we attempt to review troublesome number juggling equations or the laws of Newton. Consistently, we look at the clock and its wretched hands are as still as a tree. We trade looks of irritation.

Then the much anticipated and delighted second shows up when the ringer rings for a break. Our tiredness evaporates like a phantom and we leap off our seats, pushing duplicates, books, and pens hurriedly into our packs, overlooking the educator's sharp voice reminding us to keep out of mischief. Getting our lunch box, we run, quickly as the breeze, to join the ocean of understudies in an opportunity that we have for a brief period.

The chime for break rejuvenates the entire school and, for the following 30 minutes or somewhere in the vicinity, understudies have their best season of a school day

We enter the cafeteria where the air is loaded up with the smell of newly heated pizzas and French fries alongside the chatting and yelling of invigorated understudies. We sit in our typical spot on the agreeable seats close to the window where a cool wind invites us. We insatiably open our lunch boxes and begin crunching.

Only one tick of a clock and our lunchboxes are vacant and spotless like they had recently been washed and dried. With our bellies filled to the edge, we take out a pack of ONO cards and disseminate them. After a game loaded with pleasure, interjections, yells of 'ONO', and some of the time somewhat cheating (wink!), we are out of the cafeteria into the passages.

We pull blameless appearances before educators we cruise by. In the staff room, the educators are caught up with talking, eating, or amending blueprints. Now and again, we gravely need to head inside and order: "Pin drop quietness," however we have no position to do that.

We run out into the school grounds. Small kids from the lesser classes are going near, helping us to remember lovely butterflies rippling among blossoms. Vigorous young men are playing football and some are playing cricket. The b-ball and badminton courts are involved by groups of young ladies.

The P.E. instructor stands like an alarm trooper, hands on her abdomen, whistle fit to be blown and those bird of prey eyes dashing around, prepared for any indication of rule-breaking.

Now and again we begin playing b-ball (perhaps the main game we are great at) or go to the library from where we issue new books (never the enlightening ones), however more often than not we stroll around the ground, meddling, kidding, and snickering. We devote a portion of these valuable minutes to pulling tricks on the seniors and it makes me snicker just to envision the looks on their countenances when they are deceived.

Out of nowhere, there is quietness on the school grounds as a harsh sound fills the environmental factors. Sleepiness returns as the 30-minute break close, in seemingly only five minutes. Presently, we begin strolling back towards the classes, moving as consistently as a wiped-out turtle, with the restless stand-by of get-together time currently established in our damaged hearts.