I hurried around to the back of the car to switch into my heels, then half-walked, half-ran toward Gate Two. I greeted the teacher on duty who had arrived earlier, then smoothly slipped into line as if I'd been there all along.
Thank goodness the head of the department wasn't on duty today. Otherwise, I would've gotten more than a few sharp looks—or worse, been called in for an attitude adjustment until my ears rang.
"Homework on my desk, please," I announced to the class after our morning greetings.
While waiting for the stragglers to hand in their work, I began signing off on assignments. I taught Physics—a subject that struck absolute terror into the hearts of most teenagers. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that over ninety percent of them hated it with a burning passion.
"Kittichai…" I started the roll call. It was part of my pre-class routine—a way to observe their behavior, read their expressions, and force myself to memorize their faces. With four Grade 11 classes of forty students each, learning every name in a day was a Herculean task.
"Patnarin."
"Present… Mom… the wet nurse," he replied, deliberately muttering the last part under his breath while tilting his head with a defiant 'Got a problem?' look.
"Oh! I'm glad you're here. I was starting to think I was calling out to a ghost." Laughter erupted across the room. Jao Phat immediately shot a lethal glare at his classmates, silencing them instantly.
"Peemrawee."
"..." He raised his hand but offered no verbal response. Ever since he discovered I was his father's wife, that kid had been treating me to non-stop death stares.
"Achira." The last student checked in—Grade 11/1 was officially complete.
"Listen up. We have exams in two months," I said, leaning against my desk. "The school calendar is packed with activities, which leaves us very little time for actual learning. I need you to focus—on every subject, not just mine. Everything else can wait. Don't forget, you'll be in Grade 12 soon, and that's when you'll learn that hell does, in fact, exist."
"Here we go again. Just teach already, Teacher," Jao Phat grumbled.
"What did you have for breakfast, Patnarin?"
"Breakfast, obviously."
"Oh? Judging by how grumpy you are this early, I thought you might have mistaken the toilet for a cereal bowl," I said calmly. Go ahead—bite me, and I'll bite right back. Kawinthida never plays unfair. "Alright, enough. Let's get to the lesson. Today, we're covering natural frequency and resonance. I'm going to show you a clip, and then you'll answer the questions."
I played the footage of the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. It was a structure designed to withstand winds of 120 mph, yet it collapsed under a mere 40 mph breeze.
I explained the science behind it: every suspended object has its own natural frequency. When exposed to a force that matches that frequency, the vibrations amplify until the structure fails. That was how the bridge literally tore itself apart.
"Think of it like pushing a swing," I added, trying to make the abstract concrete. "If you push at just the right moment—matching the swing's natural rhythm—it goes higher and higher with each push. That phenomenon is called resonance."
See? A headache-inducing topic, isn't it?
Teaching while weaving in jokes was a survival skill. Physics demanded it. Most schools in Thailand—this one included—focused heavily on mindless calculations, drilling students to solve exam papers just to compete. To me, that wasn't teaching; it was a factory line.
I preferred hands-on experiments to build lasting understanding. More than once, I found myself rebelling against the very curriculum I was hired to teach. Why do we have to learn so much of this anyway? Most of it is never used in the real world. What do the curriculum designers actually want? Do they expect every student to become a nuclear scientist?
To my surprise, nearly two hours flew by. Whether they were actually enjoying themselves or just stunned into silence, I wasn't sure. The students stood and paid their respects as the bell rang. Strangely enough, throughout the entire lesson, those two troublemakers hadn't interrupted me once.
Well… that was a win, wasn't it?