How to survive Saturday school

For the record, I’m Miss Goody Two-Shoes. I still turn my phone off during class, the way everyone supposedly did in middle school, and my attendance record is spotless. The closest I’ve gotten to trouble is attending Saturday school, which I did as an experiment for newspaper.

My self-inflicted punishment began at the ungodly hour of 8 a.m. on a Saturday. When I rushed to the portable building in the school’s back parking lot, where Saturday school is normally held, I was fully prepared to meet a group of incorrigible troublemakers. So after heading up the portable’s unattractive grey ramp — akin to a walk of shame — and entering the room, I did a double take. Four students sat quietly at desks, innocent as can be.

I had arrived several minutes early in my desperation not to be late. That did not, however, save me from making eye contact with Chinese teacher Sara Tseng.

“Take a seat,” she said.

The next few minutes were rather awkward as I explained my situation, attempting to plaster on a smile. I then chose a seat near the back-right corner: the perfect position for people-watching.

I stared not-so-subtly as most students set to work without prompting from the teacher. They didn’t discreetly go on their phones or talk to each other. In fact, rather than the close-knit group of troublemakers I’d imagined them to be, they didn’t even seem to know each other. With a diligence I could not hope to match, they pulled out everything from calculators to grammar workbooks and never looked up afterward.

It was only later that I learned most students who attend Saturday school are so-called one-timers and that their crimes are often cell phone violations or an abundance of tardies. Though I stayed in a room that eventually filled to eight students besides myself, the number of students going to Saturday school grows as the semester progresses and can reach over 30 people. According to assistant principal Kevin Mount, teachers who oversee Saturday School are paid $125 to watch the students each session.

At 8:15, Ms. Tseng announced that Saturday school would last until noon (you read that right — it lasts a gruesome four hours) and that we would get a 10-minute break at 10 a.m. We couldn’t go on our phones, but we were allowed to work on our laptops as long as she could see the screen.

I sank into my seat and finally started to settle down to work. Pulling out my math textbook, I began to trudge through the problems.

Within 10 minutes, however, that trudging grew less sluggish as I became more aware of my surroundings. The room was cool enough to keep drowsiness away. Sunlight trickled in through the blinds of the window near my right. I could hear the gentle rush of cars from the street.

It’s strange to think that I felt both relaxed and alert in Saturday school of all places. For once, I didn’t feel a desire to put in my ear buds and lose myself to music.

I remained in my state of zen until break was called at 10. Most students shot to the door after grabbing their phones, and I seized the chance to walk around.

In hindsight, perhaps I shouldn’t have. I stared in silent horror as my Spanish teacher, Mr. Yeilding, emerged from the parking lot and spotted me.

“Are you a troublemaker now?” he joked, grinning.

When break ended, I mulled over the worrying extent to which I was enjoying Saturday school. Admittedly, while I had just gotten the most work than I had in ages, there was no way I’d choose Saturday school over my bed again. With the quiet stillness enveloping the classroom, however, I could nearly say that I savored it.

As the clock struck 12, Ms. Tseng declared that we could leave. Other students scrambled to pack their bags. I lingered and left last.

I’d envisioned Saturday school as a gathering of rebellious students, or at the very least, a mind-numbing four hours of torment. Instead, I stare down at my English journal prompt and wish I could be there all over again.