I'm in charge now. Miss Duczek has left to supervise some students who missed Friday's test, and now I'm in charge of a dozen-odd 13- and 14-year-olds. the tension in the air is tangible; a piece of string that can be stretched only so far before, in resign, it snaps.

The students are looking at me, and I know that behind each pair of eyes a devious, adolescent mind is wondering how far I can be pushed. I can see the class' peer tutor at the back of the room; she's writing furiously at something, but I'm not sure what.

The students have taken out their texts and are working, albeit reluctantly. They glance around occasionally, across the room at a friend or at me. Josh is tearing bits of paper from his worksheet and is casually rolling them between his thumb and forefinger, hoping that I don't notice his spitballs-in-the-making. Undoubtedly in a few minutes, when my back is turned, one will be flying across the room at Michelle; Josh really likes her.

when a volcano erupts, there is always a warning: earthquakes perhaps, or billowing smoke. Here a pencil drops audibly to the floor and the class laughs; it has begun. The misadventure of one innocent pencil has broken the string and loosed an unstoppable flow of adolescent energy. One by one, textbooks are closed in a wave of ignorance that has swept like brushfire across the room.

One pencil...

I close my eyes and await the rampant chaos that is immanent. The sound of metal on tile is harsh as several students slide their chairs back to stand up. A soft smack indicates that Josh's spitball was calculatedly off-target. I open my eyes to survey the damage thus far, but everyone - every arm, leg, and middle finger - is at rest and in its place. At the door Miss Duczek is standing, arms crossed authoritatively.

The students are back at work and I'm at my desk; everything is as it should be. Eventually the bell rings, and there is a general sigh of relief from the students as they push and shove each other, vying to be first to exit the room. As I leave I feel a hand on my shoulder. It's Miss Duczek:

"Good work," she says, and turns to clear the blackboard for her next class. I smile; what great kids.