By Caitlin Chung

Sitting in French class, watching my teacher explain a lesson on passé composé, I inhale, as any normal person would do after exhaling, and a sharp, nauseating, and even slightly funky stench enters my nostrils. Even through my mask, the smell is unbearable. I quickly glance around, struggling to figure out where exactly it’s coming from. The moment I peer down at my notes with a sigh, trying my absolute hardest to shift my focus onto the list of verbs neatly printed on my paper, I jump in my seat. Aggressive drilling, coming from some unseen part of the building, shakes the entire classroom. The percussion of clanks, bams, and booms seems endless. By the time it’s a break, I go outside to the front of the school, only to be greeted by a painfully familiar scent and song.