Rheas pov
Wars don't always start with shouting.
Sometimes, they start with a teacher smiling at the wrong student.
Mrs. Chatterjee walked in that day already decided.
You could tell by the way her eyes softened for the front benches—like they were her long-lost children—and hardened the moment they slid to us.
The last row.
Us.
"Good morning, class," she said.
"GOOD MORNING MA'AM," the front bench chorused like a paid background track.
We nodded.
Neil yawned.
Samar whispered, "Why do they sound possessed?"
Kabir replied calmly, "Devotion does that."
"Class test," Mrs. Chatterjee announced.
Collective panic.
"Only from what I taught yesterday," she added sweetly.
Front benchers relaxed instantly.
Of course they did. Yesterday, she had practically spoon-fed them answers—slowly, lovingly, with examples and eye contact.
Yesterday, she'd glanced at the last row once… to glare.
I leaned back. "We're being targeted."
Samar cracked his knuckles. "Finally. I was bored."
As she distributed papers, she paused at the front bench.
"Aditi," she said warmly, "I expect full marks from you."
Aditi smiled like she'd already framed the paper.
Then Mrs. Chatterjee reached us.
She didn't smile.
She sighed.
"As for you," she said, looking directly at me, "surprises are not always good."
I smiled back. "We'll try to be predictable, ma'am."
Samar coughed to hide his laugh.
Kabir muttered, "Bad idea."
Neil whispered, "Great idea."
The test began.
Front bench pens moved fast. Too fast.
I watched one boy subtly turn his paper toward Aditi.
Another whispered.
Another nodded.
I raised my hand.
"Yes?" Mrs. Chatterjee snapped.
"Ma'am," I said innocently, "is discussion allowed during tests now?"
Silence.
Front bench froze.
Mrs. Chatterjee frowned. "Of course not."
"Oh," I said. "Just checking. It looked… collaborative."
Neil bit his knuckle.
Samar stared at his paper like it was a thriller.
Kabir didn't look up, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
After the bell, papers were collected.
Mrs. Chatterjee began checking immediately—because suspense is a teaching technique, apparently.
"Aditi," she said, beaming, "Excellent handwriting."
Not marks. Handwriting.
One by one, front bench names were called with praise attached like free gifts.
Then—
"Rhea."
I straightened.
"Good," she said, reluctantly.
Just good.
Samar leaned in. "She's allergic to complimenting you."
Kabir whispered, "You did better than them."
"I know," I whispered back. "And she knows I know."
Break time.
Front benchers suddenly found their courage.
One of them—Arjun, I think—turned around.
"You think you're smart just because you answer once?" he scoffed.
I tilted my head. "No. I think I'm smart because I don't need to announce it."
"Ooo," Neil said. "That's going to sting later."
Samar added, "Ice pack required."
Arjun flushed. "At least teachers trust us."
Kabir finally spoke, voice calm but lethal.
"Trust is easy when answers are handed to you."
Silence.
The kind that hurts.
Mrs. Chatterjee watched everything.
Said nothing.
That's how teacher politics worked.
Not punishment.
Not fairness.
Selective blindness.
As we walked out, Samar stretched. "So… war?"
I sighed dramatically. "Looks like it."
Neil grinned. "I love wars. Low expectations, high satisfaction."
Kabir adjusted his bag. "Just remember—"
We looked at him.
"—they have favouritism," he said. "We have time."
And for the first time, I realised something important:
This wasn't about benches anymore.
It was about who deserved to be seen.
And the last row?
We were done being invisible.