The Good Ol' School Days

At the back of the class,
Fleeing the eyes of the teacher,
A panic-stricken boy works.
Tense muscles.
Eyebrows raised.
A stern frown.
He jots down whatever he can as quickly as he can.
He knows that time is fleeting,
And that the angry voice of the teacher will loom over him soon.
His eyes do not falter,
Steps emerging from the front desk towards him.
A quick change in the page but it is too late.