\'\'Let\'s start with the basics,\'\' I say as they both look at me with confusion and curiosity. We\'re currently in the dining area and they are seated across from me. Notepads, textbooks, reading materials and pens are sprawled on the table along with their bookbags. \'\'Mrs Gomez said out test would be based on poetry right?\'\'They nod in affirmation. \'\'Good. So far, we\'ve discussed three poems: Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats, Crossing the Bar by Lord Tennyson and The Schoolboy by William Blake. What exactly do you need help in?

They both pause for a minute before Jason responds. \'\'Definitely, the Ode thing you just said.\'\'

\'\'Ode to a Nightingale.\'\'

\'\'Yea that.\'\'

\'\'And if you can briefly explain the others, it\'ll be highly appreciated.\'\' Ryan adds hesitantly in a bid to not test my patience. I smile a bit and he visibly relaxes. Jason avoids my gaze, looking at everything, from the tables, to the pictures on the wall to the fruit basket.

Is there something on my face?

\'\'First thing\'s first,\'\' I start. \'\'In order to know about the poem we need to know about the poet himself. John Keats was a Romantic poet born in the 16th century and…\'\'

\'\'What\'s a Romantic poet?\'\' Ryan interjects. \'\'Do they like write poems about love and stuff?\'\'

\'\'Not quite. Romantic poets are those who wrote during the Romantic era. I don\'t want to go full on nerd on you, but the Romantic era was a cultural and intellectual movement that originated in Europe towards the end of the 18th century. That era was characterized by individualism and poetry of that era started to take on a more human form, not that poetry of the 18th century wasn\'t like that, but with the Romantic era, it was different. Emotions such as awe, horror and admiration were highlighted. Some poets focused their writing on eulogizing nature as seen in the works of William Wordsworth and P.B Shelley while others focused on the supernatural like Edgar Allen Poe and Nathaniel Hawthorne.\'\'

They both give me blank stares like I\'m speaking in a foreign language and I sigh. \'\'And you don\'t know who they are.\'\' They nod wordlessly and I silently shake my head.

Wordsworth, Hawthorne, Poe and Shelley may not be in our curriculum this year but Mrs Gomez did mention them when she was giving an introductory class on Romantic poetry. It peaked my interest so I ended up Googling poems written by these individuals and found them fascinating to say the least. To think that such words of wisdom came from humans just like me is really inspirational.

I can only aspire to be like these wonderful poets.

Mum comes around from the kitchen carrying a tray with mugs of hot chocolates. She settles it down in the middle of the table and we say a quick thank you to her and continue.

\'\'They\'re not important,\'\' I say calmly. \'\'All you need to know is that they are Romantic poets and John Keats happens to be one of them.\'\' I check the time on my phone briefly. \'\'Okay, so do you have a printed copy of the poem?\'\'

\'\'Yea,\'\' Ryan says and stretches his right hand to get a rumpled piece of paper from the side of the bag. Jason brings out a folded paper from his manila file and settles it on the table.

\'\'Great. FYI, I started re-reading the analysis of the poem yesterday. It\'s been a while so I\'m a little rusty.\'\'

Jason gives me a sideway smile, his aqua blues firmly planted on mine. I give a sideway simile of my own, my hands gripping the paper in front of me. You know, it should be a crime for someone\'s son to actually look this good. Jason always gives off this I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-but-I-have-money-vibe which on anyone would have looked repulsive, but on him, it\'s making my stomach turn in a good way.

And again, that is very very bad.

Ryan coughs loudly and we both look away. I clear my throat loudly and he grabs a fountain pen. Ryan has a knowing look on his face and I know he had seen what had transpired between us but says nothing.

\'\'Right,\'\' I say after a beat. \'\'Ode to a Nightingale is a regular ode with eight stanzas and a regular rhyme scheme. Basically, the poem explains how Keats is in a state of discomfort and he envies the imagined happiness of the nightingale. Keats longs for wine to numb his senses and take him out of his misery per se. He wants to be in the world of the nightingale because in his delusion, he thinks the nightingale is without troubles and worries which, when you think about it, makes sense because he says that his life is full of pain.\'\'

They nod their heads and I continue. \'\'Add this to your fun facts about John Keats: He died of tuberculosis at the age of twenty-five.\'\'

\'\'That\'s horrible,\'\' Ryan sympathizes, his face downcast. \'\'He never got to experience life fully.\'\'

\'\'Indeed. So you kinda see where he\'s coming from when he says he wants to be in the world of the nightingale. Thinking about it thoroughly, don\'t we all want to be in the world of the nightingale? I\'d trade a world full of happiness and love for this dump of a world we\'re living in right now.\'\'

And I put that on everything.

...

I spend the better part of two hours explaining to Ryan and Jason the importance of the poem and why John Keats actually wrote the poem. We also discussed the various themes and the significance of the Nightingale in the poem. After the \'class\' they seemed satisfied enough and even took notes down which caught me by surprise. I guess being on the basketball team is a huge deal to them.

Of course it\'s important to them, one\'s the captain and the other is...well not captain but does a really good job as a small forward from what I heard.

Also, let\'s be real, their popularity cred would totally diminish and they\'d be shamed all through school if they fail. While I do not want that to happen, it\'d be funny to see the roles being reversed for once.

\'\'You did good, sweetie,\'\' Mum says as she joins me on the dining table. Jason and Ryan left a while before dinner with an external amount of gratitude to my mum. I didn\'t think Jason could be polite, but he was kissing my mum\'s ass a few hours ago. Of course, mum being who she is, invited them to come over at any time.

\'\'I\'m proud of you.\'\'

\'\'I\'m proud of me too.\'\' I did a good deed today so that should score me some extra points in heaven, right?

\'\'You put pettiness aside and helped out your school friends,\'\' I give her a pointed look and she corrects herself. \'\'I mean acquaintances.\'\'

Better.

\'\'I raised you well, Mel,\'\' she says with a satisfied smile and a look as if reminiscing about the past.

She really did raise Sophie and I well. I would never trade my mum for anything in the world. When my dad left and decided that being a parent is too much work, mum picked up the slack and made sure that we were taken care of and we didn\'t want for anything. Even if Sophie and I wanted something and she couldn\'t afford it at the moment, she\'d make sure that she\'ll still get it, albeit at a later date. We may not be rich or have the luxuries of the world, but fuck those, I have my sister and my mum and that\'s enough for me to die a happy teenager.

I do not want to die at all, at least not now, but you get my point.

\'\'That boy, the one with the chestnut hair?\'\'

\'\'Jason?\'\'

\'\'Yea, him. He looks very familiar. I can\'t put my finger on it but I feel like I have met him before,\'\' Mum says with a frown on her face. \'\'Maybe I\'ve seen him at the mall or something but I know him from somewhere.\'\'

\'\'Maybe you remember him at the yearly parents-teachers conference?\'\' I suggest. She shrugs. \'\'Maybe.\'\'

\'\'When you\'re done, turn off all the electrical appliances and check if the doors are locked. I don\'t want another burglary incident,\'\' she mentions with a chill in her voice. Last year, our apartment was burglarized. They stole valuable family heirlooms, including all the jewellery that Grandma Maggie passed down to mum, money and a few trinkets that Grandpa Harry gave her on her wedding day. Long story short, it was a devastating day, we filed a police report and the culprits have not been caught.

Fuck the justice system.

\'\'Sure.\'\'

\'\'Goodnight, Mel. Don\'t stay up late or you\'d have brain fart.\'\'

I snort and she squeezes my shoulder. Making a left, I hear her footsteps trudging up the stairs until they were no longer audible.

A message pops up on my notifications. Unlocking my phone, I open it and see that it\'s from an unknown number.

J.B: Thanks for today.

I beam a little and close the phone, taking in the days \' events in one breath.

What a day!