The Schoolboy Returns!

We were waiting for a roll call before heading to the Opera House. It was my first day back after three weeks in Korea.

“Ein! You’re back!”

I looked up. Alexey stood a few steps away, smiling, the sunlight glinting on his blond hair.

“I thought you were going to come here a week after or something.”

“I landed on Saturday,” I said.

Alexey tilted his head. “Cool. How was Korea?”

I smiled. “Ate a lot of good food, had a family reunion, and—”

Ian and Bodhi had stepped towards me as well. “Ein! Welcome back to authentic life! Did you get anything?”

I picked up sets of Gonggi stones - shiny, smooth, and coloured - and Jegis, their feathery tails catching in the morning breeze.

Bodhi snatched a Jegi out of Alexey’s hand. “These are awesome,” he said, “but what are they?”

“Kind of like a hacky sack,” I said. “You’ll figure it out.”

He didn’t wait. Bodhi gave the Jegi a dramatic kick, his legs flying centimetres away, floating down onto Ian’s face.

Before we could get too into it, Ms. Ann Boyle clapped her hands at the front.

“Alright, Year 7! We’re going to the Opera House today for the excursion! (Right! I had forgotten) Let’s see if anyone was paying attention in class. Who composed The Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra?”

A hand rose from the other class. “Chopin?” Ms Boyle shook her head, turning her attention to me. “Yes?”

“Benjamin Britten,” I said.

“That’s right!”

“Then, who was the composer of West Side Story?”

“Leonard Bernstein. He was inspired by Romeo and Juliet to compose it.”

She nodded, gaping. “Very good.”

Ian raised an eyebrow. “Welcome back, genius.”

The bus ride down was the usual mix of noise and forbidden snacks - Bodhi telling some made-up story about an orchestra accident, Alexey adding details to make it worse, Ian staring out the window, nose on the glass. When we got there, the Opera House looked clean and sharp in the morning light, rising out of the harbour resembling origami.

Before we went inside, we dumped our bags on the sandstone steps and cracked open the Gonggi pouch. The stones clicked and spun across the pale stone. Bodhi started. His fingers fumbled over the first stone, sending it flying into the shin of a tourist. “Sorry!” Alexey’s fingers, however, turned into a blur, flicking a perfect arc across four steps. “Precision,” he said.

The teachers waved us in. Whenever I go to the Opera House, I always sit in the front middle (the premium seats) or just don’t go at all. Bodhi piped up. “Excuse me, which seat numbers are we in?” Our teacher frowned and waved to the stairs. We climbed… and climbed. From where we were sitting, we could barely make out the orchestra. Or the presenter. Or even the edge of the stage.

“This isn’t a concert,” Bodhi furrowed his eyebrows. “It’s an audiobook!”

“Look! I bet I can see my house from this seat,” Alexey added.

Other schools began filing into the Concert Hall. A class from another school filled the row behind us. As I leaned against my chair, stretching my legs, a light thump reverberated through my seat. Even before the music started, it repeated, just enough to feel a slow, rhythmic tap. Over. And over. And over.

I looked behind me, yet this looked to be as though it was unintentional, so I didn’t intervene. I sat there, listening to music I couldn’t see, being thumped into oblivion by a stranger’s foot. It never stopped.

“Maybe he’s trying to play the bass drum through your spine,” Ian whispered.

“New percussion technique,” Alexey said.

Despite all that, the music still managed to get through. The Young Person’s Guide had structure and energy, each section of the orchestra taking its turn. Bernstein’s West Side Story was punchy and bold, bouncing off the walls. The rhythm was an argumentative dance. Even Bodhi, who has a say on everything, went quiet for a bit.

Despite everything - the distance, the view, and the unexpected percussion section behind me - the music stayed with me. It wasn’t about seeing every detail on stage. It was about feeling it. The orchestra filled the hall, even from the very back.

Back at school, Gonggi and Jegi became the new obsession. Behind the library, we played every break - Bodhi turning it into a tournament, Alexey adding wild bonus rules, Ian winning Jegi (the god of Jegi), a perfect measure of happiness for all of us, that is, until a trio of teachers on duty turned around the corner.

Gonggi and Jegi were both traditional games commonly associated with Squid Game, discouraged for children to view due to its rating in Australia. One of the teachers spoke up. “What are you guys playing?” “Gonggi and Jegi!” “Nice to finally see students not staring at their computers and actually moving. Yes!” Healthy for all!

By the end of the day, my hands were red, my legs sore, and my face hurt from smiling. I was glad to be back in my old life.