Paula Clemente

When I rushed out of the flat yesterday morning, I had no idea the universe had a sense of humor planned just for me. I was already ten minutes behind and barely managed to zip up my coat before hopping on my bike. It was one of those cold but sunny Madrid, Spain, mornings, and the streets were still half asleep. I pedaled like my life depended on it, weaving through traffic with the grace of a sleep-deprived flamingo.

At the school gates, I parked my bike, locked it hastily, and ran inside. The bell had already rung. I tossed my bag into the staff room, grabbed my notebook, and headed straight for the third-year classroom. The kids were already buzzing, as usual.

I wrote the first math assignments on the board, half-hearing whispers and giggles behind me. Nothing unusual—this group found everything funny. But as I turned to face them, the giggles erupted into full-blown laughter. It wasn’t one of those innocent “kids-being-silly” moments. This was louder, more gleeful.

I scanned the room. No drawings on the desks, no one pulling faces. I raised an eyebrow and asked softly, “¿Qué pasa?”

Lucía, who always sits in the front row with her hair in two perfect braids, pointed shyly to my back.

“There’s... um... a hole.”

I reached behind me. My fingers landed on skin. Cold skin. The entire right side of my trousers was gone—just gone. Torn clean off, probably when I dismounted the bike. I stood there, frozen, hand on my butt cheek, utterly exposed.

Then I laughed. Not because it was funny—it was horrific—but because if I didn’t, I’d probably cry.

“Vale,” I said, trying not to turn bright red. “Time for an unexpected break. Read page twenty while I fix my life.”

Thankfully, I had leggings in my locker from last week’s PE lesson. When I came back, still trying to appear like a functioning adult, the kids clapped like I was a returning hero. Word had already spread. Even the headteacher smirked as she passed me in the hallway.

I'm twenty-four, training to be a teacher, and yesterday I mooned an entire class of eight-year-olds. And somehow, they love me more for it.