I already knew this school was temporary.
One year.
That was all.
Somewhere in the administrative machinery of the education system, a seat would open in a more prestigious secondary school. Walking distance from my apartment. Co educational. Pretty girls included.
But for now, I was trapped in an all boys ecosystem where aggression was currency and bottle caps were footballs.
If I had to be here for a year, I might as well experiment.
In my previous life, Secondary One and Two were where my grades collapsed.
The internet happened.
Online games.
Addiction disguised as entertainment.
I even masqueraded as a girl in game chats, complete with stolen profile photos and fabricated backstories, tricking wealthy teenage boys into gifting virtual skins and equipment. I dragged Ace into it too. Gave him a female alias and a random pretty girl's photo as proof.
We never spent a cent.
We let “the boys” sponsor us.
Looking back, it was manipulative.
Also wildly effective.
But the real damage was not moral.
It was academic.
I believed I was naturally intelligent. That paying attention in class was enough. Homework was enough. Revision was for the insecure.
That worked in primary school.
Secondary school humbled me.
Subjects deepened. Concepts layered. Without self study, even I slipped.
F grades appeared.
This time, I would not rely on ego.
I already knew which revision books to buy. Which question patterns repeat. Which answer structures examiners reward. Understanding was optional. Pattern recognition was king.
Memorize. Replicate. Score.
Efficient.
But academic correction was not the only thing I wanted to change.
In my previous life, loneliness shaped my behavior more than I admitted.
Only son.
Quiet house.
Any attention felt intoxicating.
So I manufactured it.
Nicknames.
Provocations.
Exaggerated stories.
I called Lawrence “without balls” because if you twisted his name slightly, that was what it sounded like.
He never forgot.
Victor got it worse.
Perfectly square haircut every month.
Symmetry so precise it looked engineered with a ruler.
I called him Square Head.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Sometimes SpongeBob.
He chased anyone who said it.
And Victor had the growth clock on his side. He matured faster. Grew taller sooner. Hit harder.
He rarely lost fights.
All of that friction was avoidable.
This time, I would not throw sparks.
I wanted to see something else.
If I removed the thorn version of myself, would I become… likeable?
Like Golden?
The question lingered in my mind when the English bell rang.
English was taught by Makke.
No one dared maintain eye contact with her.
She had the permanent expression of someone who had just smelled something unpleasant and decided the world was responsible.
Her face, blunt and heavy set, reminded everyone privately of a bulldog.
Obese. Strict. Minimal words.
Rumor said she was married.
How, none of us could comprehend.
Fear hovered around her like perfume.
I decided that was unacceptable.
During recess, I pulled Lawrence, Jason, Golden, Dan, and Terrance aside.
“Gentlemen,” I said solemnly, “I have a proposal.”
Lawrence narrowed his eyes. “Why do you sound like a villain?”
“Because this is impossible.”
Jason crossed his arms. “Spit it out.”
“I will make Makke smile.”
Silence.
Golden blinked once.
Terrance burst out laughing.
Dan squinted. “Smile? As in… teeth visible?”
“Yes. Princess level smile.”
Lawrence leaned closer. “You’re dead.”
“If I succeed,” I continued calmly, “each of you buys me ice cream during recess.”
“And if you fail?” Jason asked.
“I buy all of you.”
They grinned instantly.
“Deal.”
Operation Princess Bulldog began.
Phase One: Written Psychological Warfare.
For every English homework assignment, I attached a sticky note.
Not ordinary compliments.
Exaggerated, theatrical praise.
“Teacher Makke, because of your guidance, I feel my English ascending to international standards.”
“Your explanation of grammar today was so clear that private tuition feels like financial irresponsibility.”
“After your lesson, I corrected my cousin’s English at home with confidence.”
I imagined her reading them in silence.
The first week, nothing changed.
Her face remained carved from stone.
Lawrence smirked. “Ice cream flavor preference?”
“Breaking a massive ice wall takes time,” I replied calmly. “Patience.”
They groaned but agreed to extend the bet.
Phase Two: Public Reinforcement.
Essay topic: Describe someone who inspires you.
Most students wrote about parents.
I wrote about Makke.
“Her disciplined aura commands excellence. Her firm presence molds resilience.”
Jason nearly choked reading over my shoulder.
“You’re insane.”
I read parts of it aloud during sharing session.
The class stared at me like I had lost my mind.
Makke did not react.
At least not visibly.
But I noticed something.
Her usual immediate criticism softened by half a second.
Half a second is progress.
Phase Three: Social Amplification.
One student complimenting is suspicious.
Ten students complimenting is influence.
I gathered the original five conspirators again.
“My effort alone is statistically insignificant,” I said. “You must assist.”
“You want us to praise her too?” Terrance asked, horrified.
“Yes.”
Jason frowned. “That’s terrifying.”
Golden smiled faintly. “It’s interesting.”
Dan shrugged. “I’ll try.”
Lawrence laughed. “Fine. I want free ice cream.”
The next week, Jason said after class, “Teacher, your notes are very structured.”
Terrance muttered awkwardly, “Your pronunciation is very clear.”
Golden added smoothly, “Your essay feedback helped me refine my argument.”
Makke paused.
Just for a moment.
Her eyebrows twitched.
It was microscopic.
But it was there.
We doubled down.
More students joined out of curiosity.
Compliments appeared in homework margins.
Students volunteered answers more often.
Not flattery dripping with sarcasm.
Structured, respectful appreciation.
Within a month, something undeniable happened.
Her tone shifted.
Instead of “Wrong,” she began saying, “Almost there.”
Instead of glaring across the room, she walked slower between rows.
One day, Jason whispered urgently, “Look. Look at her face.”
Makke was explaining a grammar rule.
And her lips curved.
Not wide.
Not radiant.
But unmistakably upward.
Terrance slapped my shoulder so hard it hurt.
“IT’S HAPPENING.”
Lawrence stared in disbelief. “This is black magic.”
Fifteen classes later, the transformation was complete.
She still disciplined.
She still demanded standards.
But the anger was gone.
The resentment evaporated.
One afternoon, after I handed in an essay, she looked at the sticky note and said quietly,
“You students are… very expressive this year.”
I smiled.
“Good teachers deserve it.”
She did not scold me.
She did not glare.
She nodded.
A small nod.
Princess Bulldog had evolved.
During recess, five ice creams were placed in front of me like tribute.
Jason shook his head. “You’re manipulative.”
Golden chuckled. “You changed the class environment.”
Lawrence looked impressed. “You weaponized kindness.”
Dan leaned forward. “Is this what adulthood looks like?”
Terrance simply said, “You’re crazy.”
I took a bite of vanilla.
In my previous life, I used words to provoke conflict.
This time, I used them to manufacture warmth.
The result was the same principle.
Influence.
But the outcome was different.
We no longer feared English class.
She no longer carried that permanent storm cloud.
Was it authentic?
Or engineered?
Did it matter?
If everyone benefits, perhaps the method is irrelevant.
Sometimes I hear my thirty one year old mind whispering inside me.
Outcome over purity.
I licked the melting ice cream and looked at my classmates laughing around me.
For once, I was not the thorn.
I was the catalyst.
And honestly,
that felt better.