how the other half lives

"Yes, I know how AP works," I say as I meet a skeptical gaze. 

As a favor I'm proctoring a test during my ironically named plan time, and thus I have a room full of strangers. They've made their way down to my corner of the building and are politely out of their element. They come through the wrong door; half are a tiny bit late. As they enter, each is mutely questioning. 

"Yes, here. This is where you're supposed to be."  I don't bother to introduce myself or explain what normally goes on here. But as they fall deep into their diligence a boy shows up with a PE test; he knows most of the answers as I read the questions and draw a baseball diamond on a scrap. I wonder what our audience makes of it. 

At the tail end of the hour tests are over and so is their silence. In the meantime, my Senior has arrived to tell me about a tech school field trip to the morgue; we've exchanged only a few whispers out of deference. I wonder if she knows these kids or if she finds today's set-up weird; it definitely feels different. 

In the minutes before the bell one of our guests begins to talk about moving; the room's small enough that it's impossible not to listen. She speaks as matter-of-factly as she can manage about the new bedroom that awaits in the walk-out basement, and about the promotion that led to new construction. "My dad just wanted the four-car garage," she shrugs. 

I turn to my compatriot as the classroom clears at the bell, "And that would be how the other half lives," I say.  She nods emphatically.