Our fifth-year english class was in a Portable. Portables, for anyone lucky enough to not have them at their schools, are blocky, movable one-room buildings with office-style polystyrene-tiled celings.
The first time we were alone and unsupervised, I discovered that if you stood on your desk, you could reach the celing and push it up to reveal around a foot of empty space.
My eyes flicked from the foot of storage space, to the huge stacks of red dictionaries in the corner.
So, over the course of the year, the dictionaries slowly migrated from the pile to the rafters. Our teacher, sure of theft, started staging random bag checks, at which we huffed vaguely about human rights. And still the once-proud pile of red dictionaries dwindled.
She ordered another hundred dictionaries.
We put them in the rafters.
To celebrate the end of the year, we snuck out of the year-end assembly, climbed into the portable, stacked some desks and made a pyramid out of the 200 or so dictionaries. It was Itchycoo Park-level beautiful.