When the school bell rings for next class, I’m busy calculating how long it’ll take to permanently relocate to another city.
I could go home now. Grab my passport and call up a taxi and book the earliest flight out of here. I have enough red pocket money saved up in my bank account from every Spring Festival to sustain myself for at least a month. And in the meantime I could find a part-time job, support myself by tutoring kids or waitressing at a hot pot restaurant—I’ve heard that they’re always looking for bilingual employees. Maybe I’ll dye my hair blonde, get a spray tan and contacts, change my name and fake my whole identity.
Nobody from Woodvale would be able to find me . . .
But even as I play out this fantasy, my feet are already dragging themselves across campus to the English classroom.
I can’t help it.
It’s too deeply ingrained in me, the need to obey the rules, to show up on time, to keep up my perfect attendance. I’m like one of Pavlov’s dogs, except every time I hear the bell, my instinct is to find my desk and whip out my notebooks.
I feel physically sick as I stop outside the door. I’m shaking all over, my teeth knocking against themselves so hard I’m scared they’ll crack. The scent of disinfectant and shoe polish is overwhelming, the crescendo of
voices grating my ears like shrieks. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but I know, with a sick, solid pang in my gut, that they’re talking about me.
My fingers tremble over the knob. I try to take deep breaths, but I suck in too much air too fast, until I’m lightheaded from it.
The bell chimes again.
Just go in.
Get it over with.
The second I step inside, there’s a brief but noticeable lag in the conversation. Eyes swivel away from me, landing on random spots on the whiteboard or the cracked-open windows or the outdated poster that reads Keep calm and Shakespeare on, which doesn’t even make any sense.
As I take my seat in the front row, my neck prickles with the sensation of being watched. I’m aware of my every sound and movement: my laptop opening, my chair creaking, my blazer sleeves creasing when I push them up.
Then Ms. Johnson walks in, and the expression on her face makes me freeze. Her mouth is pinched, her thin brows practically twisted into a
double knot. She’s been teaching here for six years, and on maternity leave for three; in all the time I’ve known her, she’s never looked this livid before. Then she locks eyes with me—not in her usual there’s my favorite student who always leads the group discussions way, but in a there’s the brat who ruined my day way. And all at once, my confusion clarifies into pure, nauseating dread.
Those cursed emails.
I’d been so fixated on what I’d written to Julius that I’d forgotten about the other recipients. Recipients like my English teacher.
“Before we begin diving into the wonderful world of literature today,” she says, setting her briefcase down on the desk with a somewhat violent thump, “I would like to make a general announcement that if, for some reason, you take issue with a grade that I have given you in the past, you can discuss it with me in a civil manner.” Her gaze snaps back to me, and I wish more than anything that a sinkhole would open up and swallow me whole.
“I would also like to emphasize that I have been in this teaching
business far longer than you have been students,” she continues. “While English may be more subjective an area of study than others, we
nonetheless grade you based on a strict rubric. The score that you receive in
the end is far from random; if you believe that you deserve better, then perform better. Do I make myself clear?”
Slow nods from around the classroom. Behind me, I hear someone whisper, “Damn, who pissed her off this morning?”
“Probably the same person who’s been pissing everyone off.”
There’s a pause, and my mind automatically fills up the silence with a vivid mental image of them gesturing at me. All the blood in my body
seems to be concentrated in my ears and cheeks.
I press my hands to my burning face, lower the brightness of my screen as far down as it’ll go, and pull up the sent folder in my emails. Then I force myself to read through the entire chain between me and Ms. Johnson, starting with my original email. I remember spending an hour composing it, switching synonyms around to sound as friendly as possible, and proofreading it so many times my eyes began to water.
Dear Ms. Johnson,
I hope this finds you well! I was just curious when our scores for our text analysis paper will be released? I recall you saying that they would be marked by last Thursday, but it’s been a week and I don’t seem to have received anything yet. Of course, I totally understand if they aren’t ready because of how busy you are, and I definitely don’t mean to rush you—I only wanted to double-check in case I might have missed them!
Thank you so much for all your time, and sorry for any inconvenience!
Kind regards, Sadie Wen
I’d then held my breath and waited. Her reply had come two days later:
your score is 89.5% Sent from my iPhone
With each new line I read, I can feel the past rushing back to me, my frustration made fresh again, the scab picked open. It was a terrible score by my standards, just barely above mediocre. Worse, I’d known that Julius had received a 95 percent, because his English teacher was a more lenient marker, and the difference between us was significant. Inexcusable.
Unbearable. We didn’t even have the same letter grade. So I had done my best to bargain.
Dear Ms. Johnson,
Thank you so very much for letting me know—I truly appreciate it! Would it be possible in any way to round my score up to a 90 percent, given that right now it’s only off by 0.5 percent? Or perhaps there’s a chance for me to do a make‑up paper or extra credit? Please let me know, as this grade—and your class—is incredibly important to me. I would be happy to do anything to change this.
Kind regards, Sadie Wen
To which she’d said only:
No. All grades are final.
And really, it should’ve stopped there. That should have been the last of our exchange. I’d poured out my humiliation and anger into a late-night draft and moved on.
Until now.
I wince my way through the latest email, the heat in my face expanding.
Ms. Johnson,
I’ve gone back and read through the essay I submitted, and I must say I disagree with the final mark. Even if it’s not worth full marks, it should at least be worth the 90 percent. It doesn’t cost you anything to round the score up, but it costs me everything to leave it the way it currently is. Just 0.5 percent. Zero. Point. Five.
Percent. How unreasonable do you have to be to deny a student even that? It’s basic math. As you might know, I’m currently applying to Berkeley, which has literally been my dream school since I was a child. My grades are more important than ever, and that letter grade could change my entire average, which could be the difference between an acceptance and a rejection.
This isn’t the first time I haven’t been able to completely make sense of your marking guidelines either. The model essay you showed us in class wasn’t even that good—every time it referenced a quote, it quite literally said, “This is a quote from the text.” It also began every second sentence with the word “significantly,” which, in my opinion, really detracts from the actual significance of the
statement . . .
Two weeks ago, months after I drafted that response, I found out Ms. Johnson was the one who wrote all the model essays she handed out to us.
Forget a sinkhole, I think grimly as I snap my laptop shut again, turning my eyes to the high ceiling. Just let the building collapse on top of me instead.
• • •
Most unfortunately, the building does not collapse within the last three hours of school—but my life does.
Everywhere I go, whispers follow. From the way people are acting, you’d think I was caught murdering a man with my bare hands or something, but I guess this is a kind of murder. As of today, Sadie the Model Student, the Perfect School Captain, is effectively dead.
“It’s really not that bad,” Abigail says as we head down the corridors together. We have math in five minutes, but for once, I’m not worried about the prospect of a pop quiz. A girl elbows her friend and nods in my direction when we pass. They both dissolve into loud, hysterical giggles.
The queasy feeling that’s taken up permanent residence in my stomach burrows even deeper.
“What’s so funny?” Abigail yells after them, because she’s never been afraid of confrontation. “Your new bangs?”
“Her bangs actually looked pretty cute,” I say through my fingers.
“Yeah, no, they really suit her,” Abigail agrees in a lower voice. “And okay, look, the situation isn’t great, but I’ve had a chance to read through some of those emails you sent out—”
“You and everyone else in this school,” I mutter, raising my hands higher to hide my face. Another group of friends have stopped outside the bathroom just to stare at me, snippets of their conversation floating after us.
“. . . that’s her . . .”
“I heard Rosie completely flipped her shit this morning . . .” “Yeah, figures. Did you see what she wrote?”
“Forget Rosie—I’d be so pissed if I were Julius Gong. Like, damn, she really went there—”
Abigail continues, louder, clearly in an effort to drown them out. “Of course the tone was a tad harsh in places, and I feel like we really need to set aside some time and dissect your hatred toward Julius—”
My eyes flutter shut for a moment, overwhelmed by dread. “Please, don’t say his name.” I want to forget him completely—never hear his name, see him, or be reminded of his presence. I don’t want to relive the memory of his lips brushing my skin, the cruel glint in his eyes, or the malice in his voice.
“Okay, but just know you didn’t do anything wrong. You were being honest. If I were you, I’d embrace it. Let them be a little afraid of you. Show them you have your own thoughts and feelings.”
“I just can’t comprehend how it happened,” I respond, quickening my pace. If I slow down or think too much, I might crumble. “I would never, ever send those emails. It had to be some kind of virus. I knew downloading those mock papers from that sketchy site was a bad idea—I only did it because they weren’t available anywhere else.”
Abigail bites her lip, about to say something, but her words vanish as she suddenly stops at the end of the hallway.
It doesn’t take long to see why.
Beside our gleaming awards cabinet, filled with trophies and medals for everything from rowing to chess to debating, hangs a framed photo of Julius and me. We had taken it during a professional shoot shortly after being named co-captains. Both in full school uniform, his tie neatly fastened and my black hair pulled into a tight bun, badges pinned to our pockets. He stands with his arms crossed, exuding an air of superiority even through the glass. I’m smiling more than he is, the freckles on my cheeks standing out in the light.
camera flash, my thick lashes successfully curled to look even longer.
The photographer had requested that we stand closer together until we were touching, but neither of us was willing to budge any farther, so there’s still a good inch of distance between us.
And now, in that gap, someone’s drawn a red, jagged line all the way down the middle.
They’ve also added a spear in my hand, and a sword in his. Instead of cocaptains, we look like we’re going to war against each other. Like we belong on the poster of some low-budget superhero movie.
“Oh my god,” I breathe.
Abigail purses her lips. “Don’t panic—” I panic.
“This is awful,” I hiss under my breath, pressing two hands to the glass like I can somehow reach through and scrub the photo clean. “This looks so bad. This makes us look so bad.”
“I know what you mean, but if it helps, you both actually look pretty hot
—”
“Abigail.” It’s a half cry of protest, half yell of distress. I hate that I
even need to be comforted; I’m always the one who comforts other people. I hate needing anything from anyone.
“Okay, okay, got it.” She grabs my arms and gently steers me away from the cabinet, speaking in the same soothing tone I’ve heard meditation instructors adopt. “Look, my darling, it isn’t the end of the world. People
are only reacting this way because they’re surprised. Like, everyone was under the assumption that you two were getting along just fine, especially since you’re cocaptains and all, and now that there’s drama, they’re going to latch on to it. But it’ll blow over on its own in a couple days or so.”
“Are you sure?” I ask her, scanning the area. In the sea of schoolbags and binders and blue-and-white blazers, more curious gazes catch on mine, then slide over to the vandalized photo. My throat fills with humiliation.
“I’m very confident,” Abigail reassures me. But she blinks rapidly when she says it, the way she does when she’s lying.
