If I could use one word to describe trigonometry, it would be "___". That's right, I have no words for it, because every time I think about it, see it, or attempt it, my mind goes totally blank. Despite that, if you were to sit in my class, you'd think that I was the only one who had any sense of what to do. It seems unjust that I don't have to lift a finger in my other courses, but in this one, I work thrice as hard and get nowhere.

Just faintly out in the halls, I hear the cheer team roaming about. It's been going on all day over the kickoff game. And it's loud. Class to class they've gone to intrude to sell these tickets, and all I hope for is that they don't make their way in here.

"Zora, would you like to give it a shot?" I hear Ms. Carmone say, and now all I hope is that they do make their way in here!

"Uh..." I start, but it's apparent that I'm not going to get out of this one. I rise from my desk slowly, the blood in my legs running colder with each step to the board I take. Ms. Carmone's warm smile is a bit of relief, but once I have the chalk in my hands, it all flies out the window. Nothing on the board makes sense... I'm in such a rut I forget what unit we're even on! The chalk dances in my hand skittishly, and I feel the eyes in the room burning a thousand holes in my backside, just ready for me to slip up. As I stall as long as I can, however, the door clicks open, and turning around to see who it is I find that my prayers have been answered.

"Hi, Ms. Carmone! Do you mind if we talk to the students about the upcoming game?" Jhene asks, that plasticky smile complimenting the insane BPS (blinks per second) of her eyes.

"Ladies ..." Ms. Carmone begins, kindly explaining that she doesn't want the lesson interrupted. Or so I think because I take the moment to my advantage to quickly write up ... something. Anything, really! Before I knew it, I was setting the chalk back down and returning to my seat ... I'm fairly certain I could've secured the gold in an Olympic event for a writing dash.

"Well, thanks anyway, ma'am!" Jhene bats her eyelashes sweetly, then she leads the other cheerleaders out of the room with the door shutting swiftly behind them.

"So then – oh!" Ms. Carmone darts her eyes at the board, then to me, then to the board, not expecting me to work it out in that time. The askew pout on her face tells me everything before she can.

"Hm... okay, this was pretty close," she says, again in the nicest way possible. "Does anyone recognize the misstep?"

A hand goes up from Yazmin Sanchez, arguably the smartest one in the class, and that says a lot with an 89 average.

"The sin and tan were reversed. It needs to be 14 over 22." Yazmin corrects.

"Excellent work, Yazmin," Ms. Carmone compliments, erasing my mistakes and changing the answer to the right one. I'll say this, at least this time I only reversed the equation. There have been instances where I put up an entirely new formula – and still got that wrong. I can't jump out of my seat fast enough when the bell rings, and everyone by now has noticed I'm always the first to leave. Bearing even a millisecond longer of trigonometry makes my skin feel like it's melting off.

"Ms. Agyapong!" Ms. Carmone calls, stopping me in my tracks. I knew one of these days I wouldn't escape fast enough. I turn her way as other kids leave the room, and she motions me over to her desk. I reluctantly take a seat, staring anywhere but her gaze. Her desk is decked out in some rather ... cheesy math-related posters, but also of cute trinkets like a mini-plush of a worm in glasses sticking its body outside an apple. It's all very friendly, and it makes me slightly uneasy.

"How is your day going?" Ms. Carmone asks first. Now I'm very uneasy.

"Not ... bad," I answer. "Uh, I have class –"

"It's okay, I've written you a note." Ah, because of course she did. "Zora, what's your favorite subject?"

Well, I admit that took me aback. Not the first thing I expected to hear, to be honest, albeit a totally normal question.

"Um ... I've always been really into Chemistry," I tell her.

"Is that right? Do you want to be a chemist one day?"

"Forensic scientist, actually." It's true, been a dream of mine since I was 14 when I took a forensics class in 9th grade. Before that, I wanted to be a dancer. I know, what a 180.

"That's great! I've never been a big science head myself, as you can probably tell –" Ms. Carmone beams, in reference to her set-up. I force a small laugh, just waiting for her to get to the point.

"I don't know, though, that science and math, well, they go hand-in-hand with each other," she continues. "Maybe you know where I'm going?"

I shrug. "Maybe."

"Sweetie, I know this might be a difficult thing to deal with, your dyscalculia –" Ms. Carmone starts, of course knowing about my diagnosis.

"I-is this the part where you tell me I'm failing?" I cut to it. Ms. Carmone looks through her grade book until she lands on my name, and I'm prepping myself for an itchy sting when she rips the band-aid off.

"You ... are actually at a 72 standing right now," she tells me.

"So, failing." 

"Honey, that's not failing," Ms. Carmone tries assuring me, but to little solace. A "B" in my household is a sin amongst sins -- worse than, let's say lightly, tax evasion. A "C" grade? Equate that to straight-up murder. I started to replay the conversation May and I had the other day. My aim is to shoot for those big-name schools – the M.I.T's of the world if not just M.I.T. itself, but of course, I'm stuck in limbo with my math problem. A 72 ... you might as well say my future is over.

"But it's clearly not where you want to be, is it?" she continues, startling me. I nod in embarrassment.

"Have you ever considered a tutor?" she asks. My eyebrows raise, and I feel a state of deja vu.

"You know, funnily enough, it crossed my mind recently," I confess.

"I know when students hear the word "tutoring", it can be scary or have its negative connotations," Ms. Carmone goes on. Oh, if only she knew how hard she hit the nail because my head started to throb something serious. "However, knowing what a hard worker you are, I think it would be really beneficial to you."

"Right... well, I can't exactly afford one right now," I sheepishly admit.

"Well surely – the money would come from the parents, right?" Ms. Carmone jokes, a shockwave running through my body.

"No!" I blurt out. "I-I don't want this to go back to my mom."

"It's okay, Zora, I understand familial pressure and financial issues," Ms. Carmone shares. I know she means it in a comforting way, but all I feel is guilt. She goes on, "Listen, I think I could find a student of mine to help you out, free of charge."

Interesting proposition, admittedly, but I can't shake this feeling. "I don't want it to be anyone else's trouble," I say.

"Sweetie, that's what tutors – and teachers – are here for!" Ms. Carmone exclaims. "We're here to help, and so long as you're willing to learn, it's no trouble at all. I would personally do it myself but I'm dealing with an excess of after-school help as it is."

I shift in my seat a bit. Poor Ms. Carmone; of course, she's being stretched thin, and the damned public school system only continues to work in mysterious, failing ways. Yet, she still pays enough attention to her students, even me, to extend her help. I hate knowing that I've tried all that I could, and it still has to come to this point. I feel she's sensing my uncomfortable air.

"Look, I won't keep you here any longer, but tell me honestly – is this something you're open to trying?" she proposes. If I'd been asked this question a week ago, hell even two days ago, I would've been adamantly against it.

I should clarify there's absolutely nothing wrong with seeking tutoring help. It's just something that I never saw myself needing, maybe in the way I was conditioned to be the best of the best at everything I do (academically speaking). My wrist itches, and when I go to scratch it I look closely at my bracelet that adorns it. A baby-blue 'M' takes center, and at the risk of it one day coming to the forefront, I feel all ... blushy. I guess if not for me ... I'd do it for her. I meet Ms. Carmone's eyes and nod my head.

It's a long, long walk of shame to my next class afterward.