This isn't even my final test. I don't understand why I'm freaking out so damn bad. Why am I freaking out?! I put too much pressure on myself, and at times I don't mind because of the extra motivation it gives me to be my absolute best. I'm somewhat of an overachiever, I suppose, but I hadn't known to what extent until recently. With each test that passes by, my six-week grade updates: made up my English test today, tomorrow if I think it went the way it should've my average should be around a 98. Physics? 101 (still not sure how that's possible but who's complaining?). U.S. History? I want to say a 93, which is a little wince-inducing but my disdain for it doesn't aid me well in and out the classroom.

Trig. My three-week average was 72 standing. Just teetering on the edge of failure (technically, I suppose, even if I'm convinced past 85 is a bastardization of my grade average). I can't afford to go any longer ... I'm convinced it'll kill me. If not, my mom will. If she doesn't, I will. Dark? Maybe, but I've worked way too hard for this grade to improve, especially as the quarter comes to a close. Next quarter, they're really gonna be on our heads about college/university, namely early acceptance, which I strive to go for. 

But it's like Mal told me: the tutoring has been working, right? Right... that's the other thing. Failing on my own already feels like total crap but with assisted help? I can take looking bad to an extent, but I can't stomach the thought of making someone else look bad. In this case, someone I pushed away several times out for baseless reasons. Someone who worked her ass off to put together these comprehensive guides and extra prep. Someone who let me in on a math decathlon meeting (which, turns out, was for motivational reasons, but not that I expected any different). Someone who checked up on me when I was sick. Who bought me ice cream? Who gave me chance after chance after chance? 

The worst thing I can do is prove, somehow, that it's all been for naught. Unbelievable as it is to say it now, I can't do that to Havana. But before I can fully get up and cram at my wee desk at 2:44 A.M., I stop myself. I haven't let on to anyone (Mal), but my mom scheduled me for an appointment later in the week that I've disguised as a "dentist appointment". In reality, I'm getting tested to see if I've developed some mild form of insomnia. Being made consciously aware of the fact, I've had to stop myself several times in the last week from getting up to do God Knows What. I lay back down in bed and stare at the stars on my ceiling, counting them. I know how many stars are up there and around the room -- a mix of 143 large and small stars. I know this for two reasons; one, because I've counted them so many damn times (that should've been a sign), and number two, I specifically chose that number. 

143 means "I love you"; now, if I had a pager like most people my age, I'd send it all the time to Mallory, and I don't just mean in the "I actually like you like you" sense (I cannot bring myself to say the word romantic because truthfully, I don't know if I am). We say it to each other all the time, anyway, it wouldn't be a big deal. It doesn't have to be romantic; in the context of my wall, it isn't. Pathetic as it is to admit it, I used the 143 stars to send a message to my parents. Something we can't bring ourselves to say, so I hoped anytime they walked into the room, they would just know. Not sure to what effect it's worked.

At least the counting helps, for now, my eyes are drifting. 138 ... 139 ... yawn... 140 ... 141 ... 142 ...

142 ...

One ... forty ... two....

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I know I've said a lot of days as of late have been really slow, extremely slow, HISTORICALLY slow. Yet, on a day I'd rather take my sweet time, everything moves in a blur. One moment I'm on the bus, then jump to 3rd period, a fight breaks out at lunch, 5th period makes my stomach churn, and somehow the last 3rd of the day is lost because before I know it, the final bell is ringing. I'm actually frozen in place for a solid ten seconds as everyone starts to leave the class. Conveniently, my last class of the day is English III, so I muster up any feeling in my legs so I can make my way to Mr. Halloway's desk. 

"What's up, Zora?" Mr. Halloway smiles. He's 30, born in the transition period between hippie to disco culture, so he has this sort of ... informal-ish way of addressing the students. At times it's entertaining and engaging, at other times it's plain cringy. Like now. But not really his fault -- I'm not about to tell a teacher I prefer a nickname, much less to one who is proud that he's still "got it goin' on."

"Right, Mr. Halloway, sir," I address him. "My six-week grade?"

"Ah yes, I did promise you that after class," Mr. Halloway snaps his fingers. He asks to see my report card sheet, and as he whips out his red pen, my heart feels like it's going to burst out of my chest. Mr. Halloway hands me back my report card sheet, as well as my test, and I stare at it. 

"Uh, sir?" I ask. "Is this a mistake?"

"No mistake, Zora," Mr. Halloway nods, smiling. The paradox about Mr. Halloway is that, for as "cool" and "totally with it" teacher as he is, he's also a hard ass when it comes to grading. You can't half-ass anything or try to pass it off, and even when you give it your all (i.e. me), the most you can hope from him is a 98, and that's after an added curve IF he ever gives one. So, imagine my utter shock when I'm staring at my paper with a big, fat 104.

"I -- wait, really?" I stammer unsure of what to say. 

"Oh yeah. You're the only one of my students in the last few years who's given a truly deep analysis of the allegories found within BNW," Mr. Halloway explains. "Any student that makes me tap my chin with some thought-provoking theories earns such a grade. You're one of the few, the elite."

"W-wow, thank you so much, sir!" I beam. I can't help myself; extra credit and whatnot, I've been used to. To receive it from the notorious "nothing in life is perfect" mellow mood man himself, right before The Test no less, is the confidence booster I sorely needed. 

"No problem, and don't call me 'sir' alright?" Mr. Halloway requests. "You can even call me Chapman, if you want. I'm not that much older than you all."

"Right," I nod slowly. I don't wait to linger in the silence more than I have to, so I start to make my way out of the room. "Have a good day, Mr. Halloway, sir!" I smack my mouth. "Oh, sorry, uh, not, sir? Okay, bye!" I barely make out what he says as I make my way to A113 just a smilin' and a cheesin'. Before long, I'm making my way down A Hall, surviving yet another day of the After School Apocalypse, and right outside the classroom, I see an all-too-familiar face. 

"Oh, hey Yasmin," I slow down my enthusiasm. 

"Oh, hi Zora," Yasmin acknowledges me. She holds out her arm and motions me to hold out my hand. A small, rolled-up paper meets my hand, with a bit of weight to it, might I add (pun?). "Havana told me to give it to you during class today, but I had to go to the counselor's office to talk about admissions." 

"Oh, uh, thanks?" I say confused. What is this, and why is Havana using Yasmin as a catalyst? 

"No problem," Yasmin flatly says. "Have fun." She walks away as fast as I do when I'm rushing to get out of class, but I think that's just the way she is all the time. Now back to this thing in my hand. I undo the rubber band holding it together, and I'm met with a note and two dollars. Erm ...? The note reads:

Havana S... like I don't know who she is? That's a humor huff earned. I'm guessing she gave me this much for that DreamCone I got last time, but honestly, I barely stomached it down. Also, why is she giving me ice cream money? Through a note?? Makes me wonder if other tutors are sending full-on singing telegrams to their pupils. It's a sweet gesture, though. Havana would be the first to ever give me a note in (or adjacent to) my trig class that wasn't riddled with ableism. Did I use that right? Adjacent?

"Miss Agyapong?" Ms. Carmone calls me from the door. Seems I blanked out. "Are you ready?"

"Mm-hmm," I hum, much easier than a flat-out "yes". Besides me, there's one other kid in here doing the retest, too -- unsure why, not really interested, but it does make me feel a little better to not be alone. I take my place in my usual spot, and Ms. Carmone hands me the test booklet. I'm shaking so hard I could turn the two dollars Havana gave me into coins with sheer willpower. 

"Reminder that this is an open note test," Ms. Carmone tells us both, and I breathe a little easier. "You'll have 45 minutes to complete it. Ready?"

Ready ... am I ready? Ugh, why am I putting so much pressure on myself?! Question of the century. I pull my notebook out, along with the notes Havana's given me. Now or never, right...?

"Your time starts now."