I couldn't have breathed a heavier sigh of relief and fear after the make-up test yesterday. Twenty questions definitely filled the 45-minute time limit with no problem, at least for me cause the other kid in the room with me? Done in 10. TEN. MINUTES. At least he left at the point I started to sweat whole rounds of ammo, hearing the ticks of the clock get increasingly louder which helped me none. As someone who prides themselves on their work and/or not needing additional help (an Achilles' heel, come to find out), I've never been one to scoff at an open-book test. In fact, any teacher willing to give such leniency earns more respect out of the students. It's why Ms. Carmone is such a favorite, and whilst I respected her before, oh boy should I kiss the ground she walks on after. Which, wouldn't be so out of line like some of the horndog boys around here.

When I finished the test, I handed her my booklet, but not before it slipped out of my hand the first time. Thank you, Sweaty Palm City. Ms. Carmone flashed the warmest smile, a smile that read "I'm so proud of you despite your shortcomings", like that of what I assume a Mom would do (and she has no kids of her own). I left the room with the weight of the world off my shoulders, which shouldn't be a good thing considering this, again, WAS NOT MY FINAL TEST. However, since the tutoring with Havana started, I think some sort of drive revived in me when it came to trig. Some. Still a ways to go, but this time I truly didn't want to walk in with the mindset of automatic failure, and whether I succeeded at that or not, I tried. I really tried, and it felt ... sick. Up to interpretation.

I felt so focused on the test and getting the hell out of there that when I got home and could finally experience all my senses normally, I felt something prickle against my upper thigh pocket. I totally forgot about Havana's little "gift", and it left me between and rock and a hard place. On the one hand, I felt bad I forgot about it and didn't buy the ice cream because it was such a sweet thing to do. On the other hand, I know I would've felt bad if I used the money because it was such a sweet thing to do. What kind of sick conundrum was that?! The worst part of it all is not even the dilemma, but now here I am a day later and --

"Hey Zo, how much longer do we have to stand here?" Mal quakes above me in the D-Hall janitor's closet. "My legs hurt and it's cold. Also, don't quote me on this but I swear I heard something crawling."

"Do you see her out there?" I ask, whisper-toned as if anyone could hear us from the dark, damp, and allegedly infested janitor's closet.  

"For the last five minutes, I've told you she's not out there!" Mal whisper-yells. "Can we please get out of here? I think my clothes are gonna permanently smell of disinfectant and cobwebs."

"Okay, fine," I bite, leading us both out of the closet. "Thanks for looking out."

"Sure, wouldn't want to spend my morning doing anything else," Mal says sarcastically. "Now will you tell me why we were hiding from Havana again? You didn't fail that bad, did you? I mean,  I know you didn't, but did you?" 

"It's not about that!" I quickly shoot down. "A-and I don't think so?"

"Okay, so what is this all about then?" Mal shakes her head. "I thought you were at least civil with her now."

"I am ..." I trail off. If this is not the most embarrassing thing I've ever admitted, may God strike me down. "It's just ... so, yesterday, I guess as a "good luck" thing, Havana wrote me a note ..."

"Oh?" Mal hikes her eyebrows. "A juicy note?"

"No!" I shove her slightly. "Just a good luck note ... that happened to have two dollars for ice cream in it that slipped my mind and I didn't use it. So now, I don't want her to ask me anything about it, or the test for that matter, because like, what am I supposed to say to that? You know?" Mal gives me this oddly curious, pointedly upturned smile. Like she knows something I don't...

"Zo, this is so unlike you," she jests.

"W-what do you mean?" I ask.

"Feeling all ... bad and stuff for Havana," Mal smiles mischievously. I do a double-take.

"Whoa, hold on," I wave my hands in protest. "I do not "feel bad" for Havana, okay? I-I-I just feel weird I didn't put her money to use when she offered."

"So, in a way, you feel bad? Like indirectly?"

"Wha -- no!" I shake my head, sighing. "Never mind, the point is the coast is clear."

"Okay but actually though," Mal goes on as we start walking to our lockers. "How do you feel about the test? You haven't really said anything about it." Ah, I was hoping she wouldn't ask this question, but you know, duh.

"Right ... I mean, I don't -- I don't know, you know?" I rub my neck, flustered. 

"Throw a number at me," Mal commands. "And don't you dare sell yourself short! I want an honest number."

"Ah jeez, uhm ..." My God, Mal's put me on the spot before, but this seems cruel. I'm not a bragger by any means but I've never talked about anything math-related in a positive light, period. My tongue feels fuzzy at the thought, but honestly? "I-I guess maybe ... a 70?" Mal clasps her hands over her mouth, squealing. Uh oh.

"A 70," she responds muffled, and when she takes her hands off her mouth, a proud smile shines. "A 70! You've never said that and meant it!!" Before I have a chance to explain, Mal wraps me up in a huge hug. All I said was a 70, was it such a big deal? Then again, I didn't completely revile at the mention of it so ... maybe?

"I am so proud of you," she speaks over my shoulder. Huh. Don't get me wrong, it always feels amazing to hear that Mal is proud of me. It makes me jittery, like a dog that gets scratched in the right place behind the ear. However, good as it feels, it's not the entire reason I feel good. I mean, I wasn't overestimating or underestimating this number. A 70 shouldn't feel so ... easy to roll off the tongue like that, but I did. I did it. And to think it almost never happened.

"Y-you know," I speak, now looking at Mal. "I started this whole tutoring thing because of you."

"Yeah, I figured!" Mal smiles cheesily.

"B-but you know I'm actually not resistant to it as I once was," I continue. "Now it feels like I'm legit doing this for me."

"That's great, Zo!" Mal beams. "It's all I've wanted to hear from you! You know, you've kind of inspired me lately." As blood rushes to my face, I can't help but feel confused.

"W-wait? You mean, with tutoring?" I ask. "I inspired you to be tutored?"

"Well, sure!" Mal confirms. "You know, I hated this unit we just did on Brave New World. Like, you know I love reading but only if I'm having fun with it and school ... it doesn't make it very fun." Oh, she has the cutest pout imaginable. "And when I think about it, I know the perfect tutor for this very cause. Someone who, I don't know if you heard, got a 104 on our six-week test."

I blink rapidly, quite shocked. "Wait, you want me to tutor you? For serious?"

"Why not?" Mal geeks. "Wouldn't it be so fun! You help me with English, we get to exchange stories about your tutoring, and who knows? Maybe Havana will use my help in ... I don't know, acting?" 

"Ah, so this is all a ploy to get Havana tutored by you?" I joke half-heartedly. 

"No!" Mal scoffs. "I'm just saying it could be fun! Tutor buddies!"

"Mm-hmm," I hum. Tutor buddies, huh... 

------------------------------

I take back everything I said earlier. I do not feel good about anything at all as I sit here in the chair in front of Ms. Carmone's classroom, ready to puke my guts out. She didn't give me my grade in class, but merely told me to "meet after school". Not even after class -- after school. I failed. I totally failed! A 70, God who did I think I was? I'm trying my best to catch my breath, but it feels like the air is punching my lungs with every breath. I jolt when I hear a knock at the door. Oh, as if this couldn't get any worse.

"Zo, hey!" Havana smiles. "I haven't seen you all day."

"Well, Havana, at any other time and place, I might be elated," I admit. 

"Ouch! Was the two dollars not enough for the cone?" Havana chuckles, dramatically gripping her chest. I knew this was coming.

"I don't know, I didn't use the money," I tell her straight up. Havana's smile fades once she grasps the seriousness of the situation. "What are you doing here?"

"You tell me," Havana says, pulling up a chair. "Ms. Carmone asked me to come by after school."

"Ah, crap," I mutter. "Look, I failed the test, okay?"

"Excuse me?" Havana stares.

"I mean, I could be jumping the gun but there's no reason the two of us would coincidentally be asked to be seen after school in our shared teacher's classroom that we've formed a tutoring relationship with unless I failed my first test post-tutoring." I catch my breath after that long-winded explanation. The way Havana is staring at me indicates I've confused her, but it's sympathetic. At the least, I need to believe it is. 

"How bad was it is?" Havana asks me somberly. I fight the urge to tear up. I must be a crazy person; how am I possibly telling her I failed when I'm not even concrete in my assumption? And now I can't give her a straight answer (fittingly, unbeknownst to her) as to "how bad" it was. It's like I'm back at square one -- I've learned nothing at all!

"I- it's --" As I'm about to explain, Ms. Carmone sits at her desk. Both of us do a double take, not realizing that she walked in. 

"Ladies!" Ms. Carmone greets us, smiley as can be. That, somehow, does the opposite of putting me at ease. "How are we today?"

"Fine," we both say, obviously not fine. I tap my feet furiously. I want her to rip the bandaid off so fast it reopens the wound; if so, I could go cry in my bed as I bleed out dry. I think I need to get checked up on more than I realized.

"I'm glad you both made it," Ms. Carmone speaks. "Zo, I've got your grade for your six-week test. Do you have your report card on you?"

"Yes, ma'am," I say, pulling out my card and handing it to her sheepishly. I can't look at her directly, but in my peripheral, I see Havana twirling a hairband around her wrist. That must be some sort of coping mechanism for when she knows the tutoring didn't work. I mouth "I'm sorry" to her without meeting her direction. What am I going to tell Mom? She's going to see that being in the "Student Council" is interfering with my studies and make me quit going. I'll be all alone in my room again with my late-night study sessions slowly losing what's left of my mind. I suppose it doesn't matter now... so why does it hurt so much to think about it? 

"Here you go," Ms. Carmone hands me both my test and my report card back. I can't bring myself to look, but I'm guessing the gasp from Havana is an indicator. I begrudgingly look down. 

This is the part I can't recall what happened next.