“Well, it is only one quiz,” Ms. Hayes says. “We can’t worry ourselves silly over every little grade.”
I breathe out, relaxing a bit.
“But,” she continues, “assuming you still want to be valedictorian, it does mean more for you than others. And when a student is taking almost all AP classes, colleges want to make sure they haven’t bitten off too much. So, we definitely want to get you back on the right track.” She smiles at me. A smile. At a time like this. “Now who teaches AB?”
“It’s BC. Mr. Eller.”
“Right, of course. Let me see if I can pull up his syllabus.” She unwraps a granola bar and bites into it. Then, chewing while clicking around the computer, she says, “Here we go. Okay, quizzes are weighted quite heavily. Twenty-five percent of the grade. Let me check…” She clicks a few more times. “Looks like you have five quizzes this semester, at five percent each, so as you can see… What exactly did you score?”
“Fifty percent,” I mutter.
Her silence is punishing. She taps on her phone. “Fifty percent on five percent of your grade, so that’s two point five percentage points gone. That’s not catastrophic by any standard.”
I swallow. “It’s not?”
“Not at all. You’re still at 97.5 percent. Though the quiz affects your margin of error going forward, which could be challenging as the difficulty of the class increases.” She puts down her phone and looks up at me. “Math is an uphill battle.”
I pick at the fabric of the seat. “So what do I do?”
Ms. Hayes glances at the clock. “My appointment is running late.” She gives a soft smile. “Good news for you. Give me a second. We’ll come up with a plan.”
I wouldn’t be this close to the finish line without Ms. Hayes. Over the years, even in our truncated time together, she put me on the right track, signed me up for the classes I need. She advised me how to audit courses like orchestra so they don’t bring down my GPA, how to skip lunch and sign up for zero period classes and take PE online so I could squeeze in extra weighted credits like AP Latin and AP European History.
But I was supposed to be done with all that. I did all the planning, all the maneuvering. The only task left is easy: Get straight As.
And yet I’ve already messed that up.
“All right.” Ms. Hayes rubs her hands together. “First off, have you spoken to Mr. Eller?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, I’m sure you know the drill. Ask if you can come in and correct your wrong answers for partial credit. And ask if there’s any extra credit work. A few points would make up the grade.”
“Right,” I say, leaning back. A plan. Some of the tension eases from my muscles. “I should’ve thought of that. Thank you.”
“Second, remember this isn’t an excuse to throw all your focus into math and slip up in your other classes. We don’t want this creating a domino effect.”
“Mm-hmm.” I nod and start typing notes into my phone. This is good. I can come back from this.
“Third, it looks like there’s a test next Friday, and since studying independently isn’t doing the trick, you should get a tutor.”
I pause and glance up. “Um…what?”
She sighs. “What is it with kids at this school? Sometimes even the smartest student needs a tutor. That means you.”
I shift in my seat. If I get a tutor at school, people will know I’m struggling. Pari has let her guard down. If it stays that way, maybe I could still secure valedictorian with a B in calculus.
“Ariel, what is it?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Look, there are lots of options. You can get a tutor outside of school if you prefer.”
There’s a knock on the door. A small girl with blond hair stands there. “I’ll grab you from the waiting room in a minute, Becca,” Ms. Hayes says. The girl nods and leaves. “That’s my next appointment. Are you okay for now? You have the steps: go to Mr. Eller, don’t forget your other classes, and get a tutor. That’s all doable, right?”
“Yup, all doable,” I say, my throat tight.
“Excellent.” Ms. Hayes smiles. “Make me proud.”
* * *
A familiar cacophony erupts around me as I open the double doors to the orchestra room. Sliding seats and rockstops squeak across the floor. Lockers slam, metronomes tock, and bows whistle across strings. And over it all, shouts and laughter as people discuss their upcoming weekends.
I spin the combination on my locker and take out my violin case. Every day I bring my violin to and from school so I can practice at home. Last night it sat by the front door because I was too busy with other work. My reading for Spanish Lit is getting ridiculous. It turns out, reading a book in a foreign language takes a long time.
I’ll have to catch up on practice this weekend. Orchestra should be my easiest class. I’m auditing it, so there’s not even a grade. But first chair means all ears are on me, no room for error.
I slip out my phone and check my email. One notification from a safety school and one from Harvard. My heart jumps. I open the email and scan it. Remember to schedule your alumni interview by…
I’ve already scheduled mine. One month from now I’m meeting with Hannah Shultz, CEO of AquaShroom, a hydroponic mushroom company with a fervent user base. I can’t help but wonder if the majority of her customers grow a mushroom she can’t advertise on her website. I’ve already prepared study flashcards about Hannah, her company, Harvard history, and my own biography because you can’t know your best self too well for any Ivy League interview.
I save the email anyway. I can always confirm with Hannah. Doesn’t hurt to be safe.
Pari is at our seats. Is there any way she found out about my grade? No, I’m being paranoid. It’s Pari, my friend. Not a secret student spy.
She’s running through warm-up scales with diligence. She has tennis practice right after school, so she already changed into a tennis skirt and racer back. I used to rush to soccer practice after the final bell, but I had to leave the team last year. Practice took up too much time, and it’s not like being on JV is an impressive enough addition to my college application.
Now, I run on my own. I enjoy it, and occasionally, I’ll enter a 10k in attempt to still look like a well-rounded student.
“Hey.” I slide into my seat.
“Hey!” Pari responds. “Looking forward to the weekend? Doing anything fun?”
“Think it’ll be low-key,” I say. “My sister has a soccer game. Gotta cheer her on.”