A day has passed.
My friends and I are sprinting down the hallway, dodging other students like we’re in some kind of action movie.
We barely make it to our classroom before the bell rings, and naturally, our teacher is waiting for us.
She’s got that classic “I’m not mad, just disappointed” look on her face, and trust me, it’s terrifying but funny.
One by one, she smacks our hands for being late—this is officially the tenth time this month in her subject!
We roll our eyes and stifle laughs as we plop down at our desks.
After the hand-smacking ceremony, she clears her throat and announces, “Everyone has now have their grade and only three students failed the finals and have to repeat tenth grade.”
I’m thinking, “No biggie,” until I hear my name: “Gabriel Nightingale.” Suddenly, the mood shifts.
My classmates burst into laughter, pointing fingers and tossing crumpled papers at me like I’m the star of some bad reality show.
The teacher just smirks, clearly enjoying the chaos she’s created.
Inside, I’m fuming.
That was it. I couldn’t hold back anymore. I exploded, flipping my desk over with a crash that echoed in the room.
Everyone froze, eyes wide, and I caught a glimpse of sheer terror on the teacher’s face.
Without thinking, I punched the nearest kid who was laughing at me.
It felt good, like a release, but then reality hit—I was being ushered to the principal’s office faster than I could say “detention.”
Once I was in the principal’s office, he looked at me with that knowing gaze that says, “I’ve seen it all.” He said, “I’m going to have to call your mother.”
I nodded, trying to play it cool, and pulled out my phone to give him my mom’s old and unused number.
Honestly, I thought it was hilarious to use a number from back in the day. “This’ll show them,” I thought, feeling a bit rebellious.
The principal dialed, and we both listened to the ringing.
But of course, it went straight to voicemail. The principal raised an eyebrow at me. “Gabriel, this number hasn’t been in service for years!” he exclaimed, his voice a mix of disbelief and annoyance.
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Guess you’ll have to find her the old-fashioned way, then!” I shot back, feeling like a total genius for the comedic twist.
As he stared at me, probably trying to figure out if I was serious or just messing with him, I leaned back in my chair, thinking, “Well, at least this makes for a funny story.”
Who else could say they got sent to the principal’s office for flipping a desk and giving out a number that didn’t even work?
I was feeling pretty confident in the principal's office, thinking about how I’d just flipped a desk and given him my mom’s old number as if I was some kind of comedic genius.
But then the door swung open, and in walked my mother.
My stomach dropped. It turned out it was my teacher who had called her—great.
Just great.
The principal wasted no time. “Mrs. Nightingale, your son has failed the finals,” he announced, and I could practically see the shock and fury flicker across her face.
She looked at me like I was a walking disaster. “What do you mean he failed?” she demanded, her voice rising. I wanted to sink into my chair and disappear.
The principal continued, calmly explaining my options: either I’d have to repeat tenth grade or attend three months of summer classes.
While he was talking, I couldn’t help myself—I started mocking him, mimicking his serious tone and hand gestures.
Then, whack!
My mom smacked my head, and I shot her an incredulous look. “This isn’t funny, Gabriel!” she snapped.
But then she turned back to the principal and, to my horror, agreed that I should take the summer classes.
I rolled my eyes, exasperated. “Great, just what I wanted,” I thought.
There I was, caught between my mom’s disappointment and the principal’s stern gaze, and all I could do was sulk.
