Ms. Rishanki's classroom during an exam. It's like jail, but with blue uniforms instead of orange jumpsuits and pages of Shakespeare to decipher instead of community service.
Every other robo-student in the room gets to work as soon as Rishanki dumps the packet on their desk. I waste time writing my name on the front cover over and over again until the eraser smudges the ink and the paper looks like an ashtray.
After Gracie ditched me, I felt the full gravity of my academic helplessness. I took a nap, woke up. Accepted the fact that I'll be stuck in the eighth grade for the remainder of eternity. Fell back asleep until dinner. Ate four tamales that night. The pain in my stomach almost made me forget about the test. Almost.
I draw three daisies in the pencil ash, then flip open the front page:
1.) Explain in detail the meaning of the following stanza:
"Let me be cruel, not natural;
I will speak daggers to her, but use none."
—Hamlet, Act III, scene II
I glance across the room at Gracie. She's hunched over, writing at the speed of light. Is she thinking about me? She's certainly boasting enough. I look back at my paper and draw a swirly vine beneath the first question. Maybe Gracie came to the Earth-shattering realization that her reputation is on the line. Without the added responsibility of tutoring, she could spend more time writing articles. She could interview the janitors on the mold growing in the second floor girls bathroom or write poems about extinct pandas in Shakespearean format. I imagine what Gracie might look like in twenty years after a career of journalism, with an added seventy pounds and bags beneath her eyes. It helps a little.
I glance over at Ms. Rishanki's desk. She's grading the tests from her previous class. She catches my eye and taps her wrist, like a watch. I don't know why she bothers with me. I'm not smart like Gracie, who aces tests without studying, writes newspaper articles for fun, and could whip any paper into MLA format in her sleep. I'm street-smart. I know all the right places to kick someone and have mastered the art of spitting with perfect aim.
The clock ticks and ticks and ticks until there are five minutes left in the period. I try to read, but the words keep moving around.
YOU ARE READING
SHOUT - Adopted by Lin Manuel Miranda
Fanfiction"Sometimes I think the universe sets certain people out into the world like gifts meant for others, people whose purpose is to save someone else. That's how I think of families. And if the universe couldn't do me that favor, couldn't put someone on...
