Stupid Bad Day
Aughh. Bad day. Stupid, bad day.
Things were going fine, more or less, until last period. By fine, I mean that I was pretty happy considering that it was Friday, and also that it was the last time I’d have to see the woman who indirectly calls my art crap, the art student teacher. This always happens to me: people I loathe always suddenly become human on the last day I see them. To say thank you to our class she baked us cinnamon coconut bread. How can you dislike someone who does that? For all she annoyed me, I might miss her one day.
I’m more likely to miss the English student teacher, who never called my work crap, but did criticize the god-font Verdana, after which I was slightly bitter. But she was pretty awesome for the most part, her future classes will like her alright.
Who I miss already is Cheng, the chemistry substitute. He was freaking amazing and my last hope for liking chem, and I mean my last hope—I no longer hold hope.
The acid-base unit test was today, and for the first time I felt semi-confident that I’d walk out of that test with a seventy. I should have known better. I should have bloody well known.
The test was ingeniously set for a Friday, the day that the classes are shorter to start with. After collecting all of the exams belonging to the period 5/6 students that had taken an extra ten minutes to finish, he handed out our tests. There weren’t enough to go around, so after photocopying more, we were finally able to start the test. To be completely honest, I could have done really well on that stupid thing if I’d have had two hours. But with the forty minutes I actually got, I did the best I could, which was a fail at best. Any other day I just would have stayed after school until 2:30 but it so happened that I had a dentist appointment at that exact time.
Presently I remind myself that I don’t care about chemistry. I never have. Presently I remind myself that I refuse to cry about this test anymore, because I don’t care about chemistry. I don’t.
The worst part about this whole ordeal is that it’s causing friction between me and my mom. I was fine in the car on the way to the dentist until she interrogated me about the hell test. Was it hard? Could you have done well on it with more time? Did Mark finish it? Did Alex? Did you pass it, though? Would a tutor help? I’ll get you a tutor. What don’t you get? Why was the test on a Friday?
She doesn’t understand that it’s not anyone else’s fault that I’m not understanding one damn thing in that class. At this level, it’s a math-based course. I don’t know when she remembers that I was ever good at math, ever. I don’t know why she doesn’t get that I’m not failing because of bad instruction. I’m failing because I can’t do it.
She’s math-based. I guess I can’t expect her to understand. But I get mad at her and then I snap at her, after which we both feel worse. No aspect of school should do that to our relationship. It’s a damn injustice.
