Another Day, Another Disaster

My day started with the sound of my alarm sounding like a bomb going off, yanking me out of the wonderful, dream-filled oblivion I had been desperately holding to.

I rolled out of the bed, tripping over my own feet as if my body had already decided it was too tired for this whole “waking up” thing.

Once I at last dragged myself to school, surprise test day hit me like the mother of all surprises. Apparently, the world had decided that my life needed a little more anarchy, and what better way to start things than by throwing an exam at me when I could hardly remember my own name?

I should’ve known it was going to be a disaster when the only thing I had for breakfast was a half-eaten bag of chips I found in my backpack.

Well, here I am. Sitting at my desk like a poor soul waiting to be sacrificed to the cruel gods of standardized testing.

Today’s test was supposed to be one of those life-or-death moments, you know?

The kind of moment where you feel like you’re either going to pass and finally earn your high school diploma, or fail and end up living in your parents’ basement forever, watching reruns of “Friends” while wondering where it all went wrong.

And let me tell you, heaven has a way of making sure that I never have a good test day. Like, it’s a personal vendetta at this point.

The test itself? A joke. A cruel, twisted joke. The first question had me staring at the page like it was written in hieroglyphics.

“Who was the main character in ‘The Scarlet Letter’?”

Okay, easy. Or so I thought. I remember thinking, Come on, Alina. You read the book before. You even pretended to understand it when Mr. Wright started droning on about the symbolism of the letter ‘A’. You got this.

I look at the options.

A) Hester Prynne

B) Pearl

C) Roger Chillingworth

D) The Scarlet Letter

Wait. The Scarlet Letter is an option? Are we really doing this right now? Since when do objects get to be main characters?

Am I supposed to pick The Scarlet Letter and start a new literary revolution? Does that mean my high school essays are now all about how my backpack is the true hero of my education?

I’m so sure.

I glare at the question for a full minute, wishing the page would spontaneously combust, but it doesn’t.

Instead, I’m left to contemplate my entire existence as I mark Hester Prynne. Because why not? It’s definitely not the damn letter.

The rest of the test?

A blur. It’s as if the questions had been written by a sadistic genius who truly believed my brain was capable of performing advanced calculus while juggling flaming swords. Or in other words: the usual.

By the time I handed in the test, I felt like I had just survived a car crash, but not the kind where you walk away with a funny story.

No, this was the kind where you end up in the ER questioning everything you’ve ever known about yourself.

I slumped back in my chair, watching everyone else smugly walk out of the classroom like they had actually understood the material. They didn’t. I’m sure of it. There’s no way they did.

They probably just looked up the answers on their phones under their desks. Because that’s how high school works, right? Cheat or die.

I was not like a moral student or something! Of course I tried to cheat. But as soon as I sat down, I felt it—the weight of his gaze, like he was a hawk and I was the tiniest mouse trying to sneak a snack.

Every time I tried to nonchalantly peek at my phone beneath the desk, I could literally feel his gaze scorching through me, like he had radar for teenage dishonesty.

I swear, at one point, his eyes were so concentrated on me that I half-expected him to teleport over and take my phone out of my hand.

It was like he had a sixth sense for exactly when I was about to transgress the rules—damn his flawless timing.

The test ended! And everyone left the classroom! I was the last one to hand in my paper.

And then there was him. Of course, he had to be there. Mr. Cristiano Wright—my ever-so-charming, ever-so-irritating teacher.

He was resting against his desk, appearing like some kind of aloof model who undoubtedly got paid to look both exhausted and mesmerizing at the same time.

He smirked at me as I trudged out. “How’d you do, Alina?”

How did I do? Oh, I’m sure I nailed it. Absolutely crushed it. I wanted to tell him that, but instead, I just shot him a death glare.

“Just peachy,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Definitely aced it. I’ll be sending you an invitation to my Nobel Prize ceremony. Don’t worry, I’ll get you a front-row seat.”

He chuckled like he found my misery amusing.

“Sure, if you say so,” he said, his eyes twinkling with something I couldn’t quite place—was it amusement? Or pity? Probably pity.

Ugh, why did I care? I didn’t care. At least that’s what I kept telling myself as I walked out the door, my brain fried beyond recognition.

Oh, and just when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse—surprise!

I was halfway down the corridor when I noticed it: a piece of paper fluttering near today’s lecture sheet handed by Mr. Wright.

At first, I assumed it was simply another crumpled-up school project, but then I discovered it wasn’t just any piece of paper.

It was a handwritten note. The note that nearly gave me a heart attack!

My heart skipped a beat as I knelt to get it. The handwriting was instantly recognizable—scrawled in a way that could only be attributed to one individual. Of course it came from him.

I unfolded it, praying to whatever high school deity existed that this would not be what I thought it was.

“Alina,” it began, in that same neat, too-perfect handwriting. “We need to talk. After school. My office. - C.W.”

It was as if the entire world had just stopped. My heart? It was either going to explode or fall out of my chest. Either way, I wasn’t going to be okay.

I stood there for a good minute, staring at the note like it had just given me a bad omen for my future.

My office! His office?

The place where all the uncomfortable conversations about grades, life choices, and my apparent inability to make good decisions happened. Fantastic.

Why did it always have to be him? Why couldn’t it be some normal teacher? One who didn’t make my heart race and my blood pressure spike every time I see him.

I crumpled the note in my hand and shoved it into my pocket, hoping that if I ignored it long enough, it would disappear. But we both knew that wasn’t going to happen.

As I walked towards my next class, I kept telling myself it was just a stupid note. Nothing to worry about.

But deep down, I knew it wasn’t. This was it—the moment where everything changed. And knowing my luck, I was probably about to step right into a mess I wasn’t ready to deal with.

But you know what? Whatever. Bring it on. I was already living my own personal soap opera, so what was one more plot twist?