It's the apocalypse, Armageddon, the end of middle and the beginning of the end. It's the day that make all student's eyes twitch and their hands tap their desk so many times the almost consider taking up the piano. Almost. It's Friday. Yes, for many this is the day to plan their weekend, to look back at the leaps and bounds of monumental nothingness they accomplished that week. But not for the students of my middle school. For us, Friday means facing our test grades.

All the student's stare at the ominous digital clock, some wishing to for it to hurry so they can admire the fruit of there careful studying, others trying to find a way to creatively tell there guardians that the 25% they soon expect to appear on there desk is cause for celebration. Then it happens. The bell beeps once, low and loud, signaling two minutes until the end of the class period. My teacher snaps her fingers, exasperated at both the spitball that just made contact with her head, and the fact she was unable to complete her extremely complicated lesson plan. She reaches into her scratched, metal desk that at least three teachers before her used, and pulled out her template of doom, her ledger of fright, her notebook of discontent. Her grade book, and stuffed inside it, Tuesday's test. She rises to pass out the papers, but not before filling our cranium cavity with fright. "Only two passed this exam," she says, with a bit of a toothy grin hidden behind her grim demeanor

There is nothing quite as frightening as watching a middle aged women wearing a matching sweater set and sensible shoes pass out a leaflet drenched in horrid red ink. You can't help but question the nature of the red ink. Were they smiley faces written in red to congratulate your stellar success or X's to mark your failure and break you self confidence until you break down into tears and the teacher laughs like a hyena.

As she walks around her fortress of pure evil, also known as her classroom, she drops leaflets at desks in random order. That's part of the torture; you don't know when it's your turn. There are some advantages to being the last to receive your grade. One of these distinct advantages is being able to read the teachers emotions. She passes by Shelby's desk, offers her a comforting smile and passes her a paper covered in so much red it looked like a blood bank. She burst into tears and ran from the room. The teacher shrugged and moved onto Elle. She gave Elle a different smile, one of respect and admiration. Elle smiled upon receiving her grade. Without doubt she passed. Her expression never strayed from those two smiles, her posture staying confident even when half the class ran from the room and the other half stared into space, obviously trying to comprehend how the half hour of studying they forced in between Halo 3 and Guitar Hero wasn't enough to pass the hardest exam of the year.

After watching all others expression, and carefully studying my professor, I had come to a conclusion; I had the other passing grade. When she walked toward my desk I sat up straight, crossed my legs, and smiled a smile that any crooked politician would be proud of. She handed me a paper and flashed me a look I hadn't seen her give any other students. I looked at the paper. A 91%!!! I practically screamed with joy and began a victory dance. My teacher looked amused by the spectacle. But then she practically skipped back over to my desk and flipped my paper right side up. I had seen the paper upside down. My true grade; 16%.

At this point I had three choices- Cry like a baby, run away like a coward, or be an adult and suck it up. I chose the second.