That horrid feeling sinks into my stomach again. No, it doesn’t sink. It drags my whole being down like a fifty-pound weight slowly pressed down against my soul. I try to push back, but I could only ever lift the forty-five pound bar in gym class.

I look down at the paper once more. A bright red C- is etched sloppily across the top right corner, circled over and over again as if to capitalize on my repeated failure.
And here I had studied so hard for this stupid precalc test. I memorized the asymptotes of a cosign function, the angle of depression and its equal angle of elevation, even the formula for finding the domain of a tangent function. But still, failure.

Maybe that delicate pyramid I built brick by heavy brick of school, sports, and extracurricular activities is toppling down. Maybe the bricks have turned brittle with the stress each individual one is under. What if adding Student Council to my résumé has kicked the balance out of whack? What if I unknowingly replaced it with the most important and costly brick? School.

The thought circulates freezing blood throughout my veins, making my body feel numb. It doesn’t stop the sinking feeling though – which persists to crush the life out of my soul.

And then another thought seeps into the epitome of my thoughts. My scholarship. I needed it to go to Notre Dame. The blow kicks me in the gut and now I’m not sure if I could get out of my seat in two minutes if I wanted too. I’ve tried so hard this year to build my college résumé, but instead of a reward for my hard work, I get failure.

Tears pool in my eyes and I pray to God that no one turns their head to the pathetic redhead in the back that can’t keep it together after a bad test score. But I’ve gotten a bad test score on the PAST FIVE TESTS. Nothing I could do could save my 4.0 now. The realization sends another blow, but this time to the part of the body that reigns in tears. The first one drips down my cheek, and then the second. They roll over my lips and drip onto my faded jeans. The salty taste is enough to send another wave of misery rolling to the back of my eyes. All of a sudden a big sniff erupts from my nose, and at least ten pairs of eyes turn around to stare or laugh.

When I finally figure out how to work my feet, I swing my backpack around my shoulders, crumple up my failure, and through it in the trash. Then I walk out before the bell even rings. I try to ignore Mr. Brown’s calls and the painful sound of giggling as I take my walk of shame down the long hallway. But their voices are blending and fading at the same time as I lose myself in my own personal world of shame. Now I can’t stop the tears as they fall in sync with each other – one after the next, after the next, after the next. I don’t even know if two whole boxes of chocolates could stifle my despair right now.