The next day, I think I’m about to die in biology class.
I, apparently, put something wrong in the beaker that Debbie and I are working on. It fizzles up and over the top and stains the counter a balmy shade of red. Our teacher scrambles to get it cleaned up and waves her hands all over the place. I could feel bad but I mainly feel dread.
I’m terrible at school.
Biology and chemistry are a complete wash. I can barely do one experiment without something blowing up, spilling or just not working. English is fine but I read much slower than the rest of the class. That and my penmanship is appalling. I can’t even read my own essays.
The only class I’m good at is combat. It’s particularly evident that afternoon. Maybe I had a bunch of rage to get out after chemistry but I lift my sparring pa
