Yellow On a Monday morning in sixth grade, I walked into a math class filled with chatter about the past weekend’s endeavors. My eyes scanned the room, watching the guys in the corner fidgeting with a Rubik’s cube while a few girls at the table in front compared their new Pura Vida bracelets. I sat down at my table, hoping to join in the excitement. When we embarked on the topic of Harry Potter books, I noticed my teacher, Mr. Thompson, grabbing a stack of packets from his desk. He made his way across the room, handing the tests back one at a time, making sure to meticulously fold each packet in half and turn it over to not expose anyone’s grade. I watched a few students smile with satisfaction at their packets, then return to their conversations. I also watched as some students frowned at a number on the page, but then threw the paper in their backpacks and pretended not to care. As I observed the reactions from my classmates, I weighed my own chances of getting a good grade. I studied this test material two years ago at my kitchen table, my dad at my side yelling at me to do better. Every test I took at school was easy, as a result of the hard work put in at home. Yet, I still studied for this test, knowing I didn’t need to. From my calculations, there was a…ninety-seven percent chance that I had gotten an A. Average. But by the time Mr. Thompson had reached my desk, a flurry of butterflies had still formed in my stomach. He handed me the packet with an encouraging smile; the same one he gave someone who made a mistake. “You did good, Alicia; you just made a few simple mistakes. Don’t worry about it.” I returned a weak smile and took the packet from his hands. My eyes searched for a number printed in red ink. 87. The number pierced my soul. I thumbed through the rest of the pages, staring in disbelief at the dumb mistakes I made. If only I had thoroughly checked my work. I sat glued to my seat, a million thoughts running through my head. If my parents found out, I would never hear the end of it, especially from my dad. I was supposed to do my best, and an 87 was nowhere near that. I flipped the test over so I couldn’t see my mistakes. I didn’t want to cry; it was pointless. But I couldn’t think of anything else to do. So, I just sat there, as tears streamed down my face. All the chatter and excitement from seconds before had been drowned out by the deafening noise of one number. Now, it just so happened that the student next to me had just received his test back. His name was John. He was the class clown, constantly poking fun at everyone and making jokes. The one who interrupted the teacher just for the heck of it. He took one look at his test, smiled, then turned to face me. “Hey, what did you get?” he asked with a grin. I knew he could see the tears dripping off my face. “87,” I responded weakly. “Wait…” I watched his expression turn from shock to glee. “I got a higher grade than you?!” He was so excited, in fact, that he instantly reported the unexpected news to his friends. I watched the scene unfold for a second, then dropped my head into my hands. After a momentary pause of silence, a celebratory roar came from the other side of the room. “Nice job. I’m sure you worked hard for it,” I noted under my breath, trying so hard to be genuinely happy for him. I didn’t want to drag others down into my pitiful hole with me. He ran back to our table, his face carrying a wide-eyed grin. “Oh my gosh, I’m smarter than you. Ha! I’m smarter than an Asian!” He was serious. No jokes. No play-acting. My heart pounded in my chest.
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