I open my sore eyes before the math teacher, pleading for help. I received my lowest grade this year, and I need to rectify it for my sake. My report card’s sake. High stakes with a mind that’s insane. I need to.

“No worries.” They smile. “Just do corrections and you’ll receive half credit.”

Half credit. It’s not an A… but it won’t be a D for long.

Sitting alone, I fix and write the correct answers on my test for the next hour. I needed to get it done within the hour, too. Thankfully, none of my classmates were there; they didn’t need to see me at my worst. At least, not at something I strive at. Or, something I once strived for. 

I knew the answers, marking each question in a red pen with the correct solution on the side. Every answer while showing my tedious work. 

The hour passes swiftly and I hand in my work. Despite my teacher seeing me at my worst, they told me: “You know, I wish more students were like you.”

I light up for a brief moment, then I’m swiftly shrouded with fog, because what does it mean to be like me? Be like a failure who has to make up for his shortcomings. Make up for something that should be second nature like math. Make up for something that I once found second nature and is now slipping.

Through this thinking, my teacher continues, “You take math seriously and others don’t. You actually care about your studying. Thank you.”

Wow. Maybe I’m making up this shroud. Making up my feelings within the classroom that elicit my failures. Or maybe I made those up too. Maybe I’m okay? Maybe I’m correcting myself to better myself, not better those around me for seeing a failure.

With what my teacher sees, I am a great student, not a failure. I am something more than what others see, including those I thought were more to me. I finally see the gold shining through the bronze and silver. I’m not a second or third best in my life–I am the gold that stands on a pedestal that breaks off the shelf. I stand on my own and don’t need anyone to tell me otherwise. I shine through the shroud that tries to envelop my life.

To my teacher, I respond with a thank you, pocketing your statement for the rest of my high school years.