The last period of the day is math. It is the hardest class out of them all. Although I told Zach I'd be fine, deep inside I knew that I didn't know every formula that was needed for the test. The worst part was, some of the word problems were difficult for me to understand what it was asking.
However, I had never attended a battle without a decent amount of preparation.
As I walked into the room, most of the people already sat down, with their calculators, erasers, and pencils on the desk. Though this is not the first time I walked into this room, in fact I came here five times a week, the vibes in this room felt so cold and tense. I could almost feel the cold sweat dripping from my neck to my back.
No chatter, no flipping of pages, not even nervous pencil tapping. It wasn't just me—everyone was tense. The air was thick with quiet dread, the kind you feel right before something big happens. I could almost see the invisible storms going on in people's heads—mental battles raging behind tired eyes, each person calculating the cost of failure.
And in this class, every exam mattered.
This was AP Calculus BC.
I skipped multiple grade levels to be here, taking it as a sophomore. It was supposed to be impressive. But right now, all I could think about was whether skipping ahead meant I'd skipped out on being prepared.
I took my seat. My desk felt colder than usual.
A man walked in, holding a stack of exams like they weighed more than they should. No one said a word. He placed the pile down at the front and looked up slowly, scanning the room like he was counting soldiers before deployment.
"I will be supervising your exam today, your teacher Mr. Wood is out of town. Keep in mind that there won't be any retakes. You've had time. Good luck."
Shit
Mr. Wood—my usual math teacher—was as passive as a houseplant during exams. He'd just sit at his desk, grading some other class's papers while sipping his lukewarm coffee. But this guy?
He looked like he enjoyed his job a little too much.
The kind of guy who walked in every morning hoping someone would try something. You could just see it in his beady little eyes. A power complex wrapped in a stiff button-down.
He made eye contact with every single person before passing the stack to the first row.
I lowered my head and let my eyes flick across the room.
Okay. Focus.
I wasn't unprepared. Not completely. I knew maybe 60% of the material—enough to survive, but not nearly enough for the grade I wanted.
So, I had a backup.
Before this test, I'd gone through the homework answer key and marked every type of problem that tripped me up—alternating series, improper integrals, and a few difficult word problems. I didn't memorize the steps; I copied the methods. The setups. The formulas. All onto a small, precise slip of paper tucked deep into my right pocket.
I'd timed this in my head a hundred times.
Slide it out when the supervisor turns. Keep it in view no longer than ten seconds. Use it for reference—not copying. Hide it fast.
Two minutes into the test, I began tracking his movements. He paced with an annoying rhythm, like some budget mall cop reenacting a training video. Down the left row. Around the back. Then up the right. Pause. Sip water. Look intense. Repeat.
The third lap in, I moved.
Slip out. Quick glance. Flip to the question. My pencil danced—method first, solve second. Two problems down. Four more matched patterns I'd prepared for.
I was almost done when—
"Hey."
The voice was right above me.
I froze mid-word. The slip was still in my hand. Instinct kicked in, and before I could think twice, I flicked my wrist downward.
The paper vanished beneath my shoe.
He hadn't seen it. At least, not directly I don't think. I sat right next to the wall in the last row on the right side of the classroom. Although still easy to get caught, it was the best seat in the class for some cheating scheme like this.
"Empty your pockets," he said.
I looked up slowly, heart pounding.
"Now."
I reached in and pulled out everything.
A folded AP World study guide. A pair of scissors (don't ask). A lanyard, a napkin, a plastic spoon from lunch. A cracked flash drive. Loose change. Gum wrapper.
I laid it all out like I was setting up a thrift store.
The supervisor's eyes scanned the items, and spoke in excitement.
"Hey what is this?" He showed me my AP World History study guide.
"Sir, this is for AP World History, I had a test today. You can read through every single word on that study guide, and none of it had anything to do with math," I answered with some confidence.
Like I expected, he did read through everything on there, and nothing could prove that I was cheating on this test. Though being in this situation was far from pleasant, but there was no evidence to prove that I had anything to do with what he suspected.
He wanted something—anything—that could prove I'd cheated. But this wasn't his moment. I'd packed my pockets for exactly this kind of emergency. Call it paranoia. Or genius.
After a few more seconds, he straightened.
"I'm watching you," he said, voice low and sharp. "Very closely."
I nodded slowly, like a guilty puppy. "Yes, sir."
He walked off—reluctantly—and returned to pacing.
The slip of paper remained quietly crumpled under my foot, like a secret too well-hidden to be caught.
I exhaled.
Too close. Way too close.
But the test wasn't over.
And if I wanted to survive this the way I survived everything else, I had to keep going.
Although he kept on having his eyes fixed on me throughout the rest of this test, I already wrote down everything I needed from that slip. The only thing left was just to finish everything I did know in time, and somehow get rid of the slip whenever a chance approached.
Time bled forward in painful chunks.
My pencil moved fast. Faster than it should have. My hand ached, my brain buzzed, but the equations came. One by one. Integrals. Series convergence. Polar curve lengths. Everything I could grab.
Brrring!
Instant motion.
Chairs scraping. Papers rustling. Zippers and backpacks unzipping like some kind of symphony of chaos.
My hand shot down.
In one seamless move, I lifted my foot, grabbed the slip off the floor, crumpled it—and shoved it straight into my mouth.
Paper's disgusting, especially the one from the floor where I had stepped on for the past hour.
But I chewed like it was mint gum and kept packing up like I was just another tired sophomore ready to get out of hell.
I moved with the crowd toward the front to turn in my exam.
The proctor stood there like a statue—arms crossed, expression unreadable. His eyes found mine the second I stepped forward.
I handed him the test.
He took it slowly, deliberately.
Then he leaned forward slightly and said in a low, measured voice:
"I don't have proof. But I know you did something."
I smiled—wide. Calm.
Swallowed the last of the paper.
"Knowing something and proving something aren't the same thing," I said, voice light. "And unless you've got more than a gut feeling, you've got nothing."
He didn't flinch. But there was the faintest twitch in his jaw.
A crack in the armor.
I leaned in just a little more, like delivering a punchline.
"Accusations without evidence are just noise."
He stared at me. The tables turned, he got nothing on me no more.
I turned and walked away without another word, leaving him holding a test—just a test—and nothing else.
Somewhere in my head, I could hear Zach telling me I was crazy.
Maybe I was.
But today?
Today, I won.