School always caused this great dichotomy: I hated school, but I was really good at it. I always had panic attacks when I didn't understand something, which may have led to the hating bit. But I always took the honors classes, I scored 790 on my math, I was in the top 5%, I dropped calculus because it was dumb. I preferred the band room, though I was no good at that.
Senior year came around, and I, like many of my other classmates, started the slide into home. The only real thing I had to accomplish that semester, besides finding a college, was to pass senior English. No problem, right?
Enter Mrs. Lambert. All the girls loooovvveeeddd her. She would giggle with the giggly girls and share make-up tips. Teacher's pets doesn't even begin to describe this disgusting atrocity. Anyways, clearly I was not included in this group. I wasn't a girly-girl. I didn't even like most girls. Even most of my girl friends I wasn't terribly fond of.
I started doing very poorly in the class. I started getting failing marks on my papers. I could not fail that class. I needed that class. I tried and tried and I wasn't doing any better. One fateful day I decided that I had to stay after class and ask teach exactly what I was doing wrong and how I could fix it.
I believe the girly-girls were still there. I went up to her desk with my paper in hand and asked what I did wrong and how I can do better next time.
"You are a smart girl, you can figure it out."
"Obviously I cannot figure it out. I keep getting bad grades, could you just help me out?"
"No, you are smart, just figure it out yourself."
This exchange carried on for what seemed like millenia. It was probably only a few minutes. It ended when I started crying. I grabbed my things, heard the girly whispering, and ran to the bathroom and cried. I don't like to ask for help. I like figuring things out for myself, but sometimes I do need help and when I asked for that help I could not get it.
Mrs. Lambert disappointed me.
I did end up passing the class, but barely.