I tuck the chocolate rose into my bag as soon as Ethan is out of sight. Tradition or not, he has girlfriend-not-girlfriend now. He should start acting like it.

I weave my way through the crowded hallway to first period and take my usual seat in the front row. Everyone else is huddled in groups of twos and threes around the room talking about who got a Valentine, who didn't get a Valentine, who wishes they'd gotten a Valentine. I don't join in. Instead, I pull out my binder, textbook, and two very sharp pencils from my bag, arranging them on the desktop.

With my sights set on the College of Engineering program at Cornell University, with an interest in Biomedical Engineering, I can't afford to lose focus. So far, I've managed to stay ahead of the game, which is precisely where I intend to stay.

The bell rings and Mr. Jessup, one of those no-nonsense teachers, begins speaking even as people are scrambling for their seats. "Congratulations," he says. "As a whole, I'm quite impressed with the collective scores on the last test."

I smile to myself, confident I aced the exam. My parents worry about the hours I spend studying. They think I work too hard and stress too much about my grades. "It's not healthy," they say. "Slow down. Rest."

But I know they're proud. I hear the way they talk about me to my grandparents, their co-workers, their friends. I can't slow down. I can't rest.

Mr. Jessup pulls the graded tests from his briefcase and begins handing them out. My palms start to sweat, and I wipe my hands against my thighs. Mr. Jessup skirts up and down the rows and in between desks. My classmates flip through the pages of their tests. Some smile. Some frown. Some breathed an obvious sigh of relief.

Just as I'm wondering when I'll get mine, Mr. Jessup approaches my desk and clears his throat. "A round of applause for Ali," he says. "She scored the highest grade across all class sections."

There is no applause, however, and only a murmur of half-hearted congratulations. That doesn't matter to me, though. I accept the test, eyes lighting on the brilliant A+ scribbled in red in the top margin.

But my smile falters when I read the numeric score: 105/100. With extra credit, I could have scored a possible one-hundred ten points. I hurriedly flip through the pages, scanning for the missed problem, and find it on the last page. I fudged one of the extra credit problems. And really, I didn't get it wrong at all. I only transposed a number from my work page to the answer key, writing 39 instead of 93. What a stupid, stupid mistake.

My hand shoots in the air, seemingly of its own accord, but Mr. Jessup has his back turned toward me and doesn't see.

"Mr. Jessup." I practically choke on the words, feeling like there's no air in the room. "Mr. Jessup, I need to be excused. Right now."

Perhaps sensing the not-quite-right tone of my voice, Mr. Jessup turns. "Of course, Ali. Are you sick?"

But I don't answer. I dash from my desk and grab the hall pass hanging on a hook near the door.

"Be back soon," Mr. Jessup calls from the doorway, even though I'm already halfway down the hall. "I'm starting the lesson in five minutes!"

I barely make it to the bathroom before I burst into tears. I lock myself in a stall and raise my arm to my mouth, crying into my sleeve. All I can see in my mind's eye is that blasted 105. Five measly little points—extra credit points, no less—have reduced me to a sniveling mess. It's ridiculous to be this upset. I know it is. It's not like this one grade will ruin my GPA. Still, I can't help the disappointment or the feeling that I've wrecked my future.

I wipe the tears from my eyes and take a deep breath.

I should probably talk to my therapist about this.

"You're a dummy," I say out loud. My voice echoes against the walls of the tiny stall. I step out and stand in front of the mirror. The girl reflected at me sneers. "You're a moron. A failure. You can't do anything right. You'll never be good enough."

I wet a paper towel and erase the mascara streaks, taking a moment to smooth my sweater and adjust my necklace so that the pendant is centered. I yank my ponytail tighter and force a smile on my face.

"It's okay," I say, my voice calmer now. "Don't worry about it. It's okay."

Then I square my shoulders and walk back to class.

**********

"I understand the reason why you're upset, Ali, but I can't excuse inaccuracy. Do you think the professors at Cornell will overlook these types of errors? They could have major consequences in the real world." Mr. Jessup hands the test back to me, effectively closing the subject.

"But I had the right answer," I mutter one last time, crumpling the test between my hands. The rise of Mr. Jessup's eyebrows reminds me to take a deep breath.

"Did you see where I worked it out?" I ask again. "Doesn't that count for anything?"

Mr. Jessup scratches his temple. "Of course, it does, Ali. But accuracy matters. You of all people should know that."

My vision blurs and I blink hard to keep the tears from falling. So much for my little pep talk from before. Mr. Jessup plucks a tissue from the box on his desk and hands it to me, his expression softening.

"Look," he says, glancing over my shoulder at the next batch of students filing in. "You're undoubtedly one of the brightest and most gifted students I've ever had the pleasure of teaching in my twenty-odd years as an educator. You missed one extra credit problem, Ali. One. And, like you said, you didn't even miss it at all!"

When I didn't say anything, he added, "You still managed to score higher than anyone in the three classes combined. Doesn't that count for anything?"

"Sure," I say. But I can tell by the look on his face that he doesn't believe me.

"Don't beat yourself up like this," he says. "It's not healthy."

He looks at his watch and then takes out a pad from his desk drawer. "Let me write you a pass to your next class. You're about to be late."

*****

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