How to Properly Take an Algebra Exam

The second problem of Lucy's algebra exam asks her to decide whether the parabola in question is vertical and whether it opens up or down. She is given the following parabola: y = -2 [(x+3)^2] + 4. Instead of an answer, she draws a picture of Bart Simpson burning a math textbook, perched upon a parabola.

Two months ago, Lucy was the girl you would ask for the answers to the algebra homework. Two months ago, she would not have given you the answers, but instead seamlessly guided you to solving the problems by yourself.

And the answers on her homework would be right, too.

The next question is about finding probability. Lucy replies with a sonnet about the probability that she hates this class and everyone in it.

Lucy isn't oozing sarcasm and simply misbehaving just to stick it to her teacher. Oh no, she's only misbehaving because the world misbehaved first. This misbehavior all started when It happened. Since then, sleep has grown to be a nightly battle. Raindrops pour from her eyes instead of the sky. On top of all this, the day after The Not-Funeral Funeral, school was back in session as her family drowned in an ocean of pitied glances and memorial services.

And that last one posed a special problem for Lucy. It turns out her family's method of dealing with crisis (talk about it) is far different from her own method of dealing with crisis (don't). It was her family who pinned the term It to her older brother's suicide.

On the exam, Lucy arrives at a question about exponential growth and decay. She skips it. She always skips growth and decay questions these days, even right after It happened, when she was still trying to do well in school.

She moves onto the next question, which is again about exponential growth and decay.

After It happened, Lucy watched the world shift. People don't flinch when she glares at them. She isn't a popular teen queen anymore. No. She is a fragile, broken girl tired of hearing variations of the phrase, "I'm here if you need to talk." The question, "How are you doing?" holds far more weight than before. People see her appearance at school as some act of bravery.

And at school, a month or so after, she finally managed to kiss a boy, Tanner Johnson, who always seemed to find his way to the seat next to her in math or French class. And sure, people thought it was odd that the girl whose brother had just killed himself was kissing some boy that she hardly knew. But those people's opinions were as worthless along with everything else orbiting Lucy.

As nice as kissing him was, Peyton Johnson soon grew boring. He had taught Lucy how to patch over the grief she wore like a sash on her chest with giggles and beach bonfires and cute boyfriends.

The classroom is filled with the sound of people trying to solve what was in front of them, which happens to be silence.

And so Lucy starts laughing.

Everyone else in that room has been doing for a couple of minutes what she's been attempting to do all year: trying to fix whatever the hell is the mess right in front of them.