The human mind astonishes me. I'm not saying this as some grand statement to start off the chapter, but it really is an amazing mass of membranes and synapses. Think about the time when you learned about Lester B. Pearson in history class. You're able to remember stuff that happened five years ago, but you probably wouldn't be able to remember when Lester B. Pearson began his term as prime minister. You've received two separate pieces of information, yet your brain prioritizes one set of information over the other.

Sitting in my science class, it was interesting how I could hear the teacher talking, but I would forget every single word he said only a few minutes after the class ended. As he spoke, it was clear that the once simple language of English gained several layers of complexity. It was like he took a plain sweater, and knitted a layer of yarn over it, weaving and threading his scientific jargon throughout the existing threads of the sweater.

He sounded like he was in a perpetual state of having the flu, as if he was diagnosed with the cold years ago, but never really got over it entirely. To make matters worse, it was his nose, not his mouth, which was the major outlet of his speech. Luckily, the class was almost over. I couldn't help but grin, and start to shift the position of my legs so they faced the door, instead of the desk in front of me.

A week had passed since my first day at school, and my impression of Mrs. Chung had changed drastically. After the first day, all she did was play movies, which made me feel bad for all the people who switched out of her class. While Casablanca wouldn't have been the first movie choice my 15-year old self would have picked, it was certainly better than doing a bunch of work. It seemed like the class would be easy, and I was sure that I aced the short story I completed on the first day. Despite hating every last one of my classes, English was turning out to be my type of class.

When the bell rang, I started to speed walk towards my English class. I silently cursed the school for deciding to put me in a class that was on the third floor. This problem was amplified by the fact that the school didn't have elevators, which meant that I had to walk up three flights of stairs to get to my English class. As I walked up the narrow steps, my legs became as flimsy as spaghetti noodles.

Climbing each of the steps on these seemingly endless stairs felt like climbing to the top of a miniature mountain, and with each step, my legs seemed to exemplify their laziness. I wondered if this was my punishment for sneaking downstairs at midnight last night to get myself a slice of cold pizza. 

When I finally got up the steps, I walked across a labyrinth of halls, bumping my way into people as everyone was trying to get to their next class. Finally, I arrived to my English class just before the bell rang, but I noticed something different. Someone else was sitting in my spot. We didn't have a seating plan in this class, so technically there were no defined spots. But, it was a generally accepted social rule that you sit in the same spot you did on the first day. I looked around, and everyone seemed to be sitting in different spots as well. The two girls who sat in the row in front of me were now on completely opposite ends of the room.

"In case you weren't already aware, we have a new seating plan. Look at the projector to find out where your new seat is," Mrs. Chung said.

To be honest, it's not like I cared about where I would sit to begin with. I hadn't really made any friends in this class, or in general. Moving pretty much anywhere would have been okay, as long as I could tolerate the person I would be sitting beside. Looking at the projector, I began to move towards the second row of the class. I would be sitting in the far-left side of the class, near the windows.

When I took my seat, I turned to my left, and saw a pale, skinny figure. He looked at me, and extended his bony hand. "Hi, I'm Mike," the figure said. As he said this, he flipped his messy, red hair to avoid getting strands of it in his eyes.

"I'm Malik, it's nice to meet you." I replied, smiling. After that, there was a few seconds of silence. These few seconds felt like an eternity of time, as we both tried to figure out what to say next before the conversation died completely.

"Yeah, it's really weird how she's changed the seating plan. I liked sitting at the front, it's always the best place to watch a movie," Mike said, flipping his hair back. It was kind of annoying how often he flipped his hair when I first met him. If it gets to the point where you can't see because your hair is blocking your eyes, just cut your damn hair.

"What about in an actual movie theatre? No one sits in the front because you have to break your neck trying to look up and see the movie."

"Nope, I like that. It's like you're really in the movie, ya know?"

"I just met you, but I already never want to go to the movies with you." I said this while chuckling, so he wouldn't take it as an insult. With Angus, I could joke around constantly, but I had to tread carefully with this person.

He laughed, extending his grin into a full-fledged smile. "You know what, you're alright."

Just then, Mrs. Chung cleared her throat as loudly as a motorcycle engine, drawing all attention to her. "I've finished grading the essays, and I'm thoroughly disappointed with each and every one of them. I'll talk more about them at the end of class, but know that they really indicate that we have a very long way to go, which is why I have put you guys into a seating plan. Consider the first week of class a trial run. Now, the real learning begins."

Some people groaned after this statement. To be honest, I didn't know how to react. Maybe this whole nice teacher thing was a ruse, designed to gain our sympathy. However, my heart sank as I began to realize we likely wouldn't have any movies being shown in class for a while.

She began to walk around the room, the sound of her high-heels mixing in with the shuffling of the large booklets she was handing out to each student.

"Right now, I'm handing out a booklet which includes the short story The Yellow Wallpaper, by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Your goal is to finish reading the story, then answer the nine questions at the back of the book. Do not start the booklet until I tell you to."

"I bet everyone who switched teachers are laughing at us for not joining them," Mike said, in a clearly audible whisper. It really wasn't a whisper, but more of a hiss, which could be clearly heard by anyone within a ten foot radius.

Mrs. Chung, obviously hearing this comment, pointed directly at us. Her face became redder, as she began to scold us. "You two, if I hear either of you talking while I'm talking again, I will not hesitate to kick you out of my class and send you to the office. That goes for the rest of you as well. Show some damn respect, its children like you two that make our lives as teachers much harder than it needs to be."

Turning back to the class, she continued her monologue. "Anyways, as I was saying, you'll be receiving this booklet, and there are nine questions at the back of it. You'll need to read the entire short story, then answer the questions at the back. This will be graded, and you will not be able to work on this at home. If you don't finish all of the required questions, you'll fail today's assignment. So, it would be in your best interests to ensure that you complete it."

After she finished giving everyone booklets, she went up to the front of the class. "All of you, turn off all electronic devices, including cellphones, if you haven't already. Having them on vibrate doesn't count as off. It's really for your own good, because I will not hesitate to fail you on today's assignment if you phone happens to ring. It's primarily done as a precaution. With all of the BlackBerries and other fancy schmancy devices, I need to ensure that you guys won't go on CliffsNotes, or any of those other tools people use to cheat on English assignments. Yeah, I know all of your tricks."

Not everyone had cell phones back then, and a lot of them couldn't really be used to browse the internet, at least not at a reasonable enough speed. But, looking at it now, she does have a point with the smartphones available today. Ironically, teachers are now embracing the technology.

"You are also not allowed to talk, as I will also consider that to be cheating. Unlike the last assignment, this one will be graded. You have approximately an hour to complete the questions. You can now begin."

After reading The Yellow Wallpaper, I came up with one conclusion. The woman in this story was insane. It was kind of sad how the only thing she ended up thinking about was her yellow wallpaper. But, reading the story was like watching a wallpaper – it was incredibly boring. Who the hell decided it would be a good idea to make kids read a story about a wallpaper? It's like if Netflix were to suddenly decide that "Watching Paint Dry" would be their next big hit. If you're going to give a class a story to read, as least make it an entertaining one, right? I began to work my way through the questions, and they were all about the symbolism of the wallpaper. I was on the fifth question, trying to make something up for why the colour was yellow, when Mrs. Chung began to speak again.

"Class, time is up. Everyone, please hand in your assignments."

No one in the class got up. My guess is that no one else finished either. One kid in the back wearing a red baseball cap said, "I didn't finish my assignment, can I have ten more minutes?"

"If that's the case, I'm sorry to say this, but you have failed this assignment." Mrs. Chung replied.

"Miss, I don't think anyone has finished their assignment. You can't just fail the entire class."

"I sure can. If the whole class doesn't bother to adhere to my rules, then I have no problem failing the entire class."

"But Mrs. Chung, I  think it's unfair how you're failing everybody. Doesn't it matter about how well you can write, not how fast you write something?" a different voice added. I couldn't get a good view of her, because Mike's head was in the way.

"Judging by the quality of these stories I'm about to hand out, none of you can write well either."

"But, I've never gotten below an A in English, so I think I can write pretty well," the girl replied. As she continued to talk, the sound of her voice became more brittle and croaky. "Yale looks at the consistency of my grades, so I really need to get a good grade in this class."

"Well, you'll need to improve your English if you want to get into Yale. It's as simple as that. I don't give out grades like candy unlike some other teachers in this school. If you want good grades, you'll have to earn them. Class is about to end in five minutes, so I won't be answering any more questions. However, you must hand them in at the end of class. I set a guideline, and if you can't meet that guideline, then I'll have to fail you. However, this is one of many assignments that we will be doing in-class, so you'll have plenty of time to prove yourself."

Mrs. Chung began to walk around the room again, this time handing out the short stories we wrote on the first day of class. "On to the next subject, the stories. These were terribly done, but I'll hand them out and let the grades speak for themselves. In case you all wanted to know, the highest grade on this was a 78%, or C+, and the average was a 50%. I will not, under any circumstances, be taking any questions on why your grade is the way it is. That is explained in the comments I have left for you on your story. However, I will be available every Wednesday and Thursday after school, if you have any questions on how to improve."

When she placed the report on my desk, I figured I probably got maybe a 75%. Not bad, considering how bad everyone else did. However, once I flipped to the back of the story to look at my mark, the mark itself wasn't pleasant. I felt a wave of disappointment wash over me, as I realized that the mark was way below that. Was what I wrote really this terrible? My fist clenched, and I could feel the muscles in my face forming into a frown.

I looked back up, and Mike was glancing over my paper. "A 47%? Ha, guess we're all in this together," he said in a horrendous singing voice. "Don't worry though, I failed too."

It's weird how those six words strung together can be the most comforting words in the English language. I looked at Mike's paper, and he was right. At least I wasn't alone. He got a 45 percent, which I guess was slightly worse. The classroom slowly became louder, as students began to complain about their marks.

"Fuck this teacher, I really should have switched out when I had the chance," Mike whispered, as he began to softly bang his head on the desk in front of him. "Ugh, why me?"

The bell rang, and everyone began to leave the classroom. As I walked towards the front of the room, I noticed that there was one girl who wasn't getting up. She had covered her face with her arms. Next to her, there was another girl, who was gently stroking the first girl's frizzy, brown hair. "It's okay, it's only one assignment. You're the smartest girl I know, trust me, getting a 78 percent isn't the end of the world."

I cringed at that statement. She got the highest mark in the class, yet she was still complaining. To be honest, I wanted to scream at her for being so ignorant of the actual situation. Most of us failed, and she was complaining about getting a C+. I would have been totally okay with a 78 percent, even if the English teacher was sane and normal.

When we walked closer towards the door, I placed my work on the teacher's desk. Then, Mike whispered in my ear. "That girl was a real bitch, am I right? Complaining about a 78 percent when everyone else failed. Get your head out of your ass."

And just like that, your Uncle Mike said something I agreed with.