I failed a calculus test, high school

junior year.

Failure was a furnace.

Red blotches crept up my neck.

Heat burned behind my eyes.

I studied for that test;

there would be a curve,

I reasoned.

Surely.

After class, I sought solace.

“How’d you do?” I asked.

My friend’s mouth looked funny…

secretive, sad.

“B minus,” he whispered,

cleared his throat.

“How?” My voice shook.

“There was a copy of it

circulating. Everyone saw it

but you.

They thought you

wouldn’t understand,

you know. You don’t cheat.”

But I had before,

Freshman year,

on a French vocabulary quiz,

sharing my answers

with a popular girl

whose friendship

was more important to me

in that moment

than my conscience.

Guilt was failure’s cousin.

Now, there would be no curve.

I lost my A average,

couldn’t even count

on righteous indignation,

(knowing what I did

about tricherie)

had to settle

for Salutatorian senior year.

The principal’s son,

who didn’t even take honors

English,

walked away with

Valedictorian

and all the scholarships

that went with it.

I decided,

as he gave his condescending

speech,

that maybe I knew

more than I thought

I knew

about calculating

rates of change.

After all, I, too

had been on both sides

of the equation.