The scent of sandy colored pencil shavings and crystal-clear, alcohol based hand sanitizer pervaded the room, and my ears were permeated with the sounds of laughing children, the grinding of a pencil sharpener, and the bustle of any fifth grade classroom. The teacher, Ms. Roberts, was handing back the MCT2 test scores from the previous year, which was fourth grade, and I absolutely could not wait to see mine. I shook in my chair with anticipation, anxiously awaiting the scores. “Jordan Wilburn,” Ms. Roberts called out, and I hopped out of my chair with pure excitement pumping through my veins. I sat down and examined the first page. The paper seemed to glow with applause as it read that I had scored highly advanced in all areas of English
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The end-of-the-day bell screamed through the halls and children burst through the door. I shoved the sheets into my blue blossomed backpack and almost instinctively flipped by amber-blonde hair over my shoulder. I threw my backpack over my shoulder and began to storm out of the classroom, until Ms. Roberts stopped me at the door. “Jordan,” she said with a mother’s concern. “Why are you so upset?” She asked, genuinely caring to hear my response. “Nothing,” I replied, but I knew that she would force the answer out of me one way or another. “Okay,” I started. “I was hoping to get advanced in math, but I got proficient.” As the words flowed out of my mouth, my cheeks began to redden until they were a deep crimson. She asked me to pull my crumpled score sheets out of my backpack, and she showed me the math chart again. She showed me that I was only a few points away from Advanced, which should have relieved me, but I only grew more angry with myself. “Yeah, but it was still proficient,” I said dejectedly. I took in a deep breath. By the end of our meeting, Ms. Roberts and I devised a plan. I would sit close to the front of the class, do all of my homework, listen intently, and ask questions whenever I had them. We decided that on that year’s MCT2 test, I not only be advanced, but highly
The end-of-the-day bell screamed through the halls and children burst through the door. I shoved the sheets into my blue blossomed backpack and almost instinctively flipped by amber-blonde hair over my shoulder. I threw my backpack over my shoulder and began to storm out of the classroom, until Ms. Roberts stopped me at the door. “Jordan,” she said with a mother’s concern. “Why are you so upset?” She asked, genuinely caring to hear my response. “Nothing,” I replied, but I knew that she would force the answer out of me one way or another. “Okay,” I started. “I was hoping to get advanced in math, but I got proficient.” As the words flowed out of my mouth, my cheeks began to redden until they were a deep crimson. She asked me to pull my crumpled score sheets out of my backpack, and she showed me the math chart again. She showed me that I was only a few points away from Advanced, which should have relieved me, but I only grew more angry with myself. “Yeah, but it was still proficient,” I said dejectedly. I took in a deep breath. By the end of our meeting, Ms. Roberts and I devised a plan. I would sit close to the front of the class, do all of my homework, listen intently, and ask questions whenever I had them. We decided that on that year’s MCT2 test, I not only be advanced, but highly