
I felt the crumpled piece of paper burning a hole through the bottom of my backpack. A forty-two percent. The red ink looked like blood splattered across the page, a permanent record of my failure in advanced calculus. I shifted my weight, my short pleated miniskirt riding up my thighs as I sat on the edge of the mahogany dining table. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.






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