They say writing essays makes you smarter. I say writing essays makes you question every life choice that brought you to this point, including why your English teacher thinks poetry analysis is the key to unlocking the universe. Like really?
Last night, I sat hunched over my desk, glaring at my crumpled piece of notebook paper like it owed me money.
My topic?
A stupid plum blossom poem that apparently symbolizes life's endurance. Or maybe death. Honestly, the whole thing could've been written by a pretentious fortune cookie, and I'd still have to write about it.
"Why are you sighing like a dying walrus?" Mia asked, sprawled across my bed with her phone in one hand and a bag of chips in the other.
"Because Professor Wright is out to get me," I replied, scribbling dramatic question marks all over the blank paper. "I bet he reads my essays and laughs maniacally, like some evil poetry overlord."
Mia snorted. "You're being dramatic. You know he's just doing his job, right?"
I turned to glare at her. "Mia, do you hear yourself? His job is to torment me. Specifically me. I'm convinced he wakes up every morning thinking, 'How can I ruin Alina Hart's life today?'"
She just laughed and tossed a chip at me. "You're hopeless."
She wasn't wrong.
Now it's the next morning, and I'm trudging into Professor Wright's English class with a half-baked essay clutched in my sweaty hands.
The classroom feels like an interrogation chamber—too bright, too still, and way too quiet. I swear I hear my doom whispering in the walls.
Mr. Wright is already sitting at his desk, pen tapping rhythmically against his open notebook. He's wearing one of those perfectly tailored white shirts that make him look like he stepped out of a magazine spread titled
"How to Look Both Intellectual and Intimidating." His glasses are perched low on his nose, which gives him this brooding, scholarly air, as if he's analyzing the entire room without lifting his head.
And then, his gaze flicks to me.
"Alina," he says, his voice calm and somehow judgemental at the same time. "I hope you have prepared your essay."
I clutch my essay tighter. "Oh, I have," I reply, trying to sound confident but absolutely failing.
I make my way to my seat, dropping into it with a loud thunk. Behind me, Mia whispers, "You look like you're going to your own funeral."
"I am," I hissed back. "And you can send flowers to my tomb."
As the rest of the class shuffles in, Mr. Wright rises to his feet, pacing the front of the room like a military general. He starts talking about the importance of thematic depth or something equally boring, but I'm too distracted by the fact that I'm about to get publicly judged for my half-hearted attempt at an essay.
He begins collecting everyone's quizzes, and I practically have a heart attack as he reaches my desk.
I handed him the quiz. But he remains stand-still.
"Your essay?"
I hold the essay out to him, my hand trembling like I'm surrendering a hostage note or a love letter.
"Thank you," he says, taking it with a neutral expression. But as his eyes linger on me a fraction of a second longer, I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch.
Is that amusement? Great, he's already mentally preparing his critique, probably something like, "Alina, this essay is an insult to literature and humanity."
"Now that I have your submissions," Mr. Wright announces, turning back to the board, "let's continue our analysis of yesterday's text. Alina, since you had such unique insights on the poem last time, perhaps you'd like to start today's discussion?"
I freeze. My internal monologue explodes. Unique insights? Oh no. Oh, no-no-no.
"Um…" I try, already feeling the heat crawling up my neck. "Maybe someone else has more… uh, deep thoughts about it?"
Mr. Wright raises an eyebrow. "A true intellectual isn't afraid to share ideas, even incomplete ones. Would you like me to repeat the question?"
I consider faking a fainting spell or throwing myself out the window. Either option seems preferable to this moment.
"Fine," I mutter under my breath, glaring at the poem on the board as if it personally offended me. "The plum blossom symbolizes… uh, stubbornness?"
Mr. Wright stares at me for an excruciating three seconds, his face betraying nothing.
"Stubbornness?" he repeats, voice tinged with skepticism.
"Well, yeah," I blurt. "It survives winter or whatever. It's cold, and the tree's like, 'I don't care, I'm gonna bloom anyway.' That's stubborn. Inspirational stubbornness."
A few students snicker around me, and I sink lower in my seat. Professor Wright's lips press into a thin line, and I'm sure I've just solidified my reputation as the dumbest student to ever interpret poetry.
But then, to my absolute shock, he nods. "Interesting. Not entirely incorrect, though unique. Stubbornness is a facet of endurance, but what drives endurance is far more nuanced."
I blink. Did he just… agree with me?
Mr. Wright turns his back to write something on the board, and Mia pokes me from behind. "See? You're smarter than you think," she whispers.
"Shut up," I hiss, but I can't stop the little flicker of pride in my chest. Stubbornness, huh? Maybe I'm not so hopeless after all.
When the bell rings, I bolt for the door like I'm being chased. Unfortunately, I don't make it far.
"Alina Hart," Mr. Wright calls out.
I freeze mid-step. Why, heaven? Why do you hate me? Why?
Turning slowly, I plaster on the fakest smile I can manage. "Yes, Professor?"
He gestures toward his desk. "A word."
The rest of the class filters out, and Mia throws me a you're so doomed look before leaving. Traitor.
I shuffle up to his desk, feeling like I'm approaching an executioner. He's holding my essay in his hands, which can't be a good sign.
"Alina," he says slowly, almost like he's trying to be patient. "This essay is… creative."
My stomach drops. "That bad, huh?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Not bad. Just… rebellious."
I blink. "Rebellious?"
"Yes." He flips through the pages, tapping a paragraph with his pen. "Lines like 'poetry is just nature showing off and people overthinking it'—that's not exactly conventional analysis, is it?"
I wince. "You told me to write what I thought."
"And you did." He sighs, leaning back in his chair and regarding me with that inscrutable look of his. "Alina, you're smart. Smarter than you think. But your laziness is holding you back."
I scowl. "I'm not lazy."
"Then prove it." He folds the essay and places it on his desk. "Rewrite this. Properly this time."
"Rewrite—what?" I sputter. "But I already—"
"Tomorrow," he says firmly, cutting me off. "Bring me something that reflects your actual ability, not your sarcasm."
I stare at him, torn between indignation and something I can't quite name. Because the truth is, no teacher has ever looked at me like this—like I'm capable of more.
"Fine," I mutter. "But if I rewrite it, I expect at least a B."
"Then earn it," he replies smoothly.
After school, I'm still grumbling to Mia about Mr. Wright's insane expectations when I find a folded note tucked into my class note.
I frown, flipping it open. The handwriting is crisp, and precise. "Meet me in the library tomorrow after class. I think you need to work hard for it. — C.W.
"Is this a love letter? Who's it from?" Mia asks, peering over my shoulder.
"Mr. Wright," I say, feeling my cheeks heat up for no reason.
Mia's eyes go wide. "Ooooh, Alina's got a library session opss… date with Mr. Intellectual."
"Shut up!" I hiss, shoving the note into my bag. But as I walk back to the hostel that evening, I can't stop thinking about it.
Why does he care so much? And why, for the first time, do I want to prove him wrong?