High School Narrative

The sweat was dripping down John’s face as he pushed the weights off his chest. Everyone ran towards their bags after a student said there was a gun in school. Twitter was the first source that everyone checked just to make sure. Boom! The door slammed open as Coach Ben yelled “Hurry up and get out”. John’s heart started beating faster and faster. No one knew what was going on. As students were running to the gym everyone was panicking and pushing each other. John could feel the burn on his elbow but he didn’t know what it was. When everyone got to the gym John’s elbow was covered in blood. Everyone was told to get down and stay quiet. Later on coach told everyone a student brought a gun to school and was planning on committing suicide.

I kept fighting through my exam, clenching my cheeks with all my might. Beads of sweat began rolling down my neck. Suddenly, a loud, gurgling war cry came from my belly, and the entire class lifted their heads.

I felt the eyes of the other students burning holes through my skin. There was no escaping from reading in front of class, not this time. My voice stuttered, my palms sweated, and my face turned red as I looked at the blurred words on the page. I tried and failed to make sense of the book in front me. I wished, I was invisible.

Sitting in 5th period, I absentmindedly slid my pencil along the left margin. As the graphite swirled into abstract designs, my mind began to wander. Rain landed on the metal roof, lulling me into a false sense of comfort and security. I felt myself drifting out of hall three and into a soft daydream. A yawn crept up my throat and escaped from my mouth as I continued scratching at the narrowing margin. For a split second, I tuned back into the voice of my Spanish teacher, making sure that I hadn't missed anything important while I etched flowers into my notes. Suddenly, my pencil stopped its steady motion across the page. The blurry sections in the corners of my vision disappeared abruptly, and the formerly calming drumming of rain sharpened

Then she picked up my book of designs and threw them in the disgusting trash. I stood there unable to breath silently screaming inside. The tears welded up in my eyes yet refused to let the embarrassment and fury overtake me. I bit my tongue and focused on the pain as my teeth became crimson. The bell rung and the rest of the students scurried to lunch. I gawked at her as she gave me a grimace and strode into her office. I raced toward the trash can to fish out my designs. Nothing was salvageable I would have to begin again. My blood began to boil; I was blazing when I banged on her

I reached the entrance of the school and the surroundings felt different. The hallways were usually crowded, filled with students trying to get to the next class. The hectic hallways were hazardous, with heavyhearted . The receptionist in the office told me where my testing room was. My proctor took me to the third floor of the school and she gave me the test. I went through the reading and math portion in a hour, although I didn’t understand the math. I was told that I was doing the Writing on Monday. When I left the building, my mind and body felt as if someone emptied out my insides, but there was no pain, just emptiness. I wasn’t sad, just

Mr. Smith ambled towards my direction holding a heap of stapled papers. From a distance all I could observe was boxes. As I extended my hands to seize the paper, I took a quick glimpse of his face. One of the most somber face expressions I’ve ever seen. His smirk made me cringe the most. Right when the sheet paper had a clasp of my fingers, Mr. Smith letted go, and I felt his glacial, boney hands gliding away from my pinky. I held the sheet of thin, flimsy paper in front of me, and the paper was entitled “Trigonometry Summative Assessment”. Instantaneously I had a blip of memory from Friday when I took this exam. My right wrist was consistently swaying left and right on the sheets of paper while holding my mechanical pencil, and a heat of tension flew rapiding from my head all the way down to my toes. I scrutinized through the boxed objectives on the rubric and I finally perceived what I’ve been waiting for since Friday afternoon, my score. Just as I saw my grade, I had this very heteromorphic feeling. I felt like I couldn’t breath as if someone was suffocating me.

The room was frigid as the air conditioner rattled and squealed releasing crisp arctic air. The teacher stated he kept it like this so the students would be too cold to fall asleep and focus on their test. They have settled into their seats hastily wrapping their jackets around their already icy limbs. The bell rang signaling the start of the class and immediately the students’ faces went somber. The teacher welcomed the students into the classroom and gave them brief directions on how the rest of the class would go. He declared, “You will only have the time allotted in this class period to take the test, so use your time wisely.” He passed out the test; you could hear the students taking deep breaths, preparing themselves for what is ahead and accepting there is no longer a way they can get out of taking it.

The buzzing of the bell echoed in the crowded hallway. It echoed even louder in my ears. The sound of footsteps followed as the high school students rushed to their classes. On my own, I stood there with my textbook in my hands as I skimmed through paragraphs one after another. I tried to soak up as much information as I could but I knew better that it was all in vain. It was hard to concentrate with my heart pounding loudly in my chest. “I’m going to fail” I told myself as cold beads of sweat formed on my forehead. Nevertheless, I kept trying to make sense out of these scrambled words in front of me. Midway my mind began to drift. I could almost see myself in my room last night, lying on my comfy warm bed with the phone in my hand. I remember

My stomach turns when I hear the teacher call my name. Every cell in my body begs me to stop, my knees weak as I rise from my seat and my ankles leaden as I make my way to the front of the room, every step one of defiance. I give my speech with a

“You may begin your test now.” Announced the invigilator. It was the PSLE Preliminary English Examination and the sound of the flipping of scrips could be heard throughout the class. Everyone started scribbling furiously on the script, jotting down every answer that came through their head as fast as possible. David also started racking his brains while doing the questions. The questions were much harder than he expected as he had not seen many of them before and he had to squeeze out his brain juices to solve them. Beads of perspiration was flowing down his forehead and the sound of the clock ticking was making him more and more nervous.

When the bell rang to go to fourth hour, the nerves started to set in. I sat in my seat and waited for Mr. Thornton to pass out the tests. While I waited, I was going over all the things I studied in my head and hoping that I would do well on this test. When the class was finished with the test, Mr. Thornton said, “The test scores will be on Powerschool tomorrow.” I was so nervous, I didn’t think I could wait that long. My score was the only thing I could think about that night.

My eyes drifted away from the exam to the window, and my mind from the rules of grammar into the book I had been reading. Displayed on my proctor's screen was this incredibly ominous timer, which let off an entrancing tick every passing second. Soon enough I had sank into the bliss of a daydream; my desk morphed into a workbench and my favorite character from the book sat on the other side. We chatted about our days, and I told him I had the english portion of the NJASK. Nodding along he advised me standardized testing was for people who needed to prove their intelligence, and that I already knew I was smart. He allowed me to confide in him in ways I could never with anyone in the real world. He offered a refreshingly genuine support that filled me with warmth. Then, his watch gave off a horrible alarm that caused my whole body to flinch with

Two days after a big math test, I was sitting in my usual seat in the back of the class while our teacher was handing back our test grades. Because I was in the back of the class, I got my grade last. The time it took the teacher to arrive to the last row felt like the waiting line at the airport; the time just stopped. My mind drifted while I thought about what I got on the test. I had studied hard for that test, but I was not sure if I performed well enough for a high grade. My test sliding onto my table snapped me back to reality. When I looked at it, I felt relieved. Written in red stood “98/100,” but when I saw the comment beside, my smile left my face. He had commented one word: "Fine.” I could not understand why. Was he not pleased with me?

I used to think that sitting in Mrs Ewert’s class doing math problems was the worst kind of torture. I was wrong. The clock struck 12:20 but I didn't move, I just stood there thinking about what might happened to me, what WILL happen to me since I failed my last test in my next class, Mrs Berntson’s. There are rumors that she drains their blood, then hangs them upside down in her closets. Every day she washes her face with the blood of those students. And those were the lucky ones. Mrs Berntson is super ugly with greasy, stringy, torn hair, along with a super long neck and nose with a monstrous wart. Her six foot five, 230 lb body is super intimidating.