Alycia Rivera is a current junior at Torrington High School. She’s the treasurer of her school’s Black Student Union Club and is currently striving for a higher position. She does outdoor track during the season and enjoys going out on a nice sunny day to throw. Her goals right now are to keep her grades in check while staying on top of her work. She wishes to upload many articles in protest of things she doesn’t like and in support of things she does. Outside of school, she spends her time playing video games, sleeping, and indulging in lots of tasty food.
Mr. Richardson towers over me as I work studiously on my assignment.
* Disclaimer: This is a work of satire. Mr. Richardson and his class are great.
Frightening is a word meant to describe terror, dread, or unease. To me, it’s the quiet horror of UConn U.S. History.
Walking down the gloomy, dimly lit halls, dreading period 7, waiting for the inevitable.
As I plop down in my desk to the corner left of the room, near the door, I experience a feeling of existential dread.
I overhear a whispered conversation from my peers, “Did you do the notes? I heard from period 2 there was a quiz today on them.”
My heart sinks upon overhearing this. Out of the 30 pages of notes and one paragraph of a book… nothing. I completely forgot to do them.
I look up to the front of the room, a frown tugging at my face. Looking back at me is the most mortifying look I’ve ever seen. Standing in front of me is Patrick Richardson, a smile on his face, the harsh fluorescents blinding me as they gleam off his shiny bald head. Behind him, the word “QUIZ” is written in bright red on the board.
I break out in a cold sweat, my hands shaking slightly as I reach in my bag, searching for a pencil. Just then, a loud smack brings the paper to my desk. Mr. Richardson leans in with a smile, whispering, “Good luck”.
I shut my eyes tightly, praying to the only god I know. “Please let me pass this,” I whisper to myself.
Mr. Richardson leisurely walks back to his desk, glaring at me from his seat. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding in as I looked down at the paper. The most difficult, bone-chilling, out-of-this-world questions printed on the page in black ink. Every question had a feeling of sinister intention behind it.
I gulp, picking up my pencil, shaking. I begin writing nonsense answers, doing anything in my power to make it seem like I know what I’m talking about.
The clock ticks by, the pool of nervousness growing in my stomach. I work up until the bell, desperately grasping onto the paper as long as I can.
He slowly walks up to my desk, gripping the paper with what I swear looked like the hand of a demon. “How do you think you did, Alycia”? On his face lay the most creepy, unnerving smile I’ve ever seen.
I walked out of the room, a sense of relief washing over me. But that relief never lasts too long, for I know the cycle repeats tomorrow.