Narrative Essay On 8th Grade

My stomach is churning like an electric mixer as Mr. Letter hands back our history tests from a few days ago. How do I tell my parents I failed the first test of eighth grade? I ask myself miserably. Instantly a memory from a few years ago rises to the surface of my mind. Not like that! I chuckle quietly to myself. Because I cannot stifle the memory, it envelops my entire mind. It was Friday at last! I had only six more classes to get through and then I got to go home and enjoy the weekend. I was so excited, I forgot to be worried about the short, twelve-question quiz that Mrs. Matriccinno was passing back to us. She placed mine face-down on my desk. Expecting an A and a sticker, I flipped it over carelessly. As soon as I saw the grade though,
the color in my cheeks turned the color of a tomato, and then was slowly drained from my face. I miraculously refrained from throwing up. I could not have been shaking harder if I was in a windstorm. Eight out of twelve. D minus. How could this have happened? And how was I going to tell my parents my score? I thought about it my dilemma the rest of the morning.
During third period, I managed to convince myself that the grade was not a big deal and that it was a severe overreaction to be so upset in class. It was one bad score, I told myself. I forced myself to believe that it was nothing a good grade on the test we were having the next week couldn’t completely erase- so why did they have to know? In fourth period, I came up with another reason not to tell- I didn’t want it to be a big deal. Yes, I told myself, if this was made into a big deal, then surely it will take a toll on my mental health. Surely, I will associate all math forever and ever with the disappointed look that was sure to be on their faces when I told them about my D. Surely my emotional state, not to mention my feelings toward math, was drastically more important than being honest this one time. By fifth period, it was practically a supposition: my parents didn’t have to
know. That afternoon, I came home walking on air.
“Hi, Mom!” I called out breezily. She returned the greeting and asked how my day had been. “Great!” I replied, and proceeded to tell a story about what had happened in music class, a story that had absolutely nothing to do with grades. In fact, I cunningly didn’t use the word “grade” once that day. Later, when I went to sleep, I was extremely satisfied with myself. The next morning, though, this pleased, breezy attitude changed into a vexed one. I was irritated at this thing hanging over my head and preventing me from truly having fun and truly being carefree. By the afternoon, anything I did reminded me of the grade. I could not be around my parents any longer than was absolutely necessary. I was going mad, but still I held on desperately to the excuses I made the previous day. When I went to bed that night, I could not sleep for hours after turning out the
light. The next day, I knew what I had to do. I ate breakfast, and, accepting defeat, went upstairs to get my quiz. The grade was still the same D minus. I trudged down the steps. Had there always been two hundred of them? My parents were chatting pleasantly in the living room. I wordlessly, so as not to rave, held up my quiz. They seemed surprised, but not angry. An explanation came running out of me, one that had been stuck to the roof of my mouth all weekend. They nodded along. They were slightly disappointed, but comparing it to what I had imagined at school on Friday was like comparing the Pacific Ocean to a swimming pool. We discussed the grade a little bit, and its effect on my report card, but it was a short conversation. After it, though, I began to truly relax for the first time that weekend. The memory fades as it ends, and Mr. Letter hands me my test. The small Scantron is face down. I pick it up and breathe a sigh of relief. I got an A. However, I know that even if I got another D, I would tell my parents that day.