Next period is math.

  Which basically means: pain.

  I stare at the board. The equations look like ancient scripture written by a mad god. Numbers are dancing. Letters are joining the party. And none of them are making sense.

  I whisper, “Is it just me or does this look like alien language?”

  “It’s quadratic functions,” she whispers back. “We’ve done this before.”

  “Speak for yourself, math priestess.”

  She covers her mouth to hold back a laugh.

  Mr. Hanada walks in like a man ready to destroy hope. He starts writing equations faster than I can blink.

  Everyone else pulls out their notebooks.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  I pull out despair.

  Beside me, Aika is already solving the warm-up question. Her pencil flows like she’s writing poetry. Mine breaks halfway through my name.

  This is not my subject. Never was.

  My brain doesn’t calculate—it improvises. Badly.

  Mr. Hanada starts cold-calling. Like a hunter in a sea of terrified prey.

  Please don’t pick me.

  Please don’t pick me.

  Please do NOT pi—

  “Kazama.”

  I jolt up. “Yes, sir?!”

  “What’s the answer to number four?”

  I look down.

  There is no number four on my page.

  There is no page.

  I forgot to write anything down.

  “Uh… seven?”

  The class laughs. Mr. Hanada sighs. “Sit down. And try to catch up.”

  I drop back into my chair, humiliated. Aika slides her notebook toward me under the desk. It’s open to the problem I bombed.

  She whispers, “Next time, just peek. I don’t mind.”

  I look at her.

  “Isn’t that cheating?”

  “No. It’s teamwork.”

  I almost smile.

  Almost.

  Halfway through class, I’ve given up on math and started drawing a soup bowl in the corner of my notebook. Aika sees it and quietly writes next to it:

  “Soup of the day: failure.”

  I write back:

  “Extra spicy.”

  She silently giggles behind her hand.

  Math might be a personal attack, but at least I’m not facing it alone.

  To be continued…