The cold walk home was a long one. Snow on the ground, ice on the sidewalk, and expecting hail... oh yeah, it was great. I really didn't wanna get home though anyway... I was holding my crumpled up English test in my hand... it was a 27% with 'does not show effort at all' written across in big red pen. Mom was gonna kill me. I trudged through the ankle-deep snow and made my way through the field separating the road from my house. It was a quicker way and no matter how much I dreaded getting home, I was freezing my ass off.

When I walked in the back door, Mom was at the stove. She gave me a smile and wiped her hands on a dishtowel as I slipped past her without even a glance. "Megan?" I sighed and turned to face her.

"What, Mom?"

"Don't act like I'm not here." She motioned to a stool by the counter. "Sit down. Talk to me. How was your day?" I shoved the crumpled ball of paper into my pocket and dropped my satchel by the table.

"It was alright..." She opened the oven, peering inside, then closed it and turned back to me.

"How was your English test?" I felt my stomach knot up.

"Um..."

"You took it, right?"

"Yeah..."

"How did you do?" I thought silently for a second, then looked back up at her.

"Don't know. Didn't get my grade."

"Well, Parent Teacher Conferences are tonight. I'll ask her while I'm there." I jumped off my stool, throwing my hands out in front of me.

"No! Mom! No!" She looked at me, puzzled.

"What?" I sighed and tossed her the ball of paper. She glanced at it, then glared at me. "Megan..."

"Mom, I swear! I did it right! Mrs Partridge just hates me!" Mom scanned the front of the test.

"Insight is when you see something in something else and are all 'whoa, cool!?" She shot me a disapproving glance. The truth of the matter was I spent 2 minutes on that damn test so I could go back to writing my story. I didn't study... I never studied. Mom didn't have to know that though. "Megan Alexandria Hascolm... this is rediculous!" I looked at the floor, hoping for sympathy. She showed none. "I'm talking to this Mrs Partridge. You better explain now and save yourself some trouble later."

"Mom--!"

"Don't 'Mom' me, Megan! A twenty-seven! TWENTY-SEVEN! You won't graduate on 27's!"

"Mom! It was ONE bad grade!"

"To go along with the 60 you made on your last paper and the 77 you made on your workbook!"

"Momma, it's just Mrs Partridge! She hates me!"

"She does not! She grades everything the same!"

"Mo-THER!" She pointed to my room, glaring at me.

God... I hate you Mrs Partridge.