BEEP. BEEP. I opened my eyes in the darkness of my room, my head dripping in sweat. In the days leading up to the first day of school, I dreamed of intimidating teachers, forgetting my locker combination and everything else that could go wrong. And still, I pressed the snooze button on metaphorical alarm and somehow assured myself that sophomore year wouldn’t be an apocalypse. Big mistake.
When the dreaded first day arrived, I went to school and read my schedule repeatedly, trying to remember my classes. And when the first bell rang, I felt prepared to take on the day. First period, Trigonometry PreCalculus Honors, Yim.
In the math quad, I opened the door of what I thought was Mr. Yim’s classroom. But as I looked up, I saw a tall, brunette woman, who was definitely not Mr. Yim. Humiliated, I slowly backed out of the classroom, not bothering to figure out whose classroom it really was.
Just as I thought that the situation couldn’t get any worse, the bell rang. Fantastic: I was already late to the first class of the year.
I searched helplessly for five minutes before sitting on the bench with my head down, ready to give up. A few moments passed before I lifted my head up and, like a sappy ‘90s rom-com, there it was: Taped on the window across from me, where the old computer lab used to be, was a sign that read “Yim’s Classroom.” I could have leapt for joy.
But alas, my excitement soon faded to angst, and my palms grew damp as I anticipated what Mr. Yim would say for being late on the first day. His former students, I knew, had agonized over the mentally taxing course and time-consuming homework, deeming Mr. Yim one of the toughest teachers in the math department. I was sure to be castigated, I thought. But I had no choice: I had to press on, to face Mr. Yim, in all his notorious “Yimdragon”-ness.
I swung the door open, and my face grew hot as my new classmates stared at my arrival. I looked up to find a mountain bike in the corner and a man with glasses at the front: Mr. Yim.
He edged closer, thankfully only to reassure me that most students had trouble finding his classroom and that I could sit anywhere I wanted. Relieved, I surveyed the classroom, but found that the only open seat was in front of the teacher’s desk, the one place I hated sitting.
As I sat down, he started reviewing the syllabus. I began to calm down, thinking he wasn’t that strict, until he suddenly pounded the table, yelling, “Do your homework until it’s impossible for you to make a mistake!”
My eyes grew larger as I stared in shock. I had already failed to deliver. My whole morning was a mistake.
Two months later, I can still remember the fear I had on the first day of school. My only comfort is that no day will be worse than this one, that is, until I take Mr. Yim’s next test.
