I am jailed in the principal’s office, alone with only my deepest, innermost thoughts to dissect. My fear fills the air while guilt weighs me down into the burgundy chair on which I sit. After staring at the analog clock for who knows how long, I lean forward, look down, and notice the scuffs on my Doc Martins and continue to worry.


I was in sixth period memorizing Shakespearian quotes when Ms. Cameron called my name. She had a strange expression on her face and commanded me to go to the principal’s office NOW. I’ve never heard the blithe woman raise her voice during the entire school year, and my class is pretty rowdy. It’s probably because she’s disappointed in me. She always said I was her model student. I did as I was told like an obedient girl, and when I got here, I was guided to the ominous office and told to “wait there.”


I observe every nook and cranny of this unfamiliar space to try to keep myself sane. A shelf of self-help books line one wall, a coffee cup with the words “Don’t make me use my red pen” sits on a desk and on top of a windowsill lies rows of pictures of a man with his wife and son— typical “school official” stuff… I try to figure out if Mr. Reynolds is a man who gives out harsh punishments.


It’s been fifteen minutes. I’m starting to sweat, and I realize that I forgot to put on my deodorant this morning. On his filing cabinet are a pile of papers with titles like “Expulsion Criteria”, “Bullying in High Schools”, and “When Students Cheat” I feel the dark room closing in on me as I begin to panic. Breathe, I tell myself, take deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth, stay calm, don’t freak.


The secretaries chat in the sign-in area about the day’s happenings. Their laughter makes me wonder what’s so funny.


What I did was inexcusable. Right now, Mr. Reynolds probably has the video tape in his briefcase, walking around with the evidence of my unforgivable deed. I bet he wonders how a reliable, trustworthy girl like me could make such a stupid choice. The weird thing is, I probably didn’t even need to do what I did. I didn’t even realize there where cameras in there when I took that entrance exam, but I saw an opportunity and I took it. Do they look over every video automatically or only if they suspect something? I start to feel dizzy.


I can’t be seen like this. My face is a wreck; the runny mascara makes me look like a clown and my cheeks are puffy and scarlet. I frantically search for a box of scratchy tissues to no avail, and settle with using my sleeve to dry my sloppy tears.


The handle on the door begins to turn, and I realize that my time is up. I need to think on my feet. What can I do to make everything better? Should I fess up now before things get worse?


The fire alarm starts to ring.



I bolt out the door and desperately try to run home, crashing into the now bewildered principal. My surroundings whiz past me as I frantically head away from the office. He’s coming after me, and I quickly notice that he’s catching up. As I reach the exit, he shouts my name and all I can do is turn around.


“Abigail. Are you okay? What’s gotten into you?” His breathing is heavy, and he sounds like he needs an inhaler. “Tell me the truth. Are you all right?”


I decide if I should tell him the truth. I begin to part my trembling lips.


He cuts me off. “Well, I have great news. The admissions committee sent the letter to the school by mistake.” My eyes widen. “You should be so proud of yourself, because…” I blink. “You got into Harvard!”


The intercom comes on to announce the all-clear, and the students obediently file back into their classrooms.