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Mr. Ferguson (aka Mr. Froggy) walked into class with a pile of white paper under his arm. My blood pressure instantly skyrocketed. This always happened at the sight of tests. I was never nervous until I saw with my own eyes that it was actually going to happen.He put the pile down on his desk and the rotating fan in the corner blew them toward the door. A girl in the front row jumped up to help pick them up. He thanked her, then clutched them as he looked at the five rows full of students.“Thees test comprises tweentee multiple choice queeestions eend one eeessay,” he told us. I cracked a smile, but didn’t laugh. I was getting used to the accent. Also, I felt like I was going to pee my pants. He started to hand out the papers. “Theee multiple choice eees deesigned to eeeelucidate your understanding of theee mateeeriell. Thee eeesay will reeequire some . . . original thought.”He placed a test down on my desk, the final test in the final row. “Goot luck.”As he walked away, I looked at Chloe. “Goot luck,” she whispered.I tried to smile—it didn’t work—and I looked at the page.I knew the first answer. And the second. I also knew the third. My heart started to pound for a new and unfamiliar reason. I knew the answers. I didn’t even have to think about it. I just knew. I gri
Daily Field Journal of A
Saturday afternoon, I was lying out on the beach in front of Faith’s house with Sha