The pen… it was crooked.

Miguel took in a shaky breath. He had five minutes. And then he had to hand in the essay. His cursive was scrawled sloppily across the page and he only had two paragraphs.

But… the pen…

It was crooked.

Miguel squeezed his eyes shut and ran a hand through his coarse black curly hair. He could already hear his sweet Mother’s sigh and see the slow shake of his father’s head. He had failed them. Again.

No! A wild thought burst from his heart and he opened his eyes. He had not yet failed. He still had four minutes left. All he had to do, was not touch the pen. His pen scratched the surface of the paper once again, leaving a faded trail of gray in it’s wake as it slowly formed words as if discovering them for the first time. He could do this. He was doing this!

A shuffle of paper came from his left, and before he could stop himself, his eyes darted to the other student. Unlike him, the student had made much more progress on her essay, and had turned to the last blank page so she could finish her paper. But, as she began writing again on the stapled packet, he realized the page underneath was sticking out at an awkward angle. Miguel bit his lip and felt his hands twitch. All she had to do was straighten her papers, and they would align neatly and all would be well. All would be organized. But no.

“Two minutes.”

His heart erupted with panic and he turned back to his own pitiful paragraphs on the book they had read this weekend. He had done so well… all until he noticed that stupid pen! Miguel grit his teeth and fiddled with the pencil. He would finish a third paragraph. He would finish a third paragraph! He would -!

“Miguel?”

His thoughts scattered as he slowly lifted his head to the sharp eyes behind those deceptively softly curved glasses. A light frown graced her face and her arms were crossed. He opened his mouth like a fish, but no sound came out. With a raised eyebrow, she pointedly looked at the table. He followed her gaze expecting to see it on the paper, but instead it was on the pen… the pen that had somehow ended up in his hand.

He swallowed, but his mouth was dry. “Mam, I swear, I didn’t realize, I -“

“Miguel.” His mouth clamped shut as he looked back at her. She seemed tired. “How many times do I have to tell you that during a test or in-class essay, you need to keep your hands on your paper?”

“I-It was crooked.” The strangled message tumbled from his lips, eyes wide with despair. “Please, I’m sorry. I-“

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Miguel. I’ve told you time and time again, that even if something isn’t in it’s proper order, you need to leave it. How will you be able to function in society if you can’t hold your concentration simply because something is crooked?” Miguel stared at her, his throat clenching and burning. She was right, he knew. But he couldn’t help it. Even now, he couldn’t help but want to reach up and tip her glasses so that they were perfectly centered on her face.

The teacher sighed. “Just try again next time Miguel. Grades aren’t everything. But… as you weren’t able to follow the rules… that will be another zero. I’ll be calling your parents to let them know.” She turned and walked away, calling to the other students to let them know that the time was up, and they should turn in their papers.

Miguel looked at his desk, now blurred from his failure. “Yes ma’m,” he whispered shakily.

Slowly, he extended his arm to the top of his desk, releasing the pen to fall into place next to his highlighter. Then, with one last look at his teacher, he straightened the pen.