Co się stało, gdy nauczyciel-tyran dowiedział się, że jestem córką dyrektora?

My mom became principal at my school the summer before my junior year.

I asked her not to tell anyone because I didn’t want special treatment. I didn’t want kids thinking I got good grades because my mom ran the school. She agreed and kept it quiet. Nobody knew. I had my dad’s last name anyway, so it wasn’t obvious.

Mrs. Holloway taught AP English, and her daughter Brooke was in my class. Brooke was fine at English, but I was better. That’s not me bragging. It was just true. I got higher scores on every essay. I participated more in discussions. I actually did the readings.

And Mrs. Holloway absolutely hated me for it.

It started small. She’d call on Brooke to answer questions even when my hand was up first. She’d praise Brooke’s essays in front of the class but never mention mine, even when I scored higher. When we did group discussions, she’d cut me off mid-sentence to let Brooke talk.

I told myself I was imagining it.

Then it got worse.

She started grading me harder than everyone else. I turned in an essay that I knew was good and got a C-minus. Brooke turned in an essay with actual spelling errors and got an A. When I asked Mrs. Holloway about my grade, she said my analysis was superficial and I needed to try harder. She said maybe this class was too advanced for me. She said not everyone is cut out for AP-level work.

I rewrote the essay exactly the way she wanted and she gave me a C. She said I still wasn’t grasping the material.

Brooke got moved to the front row. I got moved to the back corner.

Mrs. Holloway would make little comments when she passed my desk. Things like, “I hope you’re actually paying attention today,” or, “Let’s see if you can keep up with the rest of the class.” She’d say them quiet enough that only I could hear.

When I tried to report it to my mom, I stopped myself. I wanted to handle this on my own. I didn’t want to be the kid who ran to the principal every time something was unfair. So I just kept my head down and did my work.

The snap happened during our midterm presentations.

Everyone had to present an analysis of a novel in front of the class. I spent two weeks on mine. I practiced every night. I knew it was the best work I’d ever done.

Brooke went before me. Her presentation was fine, nothing special. She read off her notes the whole time and mispronounced the author’s name twice. Mrs. Holloway stood up and clapped when she finished. She said it was one of the finest student presentations she’d seen in her fifteen years of teaching. She said Brooke had a natural gift for literary analysis. She said she was so proud of her.

Then it was my turn.