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@j-a-penrose I’ll try to do this 🙂

I went to 508 words, but here it is 🙂

 

She hid in her oversized sweater as all eyes fell on her. Sweat dripped down her neck below her ponytail, and her heart beat quickened to the speed of a train.

“Amanda?” the teacher repeated her name again. “Do you know the answer?”

Don’t look at her, Amanda begged herself. Don’t look, don’t look, don’tlookdon’tlookdon’tlook-

Her eyes slid by their own accord to meet the bright one’s of her sister’s. There was faith in them, belief bright as Gina’s blue eyes that she could answer.

Gina knew the answer.

Amanda knew it; she had seen that look so many times over the years.

Pressure built inside her, threatening to burst out somehow – whether it be screams or tears, Amanda wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, it would embarrassing if it did.

She wrenched her eyes from Gina’s, back to the teacher’s. Nervously pushing a strand of black hair that had fallen across her face behind an ear, she choked out, “Can you please repeat the question?”

“Who was the fifth president of the United States?” the teacher repeated, her eyes filled with concern.

A president. Amanda hated presidents.

Who was it? George Washington was first, and Andrew Jackson was seventh. Abraham Lincoln was way later, maybe the fifteenth or the sixteenth?

“It’s okay if you don’t know the answer Amanda,” the teacher told her gently.

No it’s not. It’s not okay. She knows, I have to know, I must know.

Her dark blue eyes flitted about the room, and she begged them not to look at Gina again. But again they went over to her twin.

Gina met her eyes, and then opened her mouth slightly, starting to mouth something.

She was going to tell her who it was.

Amanda’s lower lip trembled. Gina knew that she didn’t know, she knew that she was a failure, that she couldn’t remember some dumb third president. Or did the teacher say fifth?

I’m not going to cheat. I may be a failure, but I’m not going to cheat.

Amanda wrenched her eyes away, jaw clenching with anger and panic as she swallowed hard.

“James Madison?” she guessed in a whisper.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” the teacher’s brow wrinkled.

A hot feeling rose in Amanda. She could tell now that it wasn’t a scream; it was tears. She was going to cry in class. Over a dead president.

She pushed down the hot feeling that smarted her eyes, rallying herself to say in a marginally louder voice, “James Madison?”

The teacher evidently still couldn’t hear her, but came to a decision. She gave an I’m-sorry-honey smile and said, “The fifth president was James Monroe.”

James. Of course she had mixed them up, they were both James.

A feeling heavy as lead weighed her down, and Amanda sunk deeper into her black sweatshirt, hoping to burrow into it and never come out again. Maybe sink into a pit of despair hidden below her tall boots?

Or she could wait for lunch and spend it escaping into a book.

Amanda decided to go with that instead.