Wouldn’t Survive A Spanish Inquisition

I’m taking Spanish class. The teacher is retiring at the end of the year, so most of the students think this is an excuse to goof off, despite him making it very clear he had no intention of taking it easy, lesson-wise. I am not good at Spanish but am required to take it. As my parent raised me to be responsible, I attempt to get as much as I can out of the lessons, which causes the other kids to bully me.

One day, the teacher springs a pop quiz on us. Completely unprepared, I notice everyone else cheating in various ways. Succumbing to panic, I resort to cheating, too, hiding my notes in my desk. One of my classmates sees this, and starts loudly whispering about how I’m cheating. Everyone else starts doing it, too, until it stops being even close to subtle. I finish the quiz and walk up to the teacher’s desk, the loud whispering following me. I hand it to him and guiltily confess what I had done, running out of the room in tears.

When I got home, I found the teacher had called my mom. He had not been blind to all the bullying I was getting in class. He also saw how hard I was trying, and said he had never had a student confess to cheating before even handing a test in. So, he offered to take me out of the class and tutor me privately during his free period. I gladly accepted, and while I still never got the hang of Spanish, he was quite proud of my progress by the end of the year. As a retirement gift, my mom and I got him a very nice book on Spanish cuisine and recipes.