(I’m a senior in high school. During gym class, another student kicks a soccer ball directly into my face. I’m bleeding, and in a lot of pain, and the teacher sends me to the nurse’s office.)

Nurse: “What’s wrong?”

Me: “I got hit in the face during gym class.”

Nurse: “Oh, okay.”

(She walks out of the room. I figure that she’s going to get an ice pack. Ten minutes later, she comes back in. She seems startled to see me.)

Nurse: “What happened to you!?”

Me: “…I was waiting for you.”

Nurse: “No, I mean to your face!”

Me: “I told you; I got injured during gym class.”

Nurse: “Oh! Alright, one minute.”

(She leaves the room again. Another ten minutes pass. Finally, she comes back, holding a thermometer. She looks around the waiting room, confused, and then grabs my face and sticks the thermometer in my mouth.)

Me: “Hey!”

Nurse: “Well, you don’t have a fever. Go back to class.”

(When I go to the doctor’s office after school, it turns out that my nose is broken.)

(I’m starting year seven next semester, but I’m almost done with year eight math. My father gives my new tutor year eight and nine math books.)

Tutor: “Year eight and nine? How old is she?”

Father: “She’s 12. But she’s already almost done with year eight. Can you continue where she left off? It’s the last three chapters, and then continue on to year nine?”

Tutor: “She’s starting year nine next year? You said she’s 12.”

Father: “No, she’s starting year seven next year, but this is her math level.”

Tutor: “Don’t be silly; she’s a girl. I’ve only taught boys one year above their level and you’re asking two years of a girl?”

Father: “Can you teach her or not?”

Tutor: “She’s too young to be learning these.”

Father: “She’s 12. Not that age really matters. What matters is this is her math level.”

(The tutor takes the year nine book and picks one of the hardest questions. I struggle a lot and can’t do it.)

Tutor: “It’s too hard. I think she needs year seven math.”

(My dad takes the year eight book and picks one of the hardest questions on a chapter I’ve already done. I do it easily.)

Tutor: “Wow! You really weren’t kidding.”

Father: “No more, uh, complications here?”

Tutor: “Definitely no problem! I am very sorry about earlier.”

Father: “No worries. So, can you teach her the last three chapters? And then continue to year nine?”

Tutor: “Sure! And I apologize again.”

(He turns out to be a very good tutor, and is proud of what I can accomplish.)

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(I just started band class with a friend of mine who has been playing for a few years. During class I tap her on the shoulder.)

Me: “What this thing called?”

Friend: “Oh, that’s the pad for the key.”

(I proceed to raise my hand to get the teachers attention.)

Teacher: “We’re almost through with this piece, can you wait?”

Me: “No. My pad fell out.”

(The entire class goes quiet, a few girls giggle and my male teacher looks completely horrified.)

Friend: “No! No! She means the pad for the key on her instrument! It fell out so she can’t play!”

(I am so embarrassed that I don’t raise my hand for anything for a whole month.)

(I am in calculus class. The professor is very much a geek, and I once saw him wearing a Portal t-shirt. A student points to a missing ceiling tile, through which some insulation can be seen.)

Student: “If there’s an earthquake, will all the asbestos fall out of the ceiling?”

Teacher: “There’s no asbestos.”

(The students start laughing.)

Teacher: “It’s not asbestos!”

Student: “You don’t know that!”

Teacher: “That is not asbestos! I know what asbestos is; that’s insulation. You know what asbestos is?”

Student: “It’s cancer.”

Teacher: “It is a cause of cancer. It’s a classification for any material that is made of fibrous minerals. So if you go to the natural history museum at the Smithsonian and go through their rock collection, you see the rocks that are growing hairs, that’s asbestos.”

(He goes into more detail about how asbestos was used before it was known to be dangerous. I raise my hand.)

Me: “And Cave Johnson loves it!”

(Several students begin to laugh.)

Another Student: “It keeps out the rats!”

(The teacher catches on and chimes in.)

Teacher: “When life gives you lemons, don’t make lemonade. Get the irony boys to make those lemons combust!”

(My foster cousin and I are in the same English class, and we’ve somehow convinced the teacher to let us sit together even though we’re known trouble makers. The teacher is talking about a recent chapter in the book we’re supposed to be reading when my cousin raises his hand.)

Cousin: “Uh, ma’am?”

Teacher: *gasps and beams* “Do you have something to add?”

Cousin: “Not exactly.”

Teacher: *still cheery* “Oh do you have a question about the chapter?”

Cousin: “Um, no.”

Teacher: *a little crest fallen* “You may not go to the bathroom.”

Cousin: “It’s not that. Me and [my name] kinda—”

Me: “We super glued our hands to the table.”

Cousin: “Yeah… we’re stuck.”

(It takes two paramedics and the science teacher to unstick us.)