Seventeen out of twenty.

Of course, the numbers didn’t necessarily mean anything. Maybe there were extenuating circumstances, like the high mountain air, or stress, or lack of stress.

Except there weren’t, and I knew it.

“I do not want to be a 1,” I wrote in my journal. “It feels akin to saying I’m not creative.” I kept writing until more than two pages were filled with my frantic, angry thoughts on this otherwise quiet night.