Chapter 2

I walked out of the principal's office. The hallway was empty, yet it felt like eyes were watching from everywhere.

A strange atmosphere permeated the air.

Class 11-1, this so-called "Honors Class," was my labor of love since I started teaching them in ninth grade.

From initial student selection to creating each semester's teaching plan, to crafting customized preparation strategies for students at different levels---I could say with confidence I'd never slacked off for a moment.

I firmly believed that for these kids without privileged backgrounds, the SAT was one of the few truly fair battlefields in their lives. And my responsibility was to forge them the sharpest weapons.

So I sacrificed nearly all my holidays, organizing materials from tens of thousands of practice tests into what they called "devil enrichment worksheets." Every single problem targeted an SAT difficulty point.

So I turned down all social engagements to supervise their evening study sessions. As long as they didn't understand any concept, I would explain until they got it.

I believed this was being responsible for their futures---with high scores, you can choose the city you want, study the major you love, have the confidence to say no... This matters far more than empty "happiness slogans" and superficial "enrichment activities."

But now, this had become ironclad evidence of "student torture," the reason for nationwide condemnation.

Passing other classroom doors, I could hear whispered conversations inside.

"Did you hear? Miss Harper from Class 1 got called out online."

"Serves her right. Why does she have to be so intense, making the pressure high for us too."

"Exactly. Someone should've dealt with her ages ago."

I pushed open my own classroom door.

The previously noisy morning reading session came to an abrupt halt the moment I appeared.

Dozens of pairs of eyes turned toward me in unison---panic, evasion, curiosity, schadenfreude... emotions intertwined.

Then, like startled birds, they instantly lowered their heads, pretending to read aloud.

My gaze swept slowly across the room, finally settling on a seat by the window.

Melissa.

A transfer student from out of state last semester. Above-average grades, very well-behaved, sweet-talking.

At this moment, she kept her head down, long lashes covering her eyelids, shoulders trembling slightly---the picture of a frightened deer.

I recalled last week's composition class. Melissa had used almost identical metaphors in her essay to describe "the pain of not being understood."

At the time, I'd thought this girl had delicate writing skills and a sensitive mind.

Now, those words from the post overlapped perfectly with the face before me.

I could almost certainly conclude that aside from Melissa, it couldn't be anyone else.

I also remembered a parent in the group chat named Marcus Bennett.

His own child had mediocre grades, yet he always loved to pontificate in the group, playing the "thought leader."

"Kids today suffer too much. We should give them a happy childhood!"

"Grades aren't everything! Mental and physical health matter most!"

"I support reducing academic burden! Firmly against sea-of-questions tactics!"

At the time, I'd only thought he was talking without understanding the stakes, and hadn't dwelt on it.

Now, those high-minded words overlapped seamlessly with the angry comments online.

Could it really be that I was wrong?

Did I push too hard, making them feel this was all torture, to the point where they could justifiably strike back?

I laughed bitterly at myself.

My phone rang again. The academic director.

"Miss Harper, get over here now! Major trouble! The Department of Education investigation team is already at the school gates!"

The voice on the other end was panicked beyond recognition.

I took a deep breath, suppressing the disappointment surging in my chest.

"I understand."

Fine.

Since you so desperately crave this so-called "happiness," so thoroughly detest this narrow path covered in thorns.

Then I'll return to you that broad, flower-strewn avenue.

I addressed the entire class calmly:

"This afternoon, fourth period, emergency parent meeting. Everyone must notify their parents."