This was Me: eighth grade.

My grades are falling. I don't really know why, but they are. That's OKAY, though. They probably won't right themselves fast enough, but I will know that I get what I deserve once the year is over. I am probably going to fail the AP exam, but maybe I won't. I can only do as well as I want to. Truly, I wish that I had been taught to care more about my grades. I remember when I was in middle school and my mom and dad would get mad if I had Bs, even though they were just joking. I know now that they don't care that I'm not the best. But I care. I care a lot.

My goal when I started high school was to be class valedictorian. Yes, I knew it was hard, especially in IB. The boy who was the valedictorian at my old high school the year before I started had a 5.28 GPA. My GPA is just barely a 3.75. I could do better if I tried, but I don't know how to.

I used to get As. I was at the top of my class. Everybody envied me because I got 125s on my history work, because I didn't realise she didn't want us to do the essays. I did the essays, and I did them well. Everything was undermined by my problems, though. I was the gay kid, the kid who tried to kill herself in the bathroom, the kid nobody really cared about.

The only people that really cared were my English and History teachers, and surprisingly my P.E. coach. It was the first year(8th grade) that I took P.E. since fourth grade due to me previously being in Orchestra, and he knew that I was weak. Whenever I was on prozac he told me it was okay as long as I kept dribbling the basketball and took a shot every now and then. The last shot I took, I made it, ironically. He was great. I ended the year with a 90, and he made sure of it by letting me write a report on softball(the thing I did best at; running was my weak point, but I finished with a 12:15 the last time, up from 18:26.)

My english teacher was an angel. I will never forget her. When I was called a dyke and cried in the hall, she found the boy and screamed in his face. I'd only seen her scream twice. She didn't even get mad when I fell asleep, saying it was because I always did my work twice as fast and twice as well as others. My history teacher loved me no matter what. She loved my projects, my input, everything. She was happy that I came in second in the Geography Bee, even though I wanted to be first. She helped me fall in love with history, even though it's not my strong point.

In a way, I don't think I'll ever forget eighth grade. It was a year of wins and losses. Everybody thought as soon as I got into IB, I would want out. They were right. I didn't know that in eighth grade, but I know it now. I just remember myself in eighth grade, though, writing stories and bullshitting science fair projects. I even got As on my math tests. I went to the formal, I read more, I did my computer applications work, and I didn't argue with any of my teachers or get in any trouble. I had a great year. Then I started ninth, and everything just fell apart. I cried. I screamed. I got reprimanded by the dean. My friends took care of me. They fought my battles, because I was too weak. I grew attached, and then I got ripped away.