Chef-d'œu·vre
by Emily Jaramillo
Legacy High School
Emily Jaramillo is a 14-year-old freshman attending Southwest Legacy High School in San Antonio, Texas. She began to develop the love and passion to write stories, poems, and songs at the age of 5. After graduation, she plans to study dermatology in college and possibly do writing as a side job. Her writings focus on real events that happened in her life and she write about what others might have to go through as well.
Chef-d'œu·vre
I press my pencil so hard against my notebook that the tip snaps.
Perfect. Another distraction.
With a sigh, I toss it aside and grab a new one. It’s nearly midnight, and the biology textbook in front of me blurs as my eyes struggle to stay open. The words on the page—something about cellular respiration—might as well be written in another language.
I groan, rubbing my temples. Come on, Ayla. Focus.
The only response is the quiet hum of my desk lamp.
I glance at the clock. If I go to sleep now, I can still get five hours. But then I won’t finish reviewing, and if I don’t review, I’ll probably bomb tomorrow’s test.
No. Not an option.
I shake my head, sit up straighter, and force myself to keep going.
The Impossible Dream
I want to go to a school where people like me—ordinary, small-town, nobody-knows-your-name people—aren’t supposed to get in.
A school with a ridiculous acceptance rate. A place where they take one look at your application and, if you don’t basically cure cancer by age eighteen, you’re done.
And yet… I still try.
Every night, I sit at my desk, staring at my GPA, my extracurriculars, my test scores, and I wonder, Is it enough?
No.
It never feels like enough.
I scroll through forums sometimes, reading about kids who got accepted—students who took fifteen AP classes, interned at labs, founded charities. I compare myself to them, picking apart everything I haven’t done.
Then I remind myself that doubting won’t get me anywhere.
So I keep studying. I keep pushing. Because even if the odds are against me, I’d rather fail trying than settle for something less.
The Struggle with Perfection
I hate B’s.
Some people see them as good grades. To me, they feel like failure.
A B+ isn’t close enough. A- isn’t close enough. If the number next to my grade isn’t a 95 or higher, it feels like all my hard work was pointless.
It’s exhausting, this need for perfection. But I can’t stop.
And the worst part? Exams.
I don’t know why, but no matter how hard I study, I always do worse on exams than on regular assignments. It’s like my brain just refuses to cooperate when it matters most.
I can ace homework, essays, quizzes. But when I sit down for an exam, my hands get clammy, my mind blanks, and suddenly, I forget everything I spent weeks memorizing.
I walk out of the classroom knowing I got things wrong. That I should have done better. That I could have done better.
When the grades come back, it’s always the same story.
A B+. Maybe an A- if I’m lucky.
And every time, it stings.
My teachers don’t understand why I care so much. My friends don’t get why I nearly cry over a 90. But they don’t know what it feels like to pour everything you have into something, only to come up short.
It makes me feel dumb.
The Other Dream
Singing is the only thing that makes me forget.
When I’m overwhelmed, when school feels like an endless climb up a mountain with no peak, I grab my microphone, put on my headphones, and lose myself in melodies.
I don’t just sing—I feel every word, every note. Sometimes I write my own songs, pouring my stress, my exhaustion, my loneliness into lyrics.
I know I’m good.
I know if I really wanted to, I could pursue it. Maybe even become something. But music is a dream I can’t afford to chase.
“You should audition for the talent show,” my friend Karyann tells me one day at lunch, scrolling through her phone.
I shake my head before she even finishes. “Not my thing.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Not your thing? Ayla, I’ve heard you sing. It’s definitely your thing.”
I pick at my sandwich, avoiding her gaze. “I don’t do attention.”
“You don’t have to want attention to be good at something.” She leans forward, lowering her voice. “I know you care about school, but… you love singing. Why not at least try?”
Because it’s not safe.
Because it’s not stable.
Because I can’t afford to lose focus.
I force a smile. “Maybe next year.” She sighs, clearly not convinced, but she lets it go.I know she doesn’t understand. Most people don’t.
The Fall
It happens on a Thursday. I get my exam back, and the bright red 89 at the top of the page makes my stomach drop.
No.
This isn’t me. This isn’t my grade.
I shove the paper into my backpack before anyone can see, but my mind is already spiraling. I needed to ace this test. One bad grade could ruin everything—my GPA, my chances at scholarships, my entire plan. I feel the panic rise in my chest. My hands shake. I need to fix this. I need to—
“Ayla?”
I snap out of it and look up. It’s Ms. Atlas, my biology teacher, standing in front of my desk.
“Can I see you after class?” she asks.
I nod stiffly, dreading whatever she’s going to say.
When the bell rings, I linger as the rest of the students file out. Ms. Atlas leans against her desk, crossing her arms. “You’re not a B+ student,” she says plainly. I swallow hard. “I know.”
“What happened?”
I could say I didn’t study enough, but that would be a lie. I studied too much. So much that I barely slept, so much that my brain probably shut down in the middle of the test.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
She tilts her head. “Ayla, you push yourself harder than most students I’ve seen. But you’re human. You’re allowed to struggle.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Not if I want to succeed.”
She sighs. “Success isn’t about being perfect. It’s about resilience. If you don’t let yourself make mistakes, you’re going to burn out before you even get close to your goal.” I swallow hard. Burnout? No. That’s not an option. I just need to work harder. Ms. Atlas studies me for a moment before speaking again. “I know you have big dreams. But don’t forget to take care of yourself, too.” That night, I stare at my test paper, reading the mistakes over and over again until I memorize them.
I won’t let this happen again.
I grab my notebook, rewrite my notes, and teach myself everything I missed. I don’t go to sleep until I understand all of it, because Ms. Atlas is right. I’m not perfect. But I am resilient.