chapter 4

Diana's pov

"Detention again?" My dad raises his eyebrow, noticing the paper on my hand.

"For not paying attention in class for few minutes" I shrug, rolling my eyes at the thought.

"Im pretty sure you didn't pay attention at all. Teachers can't give you detention just for fun" He comments, looking at me like I would be lying or making myself look like the victim, which I was definitely doing.

"Hm, she definitely hates me already, she saw other girls giggling too but only gave them a warning while I get detention for being quiet!" I groan, my dad chuckling softly before asking.

"Do YOU hate her, though?"

I pause my movements, stopping to think how to answer his question.

Mrs. Collins... The name alone strikes fear into the hearts of students everywhere. She's not just a chemistry teacher; she's a drill sergeant armed with equations, lab goggles, and a soul-crushing sense of discipline. Late homework? Don't even try. One mistake in balancing an equation? Prepare for a five-minute lecture on "attention to detail." And let's not forget her pop quizzes, which seem to exist solely to remind us that we know absolutely nothing about thermodynamics. I have had only few classes with her, but I already know enough.

But here's the thing about Mrs. Collins: as much as I loathe her, I can't help but begrudgingly admire her. She has this infuriating ability to make even the most complicated chemical concepts crystal clear. She'll walk us through something horrifying, like Hess's Law, with such confidence that for a brief, shining moment, I'll think, Wow, maybe I'm not a complete idiot. Of course, that moment is short-lived because she immediately follows it up with a problem so impossible it makes quantum physics look like child's play.

And then there are her lab sessions. "This isn't a joke, people!" she'll bark as we nervously fumble with Bunsen burners. She watches over us like a hawk, ready to swoop in the second someone even thinks about forgetting their safety goggles. It's stressful, sure, but you can't deny that her strictness has saved us from approximately 800 potential explosions.

So yes, Mrs. Collins is terrifying. She's strict, relentless, and probably enjoys watching us squirm. But deep down-hidden beneath layers of resentment-I know she's making me better. Someday, when I'm not drowning in her homework or recovering from her quizzes, I might even thank her. Maybe. Probably not. But maybe.

Do I hate her? Absolutely. But do I adore her for making me believe I'm capable of understanding the universe, one equation at a time? Against my better judgment, yes. It's maddening, really. Mrs. Collins is the walking embodiment of Chemistry itself: frustrating, awe-inspiring, and impossible to escape.

So to answer my dad's question, I decide to give him a long answer after all that thinking.

"Yeah kinda"

My dad let's out a laugh and focuses back on his work. I take that as my sign to go upstairs and do my homework before bed rotting for the rest of the day.

First, chemistry homework. I open my books and let out a huge sigh.

Chemistry: the science of reminding us we know absolutely nothing. The periodic table? Just a fancy chart of random letters pretending to be important. Why does oxygen bond with hydrogen to make water? Who knows-certainly not me.

Balancing equations? A game of shuffle-the-atoms where you guess until your teacher gives up grading. Stoichiometry? Just a cruel word designed to mock your inability to turn grams into moles. And thermodynamics? The only energy here is the effort I waste pretending I understand entropy.

Organic chemistry? Forget it. Just a maze of hexagons and arrows leading to nowhere. But hey, who needs to know how soap works when you can embrace defeat like an art form? In conclusion, chemistry homework is less about learning and more about proving ignorance is universal.

What do I even do? I can't understand anything. Maybe I'll just google the answers and probably fail chemistry.

After 40 minutes of crying and fidgeting with my pen, I close my chemistry books with a satisfied sigh. Half of them are probably wrong and Ms.Collins will get more reasons to give me detention, but at least I don't have to stress it anymore.

✂✂✂✂✂✂✂✂

The whole week passes by quickly. I hang out with my friends -- mostly Abby. She has been texting me nonstop and we even had a sleepover. It was a lot of fun, actually, and I have never liked sleepovers.

School has been.. delightful. Chemistry classes have been... horrible.

If there's one thing Ms. Collins loves more than chemistry, it's making mine and my classmates lives miserable. This week, she's been on a mission to ensure none of us experience joy. Got a question? "Didn't I already explain that?" Forgot to balance an equation? "Are you even trying?" And heaven forbid your periodic table isn't color-coded and laminated - that's practically a crime in her lab.

Every assignment comes with her signature glare and a sarcastic "This should be easy." Easy for whom, Ms. Collins? Einstein? If your beaker isn't perfectly aligned or you spill a drop of water, prepare for a lecture about "respecting the lab." Apparently, we're all disasters waiting to happen.

By Friday, even the molecules are scared of her. But hey, thanks to her, I've learned one valuable lesson: chemistry may not kill me, but Ms. Collins' strictness just might.

I could go on forever about how much she made me want to quit school already this week. Luckily, I have free will do I can do exactly that.

This week, Ms. Collins has outdone herself. If there were an award for making students consider dropping out, she'd win it hands down. Every day, I walk into her chemistry class feeling like a soldier heading to battle - except in this war, the only enemy is Ms. Collins' unrelenting strictness.

Her lectures are a masterclass in monotony, delivered with the warmth of liquid nitrogen. Missed a step in the lab procedure? "Do you even read instructions?" Forgot to carry the one while balancing an equation? "Are you planning to fail this class?" It's like she wakes up every morning thinking, How can I ruin their day?

And the homework? Oh, just a light 20 problems involving stoichiometry, thermodynamics, and a sprinkle of soul-crushing despair. "You'll thank me later," she says. Oh, I'm thanking her now - for making me question my life choices.

By midweek, I was Googling "careers that don't require a high school diploma." Honestly, I'd rather flip burgers than listen to another lecture about valence electrons. Ms. Collins doesn't teach chemistry; she teaches survival. Because after enduring her class, I feel like I can handle anything - except another week of her.

If she wanted to inspire us, she succeeded. Not to study chemistry, of course, but to run far, far away from it. Thanks, Ms. Collins. You've truly made an impact.

Now, it's finally Friday and I don't have to see Ms. Collins and her smug little grin when she hands me the detention paper for two whole days. To celebrate that, I decide to take a walk to the closest market and buy myself chocolate and chips.

I arrive at the market, grab my favorite chocolate and chips, take one RedBull and walk to the cashier just to see somebody i absolutely tried to avoid for as long as possible.

Great, just what I needed.

There I was, minding my own business in the grocery store. And then, out of nowhere, I see her: Ms. Collins. My strict, no-nonsense chemistry teacher, standing right in front of me in the checkout line. Suddenly, I wasn't in a store - I was back in her lab, one mistake away from being scolded for breathing wrong.

She looked exactly as she does in class: stern, focused, and holding a basket filled with items as precise as her grading system. Organic kale? Check. Exact 1% milk? Of course. I half-expected to see her pull out a periodic table to calculate the molecular structure of her groceries.

For a moment, I wondered if she'd recognize me. Would she quiz me on ionic bonds right there in the produce aisle? Maybe she'd critique my choice of snacks - "Chips? Really? No nutritional value. F-minus." I considered hiding behind a display of cereal, but it was too late. She glanced back and made eye contact.

"Hello," she said, her voice just as sharp and judgmental as it is during lab safety lectures. I managed to mumble a "Hi," hoping she wouldn't notice the junk food in my basket. But no, her eyes darted to my items, and I swear I saw a hint of disappointment.

As she paid for her meticulously organized groceries, I realized something: even outside of school, Ms. Collins had the same energy. The world is her classroom, and we're all her unworthy students. Watching her leave the store, I felt a mix of relief and terror, knowing that Monday morning, she'd still be the same strict, no-nonsense teacher - only now I'd have flashbacks every time I see kale.

I pay for my food and walk out of the store, put on my headphones and sing quietly along the music as I walk towards home.

So there I was, walking home, minding my own business, when out of nowhere - like a shining beacon of kindness - Ms. Collins pulls up in her shiny, expensive car. Apparently, she noticed me walking (because clearly, my 20-minute trek home was too tragic for her to ignore).

"Need a ride?" she asks, her voice dripping with the sweetness of an acid rain. I'm thinking, "Is this a trap? Am I going to be interrogated about stoichiometry for the entire ride?" Because, let's be real, nothing in this world is free - especially not kindness from Ms. Collins.

Her car? Oh, it's the kind of car that screams, "I grade your homework with the same precision I use to park in perfect lines." The leather seats looked like they were designed to punish you for existing. I half-expected her to say, "Get in, but if you don't balance that equation in your head before we get there, you'll be walking again."

I reluctantly got in, told her my address and as we drove, I couldn't help but wonder: Is this her way of making up for days of emotional trauma in the classroom? Am I going to have to memorize the periodic table before we reach my house?

In the end, I got the ride, but I think the real takeaway here is that Ms. Collins is, at heart, a person who knows how to drive home both a lesson in chemistry and her ability to make even a simple favor feel like a test of endurance.

"Thank you for the ride." I simply say as I grab my chocolate, chips and energy drink.

"Don't get used to it. You just looked like you needed a ride home" Ms. Collins says with a neutral tone.

"Wouldn't dream of that" I mumble, getting out of the car and walking inside of my house.

As I walk in, my dad greets me with a smirk

"Who drove you home?"

"My teacher", I shrug before I can even think about what Im saying

"Excuse me? You can't just say that without giving me context because that doesn't sound very good without any kind of explanation" My dad raises his eyebrow, expecting me to tell her why the fuck did my teacher drop me home.

I tell him the whole story and he nods along, clearly amused.

After talking with my dad, I head to my room and open my laptop, I need to watch a good movie. I love horror movies so I open Netflix and scroll through the movies until I find something interesting--The blair witch project.

Watching The Blair Witch Project alone at night - what could possibly go wrong? I mean, it's not like this movie is known for causing existential dread or making you question every creak in your house. But there I was, energy drink in hand, ready to experience "one of the scariest movies of all time" (as every review says).

The film starts innocently enough - a few college students wandering into the woods with cameras. I think, How bad can this be? Famous last words. As the movie drags on with shaky camera footage and eerie silence, I couldn't help but feel like I was on the verge of a panic attack for no reason at all. Every snap of a twig outside my window? Totally the Blair Witch. That wind howling through the trees? Yep, definitely something supernatural.

And of course, the best part: the ending. After 90 minutes of vague noises and questionable decisions, the film wraps up with a scene that is equal parts confusing and terrifying. It's like the movie's creators wanted to leave you more unsettled than satisfied. "What just happened?" you'll ask yourself, only to realize you're too terrified to even Google an explanation.

In the end, I finished the movie, hyper-aware of every shadow in my room, convinced that at any moment, a witch could burst through my door. It's amazing how a shaky camera and a couple of creepy noises can turn your house into a haunted mansion. Would I recommend it? Sure - if you're looking for a perfect way to turn a quiet night into a series of bad decisions.

And now I should try to sleep since it's 3am. Great timing.

Trying to sleep after watching The Blair Witch Project - truly a decision made by a person who definitely had their life together. After 90 minutes of shaky footage and creepy woods, I thought, "Sure, I'll just go to bed. What's the worst that could happen?" Spoiler alert: everything.

The second I lay down, every sound in the house became a threat. That random thump in the hallway? Definitely a witch doing a little late-night haunting. The wind outside? I'm sure it's just trees or the Blair Witch cackling in the distance. My blankets? Probably a cursed shroud, judging by how tightly I wrapped them around myself.

As I lay there, eyes wide open, trying to convince myself that nothing was watching me from the corner of the room, I couldn't help but feel like my bed was just a flimsy barrier between me and whatever was lurking in the dark. The shadows on my walls? Practically witch conspirators. I'm pretty sure I heard footsteps in the hall, but it was probably just my overactive imagination or... the witch following me to bed.

In the end, I slept maybe six hours, and that was only after I checked every closet, under the bed, and even the bathroom (because obviously the witch could be hiding there, too). The Blair Witch Project didn't just ruin my night - it ruined my entire ability to enjoy the concept of "peaceful sleep." Would I do it again? Of course. Because what's life without adding a little terror to the mix?

Usually horror movies don't make me scared, i love them, but this time I was a LITTLE scared. Maybe it was because of the fact the house is still new to me and this whole city is new to me, or maybe I'm just a pussy these days.