There’s no manual to study, and no one right answer — to anything.
T had no idea why Mrs. Goldstein asked me to stay after class that day.If I’m remembering right, she sat down in the desk next to me, auburn sheitel in a side pony, proffering a folderful of neatly printed sheets.
“Wait… you want me to do extra work? For no reason?”
I was genuinely puzzled.
It was ninth grade, early in the year. I was 13. What 13-year-old wants to spend their time — their free time — on Chumash class enrichment, for a measly percentage of a grade point?
Don’t get me wrong. I worked hard. Yes, I did the best I could, and my best was pretty, pretty good, if I may say so myself. But 100% was enough for me. (Okay, let’s be real — 110%.) The class material was enough for me. The status quo was enough for me. I didn’t need to do more.
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