Quick Author's Note: This story used to be in a one-shot collection of mine called Father Figure but I have decided to take it out of that collection and post it as a stand-alone. Sincere apologies if you've read this one before. Father Figure is now marked complete, containing only non-Curtis boys' stories. Thank you for understanding!

This was it. My first test as a high school student had been graded and was now being handed back.

Trigonometry.

Already the bane of my existence.

Mr. Simons had been pleased with the results. Before returning the test to us, he made an announcement saying that the class average on the test was higher than it had ever been in previous years.

It got my hopes up that I had done well on it.

But as it turned out, that was not the case.

At the end of class, Mr. Simons returned the test back in alphabetical order, so I was one of the first students to get it back.

I turned the paper over – excited, for once – to know my score. I studied hard for the test, and I had felt good about it when I turned it in.

I think that's why the big red D and the tiny note of "see me after class" hurt so much.

I quickly flipped my paper back over, hoping that nobody had seen. I sat numbly, listening to my classmates and friends as they exchanged scores with one another and high-fived over grades they were pleased with.

I hated that I couldn't join in.

I hated that I never seemed to measure up in school.

"Soda, how'd you do?" Steve asked from the seat behind me, after he'd received his own score.

I groaned inwardly because I knew he wouldn't be asking if he hadn't done well. I turned around in my seat, and sure enough, Steve's test was still face-up, and he was sporting a bold B+.

It was good grade for Steve and I was happy for him, but it stung a little that he had done so much better than me. We'd studied for the test together and it was upsetting to know that he'd benefitted more from the preparation than I had.

I shrugged as an answer to Steve's question, knowing he'd pick up on my evasiveness and come to the accurate conclusion that I'd done poorly.

"Oh," he whispered. His eyes became apologetic immediately and he shifted his hand up to cover the grade on the top of his paper.

"You don't have to do that," I told him, managing a half-smile. "I already saw. Good job, man."

I said it sincerely.

"Thanks," Steve said, awkwardly, just as the bell rang.

I was thankful that trigonometry was the last class of the day because I wasn't sure I could handle any more school.

Steve stood up. "You walkin' home?" he asked.

I ran my hands through my hair. "Yeah," I told him. "But I have to…" I trailed off and motioned vaguely at Mr. Simons. "You don't have to wait."

"Nah, it's cool," Steve said, and patted me on the chest on his way out the door. "I'll be by your locker."

"Mr. Curtis," Mr. Simons said, motioning to the chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

I obeyed, letting my backpack droop to the floor.

Mr. Simons leaned against his desk facing me, arms folded. He was a fairly young guy, probably in his thirties, but the monotone, serious voice he always spoke with made him seem much older. He cleared his throat. "As you know, Sodapop," he said, "I have a policy that students who score below a C- have to get their test signed by a parent."

"Yessir, I remember you mentioning that on the first day of class," I said, doing my best to keep my voice steady.

Mr. Simons nodded curtly. "Mr. Curtis, you also might have noticed that I hold my students to a very high standard. You are in high school now. Poor grades are not tolerated like they were in junior high. I'm telling you this because I want to see you succeed. But to do that, you're going to have to put in the work."

I wanted to yell at him, tell him that I had put in the work, because I absolutely had. Dad had given me the run-down about high school being more challenging than junior high, and I hadn't wanted to let him down. I must've just choked when I took the test, or something. I'd been confident with knowing the material.

But I couldn't say all that over the lump in my throat, so I just mumbled out another, "yessir."

"You know, I had your brother, Darrel, in class when he was a freshman," Mr. Simons said. "He passed the class with flying colors. Perhaps he would be willing to tutor you."

I felt like I had been punched in the gut. There was nothing worse than being reminded that I didn't measure up to Darry – he was practically a perfect student. All of my teachers adored him. I bit down on my lip and nodded. "Can I go now?" I asked hopefully.

Mr. Simons nodded. "You may. Have a good rest of your evening, Sodapop." And then he smiled at me as if he hadn't just figuratively kicked my dwindling pride in the jewels.

As promised, Steve was waiting for me by my locker.

He could probably tell by my face that I wasn't in the mood for talking. I wasn't entirely sure why this poor grade was bothering me so much, but it was. I just felt like such a fool for trying so hard and not having it pay off. I was nearly in tears by the time I got to my locker.

Steve didn't say anything, didn't ask how my meeting with Simons went. He just grazed his shoulder gently against mine and nudged me in the direction of the exit. It was his silent way of saying, "Brush it off, man. You'll get 'em next time."

If only I could believe that.

I took my test to Mom, before Dad got home from work. I kept my head down while I held it out to her and asked her to sign it. She took a break from chopping up some vegetables for dinner to take a look.

She hummed when she saw my grade, but didn't make any further comment. I knew she'd stick Dad on me when he got home from work. She signed the paper, kissed me on top of the head, and squeezed my shoulder lovingly.

She knew I was upset, and like Steve, she knew not to press me about it.

"Thanks," I mumbled, before retreating into my bedroom, wanting to be alone to wallow in self-pity and shame.

I was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling when Dad knocked on my door.

I let out a deep breath. This was the moment I'd been dreading the most. "Come in," I said dully.

Dad entered the room, still dressed in his suit from work at the used-car shop. It made him all the more intimidating.

"Hey, Dad," I greeted, averting my eyes.

"Hi, son," he returned and took a seat on the edge of my bed. He patted my leg, wasting no time. "Sit up, let's chat."

I sighed and pushed myself up, grabbing my test from the surface of the nightstand table beside the bed. I held it up reluctantly. "I'm guessing you want to take a look at this."

"Yeah," Dad said, his voice serious. "Give it here."

I handed it over to him.

But he didn't look at it. In fact, he did something that threw me completely off guard. He forcefully crumpled the paper up and chucked it across the room in the direction of the trashcan by the door.

Yikes, he seemed really mad.

"Dad!" I exclaimed. "What'd you do that for?"

Dad shrugged. "Just making a point," he said.

I stared at him. "And that would be…?"

"…That I don't care about that piece of paper over there," Dad finished for me. He softened his expression, and in turn, his voice. "I only care about the diligent kid sitting in front of me."

I frowned at him. "You mean… you're not mad?"

"Mad?" Dad repeated. "How could I be mad?"

"Dad, I got a D," I said, emphasizing the less-than-stellar letter-grade. "Even after I studied non-stop for practically a week!"

"Exactly," Dad said vibrantly. "Sodapop, I saw how hard you studied. You and Steve were at it every night. It's clear you're taking high school seriously. I've never been more proud of you, son."

I stared at him so incredulously that he laughed.

"Listen, kid. I know school doesn't come easily to you."

I hung my head at those words.

Dad put a hand on my shoulder. "And that's okay, Soda. There are so many other things that you're good at. Working on cars, eccentric cooking… talking to girls." He winked and nudged me in the ribs.

I chuckled nervously, but still wasn't taking what he was saying with much conviction.

"Sodapop, look at me," Dad said, lifting my chin so I would look in his eyes. "The value of a person is not measured by his GPA. It is measure by his character. And character is working hard at something that doesn't come easily to you."

I swallowed hard, finally understanding what Dad was getting at. "And character is not giving up when you don't get the results you want," I added.

Dad smiled proudly. "That's right, kid. C'mere."

He pulled me in for a hug and squeezed me tight. When we parted, my eyes caught sight of my crumpled test on the floor by the trashcan.

"You know, Dad," I said slowly. "I was supposed to take that signed test back to my teacher."

There was a beat of silence before we both busted out laughing.

After we'd gotten ahold of ourselves, Dad patted my leg and stood up.

"I'll go get the iron."