1.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one's around to hear it, is it still loud?

2.

"If you have a tank of two hundred fish, and ninety-nine percent of them are guppies. How many guppies do you have to remove if you want ninety-eight percent of the remaining fish to be guppies?"

That's how Mr. University-of-Chicago-has-an-excellent-math-program opens up his presentation.

What an intelligent way to gain the attention of a room filled with sixteen-year-olds.

The school decided to bring in a college teacher to be a guest speaker today, hoping it'll finally get the eleventh graders to clue in to real life. He's here to educate us and maybe persuade some students into a math program after high school.

Ugh. Can you imagine waking up each day to equations and parabolas and functions, devoting your existence to numbers? Please.

Mouth wide open so that we can all see his dentures, Mr. Blake (his real name) stands at the front of the room, waiting for an answer expectantly.

But all my classmates are still in shock that we got to miss a calculus period only to do, well, more math.

"Anyone?" His mouth clamps shut, and he tucks his hands behind his back. Although he should be wise, considering he's a university math teacher, he gives off a peculiar vibe with his thick glasses and innocent expression. Like a mellow grandparent that you can easily persuade into letting you have cake for dinner. It almost seems like he's underestimated how immature and uninspired high schoolers can be compared to his hard-working university students.

Much to his relief, the answers start to fly.

"You have to remove one guppy."

"What? That doesn't make sense. You have to remove four guppies."

"No, it's two!"

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

"It's five!"

Mr. Blake eagerly watches the students argue in amusement, I'm sure.

"Two!"

I know they're wrong. I know he knows and anticipated their errors.

So maybe he does understand how we'll tend to jump to conclusions, taking the easy way out in lieu of letting the question sink in.

"One!"

The correct response is one hundred guppies. You must remove one hundred guppies to have two non-guppies and ninety-eight guppies left in the tank. No matter how much the basketball jock, Jason, beside me screams, "Three!" the right answer is one hundred.

"Two!"

No, not two. It's one hundred.

"Four!"

I'm ninety-nine percent sure.

Seriously. If I was right, then you'd think there'd be at least one other person in this room who'd say the same thing.

"Three!"

I've never been Harvard-scholarship smart, but I'm not mentally challenged either.

Why don't I simply state my answer, too? Because my self-esteem level has always been in the negatives. I'm constantly doubting myself, repeating 'you're better off keeping your mouth shut, anyway' like a mantra over and over again.

I've been too self-conscious ever since the maggot-in-my-homework incident of freshman year. My number one advice? Never leave/forget your lunch in your bag for very long because flies will go and recommend other flies to lay their eggs in there as if it's an exclusive tropical resort. Next thing you know, you're having maggot nightmares where you're classmates' laughs start to ferociously eat at your flesh. It's very gruesome and horrific. Believe me.

From then on, I've intentionally made myself generic and boring, all in the pursuit of being overlooked by my fellow peers. I'll take being silently passed in the hall over a jeer about having a rotting bug in my hair any day. It's no flip-a-coin situation.

I never take risks. Ever. Compared to the consequences, they don't seem worth it. I'm so paranoid that you won't catch me skipping over the last step of the staircase in fear that my foot will get caught and I'll face-plant on the linoleum floor.

So if I shout out my solution and get it wrong, I'm sure my face will burn so badly that I'm sure it'll burst into flames. One hundred isn't even in the same ballpark as the other one-digit numbers.

It's difficult. Being grey and feeling insignificant all the time.

Then I remind myself, 'better safe than sorry.'

Then I see the squirming fly larvae everywhere. They're hanging off my binder. Squished in my textbooks. Crawling inside every corner of my bag. Leaking out into the classroom for everyone with eyes to see.

I feel them on me. Then I shiver in disgust.

And I instantly shut up. Every time.

"It's two."

"No, are you stupid? It's four."

Today, before school, I brushed and flossed my teeth, washed my face and combed my hair. With every stroke, I told myself my day would be normal, and I would later go to bed the same Gabriella Montez that had woken up in the morning.

Evidently, as I squirm in my seat and grip the sides of the plastic chair, I'm almost certain that if I give my answer, I'll only go to sleep feeling as if I've been drenched with a murky bucket-full of bitter regret.

"It's obviously three."

I'll be wrong, and Mr. Blake will chuckle, shake his head and tell himself 'this girl is never getting into college.'

But if I get it right—if I happen to be the luckiest girl in the world and get it right, I think he might just look at me admiringly and proudly. He'll be thankful that there's hope for the next generation in a dismal sea full of idiots.

I'm rarely proud of myself. And I don't know if my mother is. We're not exactly close. I'm an only child, and I don't even have parents for friends. As a kid, I took French instead of Spanish so I wouldn't have to understand my mother and father's arguments. They're divorced now. (I'm living with my mom, but I don't mind that she wouldn't care if I chose to run to Calcutta this summer or become a nun.) To this day, I can't speak a word of the language other than 'Hola.' Given that my last name is Montez, it's admittedly a tad disgraceful.

Oh, if I got it right then I may be considered smart in my school. My peers would turn to me and mentally erase my previous 'maggot-breeder' title and replace it with 'smart-girl-to-be-respected.' There's a good chance I'd be talked to, as well. Even if it's just for last night's homework answers.

"This is all very irrelevant." That's Sharpay Evans. My best friend. My only friend.

Also, she fortunately transferred here two weeks after my accident, just when all the buzz decrescendoed and the word 'maggot' stopped popping up in every sentence. To this day, I still don't know how she puts up with me and my boringness. She's rich and a tad spoiled, so most people get a wrong first impression and discretely avoid her. She does have a boyfriend though, Zeke, who has an after-school job working at a pet store, but she doesn't like to hang out with his group of friends. Both of our desperate needs for company brought us together, somehow.

She inevitably learned of my reputation, and acted like our friendship was only her barely tolerating me, but deep down, I think our friendship is truly genuine.

In the midst of all the babbling, Mr. Blake booms, "So you all think it's either one, two, three, four or five, right?"

"It's three!" bellows the guy beside me. I'd like to keep my hearing intact, Jason, thank you.

"It's four!"

"Two!"

My palms sweat, and I bite my tongue to keep from inadvertently blurting out something.

"Well, the number of guppies you must remove is"—a last-chance-to-answer smile graces his wrinkled face—"one hundred."

3.

Have I slapped myself yet?

Still no? I'll do it twice later.

4.

If a girl knows all the answers, but never speaks, is she still smart?