I am sitting in class looking down at the blank piece of paper in front of me, pretending to study, but I’m really doodling, which I regularly do in this class since I never know what Professor Cartwright is talking about. Math is a foreign language. Even though I can speak and comprehend a few phrases, I am nowhere near fluent. I feel so stupid in this class. The stupidest. Professor Cartwright is world-renowned, yet he is a terrible teacher. He lectures like he is bored or can’t be bothered with the words coming out of his mouth. His “simplified” explanations are always complicated and confusing. What’s the point of all that brilliance if you can’t transmit anything to others?

Instead of listening, I draw long curvy lines across the length of the page. On this particular day, I am doodling cheerfully when I feel the familiar chill of watching eyes. I glance up at the clock and notice a group of classmates to my right staring. Their hands are folded on the table in front of them. Their eyes, piercing and calm, land decisively on me. They don’t blink. I look around the room to see if anyone else notices, but everyone is focused on Professor Cartwright. I turn back toward them and shrug my head aggressively in frustration, at which point they look away one by one. I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone. I wonder if this is a bullying tactic against students of color? A way to make us feel unwelcome and out of place? I heard about stuff like that happening from juniors and seniors, but I’m not going to stand for it.

Class ends. I stomp over to the culprits and confront them. “Your intimidation won’t work on me,” I say, inflamed.

“What are you talking about? I don’t even know you,” a long-blond-haired girl responds. They each shuffle out of the room confusedly, whispering among themselves. The resoluteness of her response makes me question myself. Maybe they were looking at something else in my direction. Regardless, it’s strange that they would all be staring at the same time.

A week later, I’m still bothered. I grab a large bag of Lays potato chips from the secret stash at the bottom of my closet while replaying the incident in my mind. I hope they aren’t all sitting together again today, which makes their group staring more terrifying. I open the chips, inhaling the salty goodness, then, like a character on a soap opera, I emerge from my dorm room, fake smiling for the imaginary camera. I pose dramatically in the doorway before beginning my walk to math class. I take the long route to delay the inevitable.