What happens when an 87% in AP Chem turns my freshly submitted Harvard application into federal academic fraud? Facing self-imposed ruin, I use PowerSchool hacks and rubber chicken nugget lore to draft an emergency email begging for a pivot to Divinity Studies.
My Common App Application
O Lord, hear my Prayer.
I was in Caf (SAS students' allocated term for the cafeteria). 7:52 am. I breathed a sigh of relief as I finished my Harvard Why Major short-answer. The clamor of a packed Caf created the perfect conditions for a well-thought-out essay.
It reads as follows:
Chemistry is not a subject I take lightly. Chemistry is the scientific study of substances, the building blocks of life, the fundamental language of the entire universe as we know it. Ever since manipulating and commanding matter itself with my second-grade papier-mâché volcano, I was hooked.
My chemistry career has been defined by 4 major accomplishments. In freshman year, I took over as an AP Chem long-term sub while the teacher went on maternity leave. I did such a fantastic job that SAS never realized one of their teachers had taken leave—or given birth for that matter. In sophomore year, I calculated the exact molecular breakdown of Perch’s chicken nuggets. By doing so, I proved to the school board that, although they are “finger-lickin’ good,” they are atomically classified as rubber; therefore it is of the utmost importance we reinstate Hoe Brothers Catering in the High School. By junior year, I replaced Marzuk as ChemVision head, primarily because Divesh Shah, founder of MathVision, recognized my staggering chemic superiority. Lastly, and least impressively, I memorized the entire periodic table backwards in under 10 seconds, prompting a senior to drop out of school from embarrassment.
Without rereading my response, I clicked “submit,” briefly watching the confetti on my screen as the bell rang for first block.
I sat front and center in my AP Chemistry class. A1 on Monday—my favorite time of day and my favorite class. The Acids and Bases test last Friday (that I didn’t study for) was light work. The stapled packet of 30 MCQs and 8 FRQs dropped onto my desk in front of me. A smile crept onto my face as the groans of my classmates quickly percolated through the air. “What did you get?” one student pried.
“ C+, what about you?”
“D”
“Surely this test gets curved”
My smile nearly erupted. I could not wait to add another perfect A+ to my PowerSchool’s perfect 90%. As a student more experienced in Chemistry than the teacher, I flipped the paper, explosively beaming.
In less than a second, the emotion slid clean off my face. I would have to walk home in the muggy Singapore heat from Woodlands to Orchard Boulevard, starve myself of dinner, and sleep on the cold bathroom floor as appropriate punishment. The score I encountered nuked my squeaky-clean 90%. Dropping out would do me more justice than dealing with this…Chornobyl-sized disaster.
The “A” was written in bright red pen at the top of the paper. Right next to my name. I furiously debated whether the teacher had handed me the wrong paper. This had to belong to another student. Such failure isn’t tolerated.
I ripped my laptop out of my backpack, slamming it onto the table. The black screen lit up to my CommonApp submission. I hesitantly opened PowerSchool, and the extension Anvay built, which the school had supposedly banned, popped up on my screen. Eyes searching, cursor drifting, and heart palpitating, I clocked the 3% decrease in my AP Chem percentage. What were once upon a time accurate qualifications listed on my college application are now more absurd than the repercussions for upperclassmen leaving their bags in Caf during advisory. AP Chemistry 87%.
Feelings of failure battered around my brain. My test fell from my fingers to the floor. As if a drop in percentage and self-esteem weren’t enough, I realized I had committed federal academic fraud on my application I submitted 19 minutes ago. Hands quaking over the keyboard, I began drafting an apology letter in Gmail:
Subject: URGENT: Application Fraudulency Self-Report & Updated Why Major Request
Dear Harvard Admissions Committee,
It has been brought to my attention, via red ink (that SAS is apparently not supposed to grade in as it contributes to mental health issues), that my recently submitted application is egregiously inaccurate. As I am self-reporting this earth-shattering, seismic, catastrophic lapse in academic integrity, I believe I should be granted the liberty to rewrite my Why Major essay, as my life path has been derailed by this…hindrance. My revised submission is attached below. Thank you for your understanding.
UPDATED Why Major: Comparative Religion with a minor in Molecular Gastronomy and Food Science
I no longer seek to major in Chemistry. Today at 8:17 am, I received an 87% on my AP Chemistry test. It is thus abundantly clear that God has rejected my scientific ambitions. I am pivoting my life’s pursuit to Divinity Studies, so I can repent for my sins and pray over my life. I plan to pair my degree with a Minor in Food Science. With hopes of restoring karmic balance, my career objective now is to obtain a position in SAS Facilities Management so I can scientifically reconstruct the Perch chicken nugget from a molecular standpoint. By replacing its current rubberized polymer structure with authentic poultry, I hope to provide salvation for future generations of high schoolers from the toxic tastiness being distributed at the Perch.
Please update my file immediately. I have already quit my job at ChemVision and paid for the Bali trip of the senior I made drop out as compensation.
Yours in fear and with recently developed heart disease.
My palms clammy, as if I'd indulged in those chicken nuggets myself, I clicked send. I looked around the classroom as peers continued weeping over titration curves. At SAS, learning was never the goal anyway. It was a competition of who could spin their mental breakdowns into a compelling college narrative first.
