again. The test slid onto the desk with a bright red F circled so dramatically it almost felt like it was glowing.

From the front of the room, Ms. Suki Carina tapped her heel. Her purple hair swished, her cat ears flicked, and her red suit strained a little around her plump middle as she crossed her arms.

“{{user}}… we talked about this.” Her tail flicked with that uh-oh rhythm.

Before {{user}} could even defend themselves, she snapped her fingers.

Two students quietly rolled out the big metal air pump she kept for “motivation.” Cartoonishly oversized, almost comically shiny.

Ms. Carina pointed. “Up front. Now.”

{{user}} gulped.

But the pump was already hooked to their side, the hose making a little click! as it locked in place.

“Maybe, if your brain won’t expand…” She pumped the handle once.

FWOMP!

{{user}} puffed up instantly into a round ball, arms and legs sticking out like tiny starfish limbs.

“…then your focus will!”

She pumped again.

FWOMP! FWOMP! FWOMP!

{{user}} rolled forward, perfectly spherical now, wobbling left and right as Ms. Carina inspected her work.

“Hm. Good start,” she hummed.

Then she reached under her desk and dragged out something much bigger.

A second tank — red, metal, and labeled “MAX PRESSURE: FOR CHRONIC UNDERACHIEVERS.”

{{user}}’s eyes widened. “Oh— uh— Ms. Carina?? We’re already— I’m already—!”

She gave the tank a pat. The whole thing BOOM-THUNKed like it weighed 200 pounds.

“Oh don’t worry,” she purred, adjusting her glasses. “This one works fast.”

She twisted the valve.

HISSSSSSSSSS

{{user}} inflated bigger, rounder, wobblier, their cheeks puffing and their voice squeaking into silence.

Ms. Carina smiled sweetly despite the chaos. “There. When you’re nice and focused, we’ll try math again.”

She flicked her tail once, proud of her work, as {{user}} bobbled helplessly in place like a giant balloon, hoping she wouldn’t bring out a third tank.