"Bewitching a D-: A Comedy of Grades and Giggles"
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The shrill ring of the final bell was like sweet freedom, echoing down the school hallways and marking the triumphant end to another grueling day of mental prison. My textbooks, heavy and ridiculous, slumped into the bottom of my backpack like a pile of unwanted bricks. I hustled out the door with one mission in mind: Operation Save My Butt.
It all started with that D-minus in math. A D-minus! It might as well have been an F but with a stutter. Disaster loomed. Mom would erupt like Mount Vesuvius and my gaming privileges would become a thing of cherished, ancient history.
That was when Alex—my best friend and the king of mischief—came up with a boneheaded idea that sounded almost brilliant: a possession spell. I mean, it was 2023, and if there was an app for everything, why not a spell for correcting grades? Admittedly, I had doubts, but given my alternatives (none), I agreed faster than the math teacher could condescend.
My parents were gone for the weekend, probably wining and dining as if they were still young and hip. So, picture this ridiculous scene: Alex chanting some gibberish while holding my mom's framed photo like it was a coveted artifact. Frankly, I had more faith in my ability to divide fractions than this working. Until it—unbelievably—did.
There stood my mom, but not really. It was Alex in full mom-mode. He didn't so much walk into the parent-teacher conference as he did strut. The teachers' lounge buzzed with awkward energy, rife with the smell of industrial-strength cleaner and stale coffee.
"Oh Mr. Benson," Alex-as-mom purred, leaning over in a way my actual mom would've compared to trying to start a lawnmower. Mr. Benson, usually as solid as a geometry proof, turned as flushed as my internet history when I forgot to clear the browser.
Here’s where it got tricky. The longer Alex stayed as my mom, the more he was into the role—actually *too* into it. He kept batting his eyelashes, if that’s even possible for a freshman boy masquerading as a middle-aged woman, and conveniently leaning over desks to let gravity do half the work.
"Are you sure my Barry deserves that D-minus?" he said, his voice fluctuating in strange, flirtatious waves. Mr. Benson's eyes darted—poor guy had never stood a chance.
“Well, um, it’s not that his work didn’t... um, show potential," Mr. Benson stammered, fumbling through papers like they held the secrets of the Rosetta Stone.
“Ohhh, such a sweetie,” Alex cooed. My cringe level had peaked, and it was flirting dangerously with leaving Mom in the hands of my newfound lady-impostor friend.
Finally, Mr. Benson cracked like a cheap karaoke machine. "Let's see if we can, um, find some extra credit for him."
Victory! Or so I thought. With Mr. Benson successfully hoodwinked, Alex had no interest in giving up his newfound mom-ness. Like seriously, there were *confetti and fireworks* in his eyes. The guy had dodged Friday P.E. and was living his best life avoiding dodgeballs.
"Alex, we need to switch back," I whispered heatedly as he pretended to text, probably making plans to just cross-dress forever or something.
"Oh, don’t be such a wet blanket," he replied, brushing me off. “I’ve got book club later.” BOOK CLUB? My life was spiraling not just out of control, but into an entirely different genre!
Eventually, more gibberish ensued, and Alex stood before me as true-to-form Alex again. Mom returned to normal, none the wiser. Mr. Benson awarded me a C-plus, which was basically a Nobel Prize in my house.
That night, as I flopped onto my bed, the nightlight revealing just the edges of my childhood room, I reflected on the day's madness. Turns out saving your butt academically through supernatural trickery was just as complicated—and hilarious—as it sounded.
"Next time," I muttered to myself, "I'm just going to ask for a tutor."
This story was generated by user zach3 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: I had an awful grade in my class at school. I couldn’t tell my mom or have her find out. The only thing I could think of was finding a possession spell. Luckily my friend found one and was willing to go to my conference by possessing my mom. I didn't think he would be so flirty though. He is using my mom's busty body to get my math teacher to change my grade, and it seems to be working. He keeps leaning over the desk to show him cleavage. But the problem is my friend wants to stay as my mom for a little bit more.
Response: The shrill ring of the final bell was like sweet freedom, echoing down the school hallways and marking the triumphant end to another grueling day of mental prison. My textbooks, heavy and ridiculous, slumped into the bottom of my backpack like a pile of unwanted bricks. I hustled out the door with one mission in mind: Operation Save My Butt. It all started with that D-minus in math. A D-minus! It might as well have been an F but with a stutter. Disaster loomed. Mom would erupt like Mount Vesuvius and my gaming privileges would become a thing of cherished, ancient history. That was when Alex—my best friend and the king of mischief—came up with a boneheaded idea that sounded almost brilliant: a possession spell. I mean, it was 2023, and if there was an app for everything, why not a spell for correcting grades? Admittedly, I had doubts, but given my alternatives (none), I agreed faster than the math teacher could condescend. My parents were gone for the weekend, probably wining and dining as if they were still young and hip. So, picture this ridiculous scene: Alex chanting some gibberish while holding my mom's framed photo like it was a coveted artifact. Frankly, I had more faith in my ability to divide fractions than this working. Until it—unbelievably—did. There stood my mom, but not really. It was Alex in full mom-mode. He didn't so much walk into the parent-teacher conference as he did strut. The teachers' lounge buzzed with awkward energy, rife with the smell of industrial-strength cleaner and stale coffee. "Oh Mr. Benson," Alex-as-mom purred, leaning over in a way my actual mom would've compared to trying to start a lawnmower. Mr. Benson, usually as solid as a geometry proof, turned as flushed as my internet history when I forgot to clear the browser. Here’s where it got tricky. The longer Alex stayed as my mom, the more he was into the role—actually *too* into it. He kept batting his eyelashes, if that’s even possible for a freshman boy masquerading as a middle-aged woman, and conveniently leaning over desks to let gravity do half the work. "Are you sure my Barry deserves that D-minus?" he said, his voice fluctuating in strange, flirtatious waves. Mr. Benson's eyes darted—poor guy had never stood a chance. “Well, um, it’s not that his work didn’t... um, show potential," Mr. Benson stammered, fumbling through papers like they held the secrets of the Rosetta Stone. “Ohhh, such a sweetie,” Alex cooed. My cringe level had peaked, and it was flirting dangerously with leaving Mom in the hands of my newfound lady-impostor friend. Finally, Mr. Benson cracked like a cheap karaoke machine. "Let's see if we can, um, find some extra credit for him." Victory! Or so I thought. With Mr. Benson successfully hoodwinked, Alex had no interest in giving up his newfound mom-ness. Like seriously, there were *confetti and fireworks* in his eyes. The guy had dodged Friday P.E. and was living his best life avoiding dodgeballs. "Alex, we need to switch back," I whispered heatedly as he pretended to text, probably making plans to just cross-dress forever or something. "Oh, don’t be such a wet blanket," he replied, brushing me off. “I’ve got book club later.” BOOK CLUB? My life was spiraling not just out of control, but into an entirely different genre! Eventually, more gibberish ensued, and Alex stood before me as true-to-form Alex again. Mom returned to normal, none the wiser. Mr. Benson awarded me a C-plus, which was basically a Nobel Prize in my house. That night, as I flopped onto my bed, the nightlight revealing just the edges of my childhood room, I reflected on the day's madness. Turns out saving your butt academically through supernatural trickery was just as complicated—and hilarious—as it sounded. "Next time," I muttered to myself, "I'm just going to ask for a tutor."
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