As spring brings its familiar rhythms, high school students nationwide–including almost 400 last year at Milton High School–brace for the annual academic sprint: the Advanced Placement (AP) exams.

In two intense May weeks, students tackle college-level material in diverse subjects, from English and

social science to math and computer science.

The College Board, the organization responsible for administering AP exams, explains that these standardized tests are designed to assess students’ mastery of the rigorous, college-level content and skills

taught in a specific year-long AP course. Milton offers 21, according to leveling guidelines in the program of

studies.

Results from last year, reported annually by the Massachusetts Department of Elementary and Secondary Education, were nothing short of impressive in Milton. Of the 819 exams administered (with students able to enroll in multiple), 83% received scores between 3 and 5.

These exams often dwell on minor details, such as dates for history or differentiation rules for calculus. Preparation can start as early as a month before the exam, with exercises like reviewing course material,

practicing past exams, using review books and resources, and honing test-taking strategies.

But amid the buzz of preparation, a quieter story surfaces. It’s one written not in textbooks, but in the

graffiti-scrawled tables of our classrooms.

Though defacing school property is a violation of student conduct in the MHS handbook, these acts of vandalism give a raw glimpse into student sentiment, often written anonymously during moments’ revelation or desperation.

What compels these students to leave their mark in this way? Are there discernible patterns or themes within the graffiti that hint at the underlying anxieties or aspirations of the students? And perhaps most importantly, should the school take measures to address or preserve this unique form of student expression?

I begin with the familiar plight of a lecture marathon with a history teacher who seems allergic to flex periods—welcome to the long-block struggle. As your eyes drift from the monotonous drone to the desk, you can’t help but notice the makeshift pep talks etched into the wood. “Crushin’ it,” they declare,

surrounded by crimson hearts.

There’s a hidden gem: “You’re so unfunny! Even the most desperate, poor king wouldn’t hire you as their

court jester.” I fought back a laugh because if a slab of wood can yap, there’s hope for humor yet in this world.

In one science room, students were preparing for the legendary AP Biology exam that strikes fear intothe hearts of even the bravest. In the chaos of trying to memorize more facts than there are cells in a petri dish and wrestling with lab reports longer than the DNA strand itself, one student did the sim- plest of acts: draw tally marks. It was a moment of hilarious desperation. Maybe they’re just calculating how many brain cells they’ve lost trying to understand the Krebs cycle.

Do these 120 tally marks in their seemingly random array hold a lesson for us?

Keep counting those victories, big and small, because maybe it’s the tally marks we doodled along the way

that actually level us up to conquer the final boss.

In another room, a three-clover shamrock etched on a desk caught my eye. Clearly, one student’s subtle cry for help before the AP exams. If the Celtics can turn an 88-85 nail-biter into a 113-98 victory with less than 10 minutes to play, surely a bit of that luck can help ace those exams!