“Can I try the hardest test? I… I want to see if I can get a perfect score.”

The voice was small, uncertain — barely louder than the whisper of papers being shuffled across desks. It came from the back row of Mr. Peter’s math class, where a boy with a pale face and untidy hair sat hunched over, gripping his pencil so tightly that his knuckles had gone white.

It was the first day of school. The air still smelled faintly of new books and floor polish, and the buzz of nervous energy filled the room like static. Most of us were whispering, trading glances, trying to figure out what kind of teacher this Mr. Peter would be.

He stood at the front — tall, angular, and a little intimidating — with a reputation that had already spread through the school. Some said he was brilliant, others said he was strange. A few swore he gave impossible tests just to watch students squirm.

That morning, he had walked in carrying nothing but a clipboard and three stacks of papers.

“Welcome,” he’d said simply, his deep voice echoing. “I don’t like introductions. I like curiosity. So let’s begin with a choice.”

He held up three sheets of paper — one with a red border, one blue, one green.

“The red test is worth ten points,” he said. “The hardest. You’ll need every bit of your mind — and a little luck.”

He lifted the blue sheet. “This one’s worth eight points. Not as hard, not as easy.”

Then the green. “Six points. Simple enough that anyone could finish.”

He set them down neatly on his desk. “Fifteen minutes. Choose wisely.”

A murmur rippled through the room. We looked at each other, uncertain.

The smart kids smirked, already eyeing the red sheets. The rest of us, more cautious, leaned toward blue or green.

I remember sitting there, pencil tapping nervously, thinking how much I hated being average but how much more I hated failing. My hand hovered between the stacks before settling, reluctantly, on blue. Safe, I told myself. Not great, not terrible. Just safe.

That’s when the boy at the back spoke up.

“Can I try the hardest test?” he asked, voice trembling but eyes focused on Mr. Peter. “I… I want to see if I can get a perfect score.”

The room quieted. Even the smart kids turned to look at him.

He wasn’t someone I knew well. His name, I think, was Thomas. He was quiet — the kind of student who sat alone at lunch and scribbled equations in his notebook instead of talking. There was something raw in the way he said it — not arrogance, not showmanship, but something like… hope.

Mr. Peter looked at him for a long moment, then smiled faintly. “Of course,” he said, handing him a red sheet.

Fifteen minutes ticked by.

You could hear pencils scratching, the occasional sigh, a desk creaking.

Thomas’s head was bowed, his lips moving silently as he worked. The rest of us kept glancing at him, wondering if he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

When the timer rang, papers were collected. A few groans, some laughter, the usual relief of something difficult ending. Thomas looked drained, but oddly content — like someone who’d run a marathon and barely finished, but finished nonetheless.

A week passed.

When Mr. Peter walked in with the graded tests, the room erupted in anxious whispers. We’d spent the entire week speculating. Who had done the best? Had anyone even come close to a perfect ten?

He started handing them out, one by one.

Blue tests, green tests, red tests.

As the papers landed on our desks, the room fell into stunned silence.

Every single student — every single one of us — had the full points of the test we’d chosen.

Six out of six.

Eight out of eight.

Ten out of ten.

Even Thomas.

At first, nobody spoke. Then our class leader, Maya, raised her hand, frowning.

“Sir… why?” she asked. “No one got everything right. Why are they all full marks?”

Mr. Peter clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing slowly in front of the blackboard.

“Because,” he said quietly, “this wasn’t a math test.”

He paused, letting the confusion ripple through us.

“This was a test of confidence,” he continued. “Every year, I ask my students to choose how much they believe in themselves. The numbers — six, eight, ten — don’t measure skill. They measure courage.”

He stopped by Thomas’s desk and rested a hand on the corner.

“Everyone dreams of a perfect ten,” Mr. Peter said softly. “But few dare to risk it.”

Thomas looked up, startled. His cheeks went pink, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes — not embarrassment, not even pride, but quiet understanding.

Mr. Peter’s gaze swept across the room. “Most of you chose safety. You settled for less because you were afraid of failure. But this boy—” he gestured toward Thomas— “he dared to try. He believed he might be capable of more. And that,” he said, his voice firm, “is the only kind of math that truly matters.”

That moment stayed with me far longer than any equation or theorem.

After class, I found myself walking beside Thomas in the hallway. He looked surprised when I spoke.

“Hey,” I said, awkwardly. “That was… brave. What made you pick the red one?”

He shrugged, smiling faintly. “I don’t know. I just wanted to see if I could do it. I figured even if I failed, at least I’d know I tried.”

It was such a simple answer — but it hit deeper than he could’ve known.

That day, I realized something profound: we don’t hold ourselves back because we can’t — we hold ourselves back because we’re scared of finding out what happens if we try.

Years later, when I think back on high school, I barely remember the formulas or the theorems. But I remember that day in Mr. Peter’s class.

I remember the boy in the back row who dared to raise his hand.

And I remember the quiet lesson hidden behind a sheet of paper and a pencil: The hardest tests in life don’t measure what you know.

They measure whether you’re brave enough to see what you’re capable of.