The Mystery of the Missing Marks

On the dawning of October 31, 2024, Stuyvesant students went about their days as usual. For the 10th time since waking up, they checked their flawless Jupiter grades. Students flooded the sixth and eighth floors. They pulled up to school in their coolest costumes, such as inflatables, gym uniforms, and Stuyvesant merchandise. Teachers promised free 100s in the form of a trick-or-treat tradition in reverence to Halloween (and the Parent Association).

Yet, as students excitedly marched from door to door and teachers delivered perfect score after perfect score to their spruced-up scholars, a murmur began to build in the halls. This was no treat, but a trick! Every child who visited a door saw that a peg-legged shadow had snatched up their academic candy. What were once 100 percent averages turned into pass-fail grades, and entire GPAs turned into nullities by default. It wasn’t until the U.S. News & World Report reported in an emotionally charged headline, “Stuyvesant High School drops lower than Brooklyn Tech! Take the L!”, that the shock finally registered, galvanizing students into action. 

Some gathered together to form The Productive Student Union, protesting this outrage. It was quickly chartered on Epsilon, surpassing every other club in membership—even Stuy Half-Floor Dwellers and, most notably, Stuy Freshman Hunters. The Spectator’s News reporters interviewed junior Erin Cho about the issue. Cho recounted, punctuating every sentence with a hysterical cry, “My hundreds! GONE! My reputation! GONE! My aneduolhe;lkdcn.” Unfortunately, she was unable to finish her sentence coherently before collapsing from panic overload. Her public standing was down the drain, as if the New York Post had plastered a poisonous post about her and her Humor articles on Ghoulstagram. Hundreds of other students emulated her, their cries reaching out of the school and echoing from Tribeca to Türkei. Even the government was forced to take action—Mayor Eric Adams decided to contact the Turkish embassy to arrange a deal.

Unfortunately, City Hall’s attempts were futile, so the Productive Student Union took matters into their own hands. They set up a booth on the second floor for volunteer interviews, the participation line of which spanned across the halls. They recorded many different accounts of the perpetrator: “short” and “Asian” were often mentioned (not that those descriptors narrowed down the group of suspects by much), and a few students also attested in a joint statement that “the fugly beast had dropped its doctorate in front of Peter Stuyvesant’s portrait, but quickly recovered it.”

After procuring gas masks, brave Productive Student Union volunteers were able to go to the CS Dojo and retrieve a few die-hard, shower-deprived nerds who were subsequently hired to track down the location of this mysterious grade marauder. It wasn’t long until it was discovered that the paper trail led to the principal’s office itself. 

So then a date was set: a representative group from the Productive Student Union was to be dispatched to interrogate and berate the suspect. A lengthy application form was sent out to members eager to air their many grievances to the mysterious man. Out of the 300 hopefuls who appealed, only a select few could be sent without alarming the accused. The lucky representatives sashayed their way down to the printers after 10th period, blowing kisses to the envious onlookers, completely rendering the last point irrelevant.   

“Whoever could it be?” they reportedly chanted. 

The inside of the office revealed the man, the myth, the legend: Principal Dr. Seung Yu in front of his computer. He frantically tried to cover up his Jupiter Ed, just like every Stuy student does. 

“Principal Yu?!” they shouted in surprise. A couple of students tackled him, taping him to his chair with on-brand stickers they had sold to raise money for the cause. Although he was resistant at first, he calmed down enough to explain his mind-boggling villain origin story.

Anonymous inside sources revealed that Principal Yu had been vexed by the orchestra kids who had crafted a petition to change their pass-fail grades back to grade-point. He had been trying to be cool and mysterious, but was flat-out denied that right by a deluge of angry emails. While he had been writing his apology email to the music kids, quite embarrassed by the clapback, he had been secretly scheming to get back at the entire school. And when better than Stuyloween, a day of tricks and treats, to forsake the treats? All he had to do was put on a black bodysuit, scamper around the floors, and exert his great principal powers. 

As for his peg-leggedness, his leg had been severed at the mercy of the 2-3 escalators, only deepening his resentment towards Stuyvesant students, whose privilege was the only reason there were moving stairs of death in the first place.

“And I would’ve gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for you meddling kids,” Yu defiantly proclaimed.

Under terms that he could further victimize the Oceanography students to satisfy his masculine fury, he agreed to return grades to how they were prior to the devastation.

Out of all the chaos, peace returned once again. The Spectator’s News interviewers asked junior Myles Vuong for his take: “My hundreds! BACK! My reputation! BACK! My aneduolhe;lkdcn.” He collapsed on the ground from relief. Resounding cheers in unison resonated from the school, and just like that, the Case of the Mystery of the Missing Marks was solved.