There are very few right answers. Sure, when the test is given, the capital of Burma may be Rangoon but give it a couple of years or even weeks, and it's not Burma anymore, it's Myanmar (regardless of what the US chooses to call it). There are very few right answers in school, and outside school there are even less. Be that as it may, the satisfying shuffle of a or x or y from one side of the equals sign to the other will stay curled up in your shoulder blades somewhere, coming out randomly to s t r e t c h luxuriously when a plan comes perfectly together, like the first bite of a cake fresh out of the oven, or seeing your son fall into space, delivered by a book you read when you were about his age, and you find it as hard to get his attention as if there actually was an entire atmosphere and shiny vacuum of space between you.
Pythagoras' Theory can help you pass the test, but school doesn't teach you life has its own answers. I know how to pronounce cos, sin and tan, while cheerfully having no idea anymore of how they relate to anything. You can't get all the questions right. Often you have no idea what the question actually IS, or who is going to teach you whatever it is you should be learning. It can be a long, painful fall from being a straight A student to just an ordinary human living the life you've been given, the life you're trying to build and decipher and push the boundaries a couple more galaxies outwards.
There are very few right answers. Life's algebra doesn't make sense. But there will be moments when you understand a concept, a person, a sunrise, situation, recipe or metaphor, and the entire sky will change colour and shout in celebration. There will be crushings that will plummet far into the abyss inside you, and dark will be the only sense you can make of any of it. But it's those moments - of dying and clarity and sapphire sunbursts and the sudden smell of mustard or cinnamon - that will become part of your own answers, to the questions you were looking for all along.