The first day of semester exams was taking place, and I seemed to be the only person who couldn’t control their actions. Haven ignored me when I asked her about studying terms for history, and Evvie almost slapped me when I told her to stop practicing her dance routine for this week and help me study. My sister, on the other hand, is no longer shy about bragging about her boyfriend. Dad doesn’t mind it for a reason I know he’ll never admit, so Evelyn’s allowed to lock her bedroom door now.
I still don’t approve.
Delcan, on the other hand, isn’t enjoying being second place.
“I thought you said I was more important than grades,” he whined, opening up my locker. I never told him what my combination was, and it didn’t really seem like such a good time to ask questions. “You’re just stressing yourself out, Ezra.”
I glared at him. “Okay?”
“Do you seriously think messing up on one question will cost your entire future?” he asked me. I ignored his eyes, pushing past him to open up my locker and grab my textbooks and notes. I took a pencil out of the shelving unit, taking the lock out of Delcan’s hands. “It’s a stupid test.”
“Have you even scored higher than a C in your life?” I snapped. Typically, I would apologize instantly, but it didn’t seem to matter at this point. I heard Delcan laugh to himself for a second, and then he patted me on the back.
“At least I’ve taken a shower,” he told me. Before I could turn around and protest, he was walking away, soon wrapping his arm around Annalise Laurens. I couldn’t remember him telling me they were friends at all.
My hands shook without intention as Mr. Poles handed out our test packets. Although I’ve never been a fan of science lessons, I was thankful that he always took things so easily on us. Regardless, I watched my hands pretend to be electrocuted as I reached for my pencil.
“You may turn over the tests,” Mr. Poles said. For a moment, he watched the time, possibly betting which student will have a mental breakdown first. I did as instructed, steadying my hand to the best of my abilities in order to write my name down. I won’t miss any questions, I told myself. If I do, it’s an even larger disappointment than I already am. “...begin,” I heard Mr. Poles mutter.
The first set of questions turned out to be vocabulary words. I breezed through those, only second-guessing myself twice. As I was thinking about how well I had studied the periodic table, a girl sitting across from me let out a small cry. Everyone’s eyes fell on her, watching as she began tearing up her test and crying. She began whining that all of this was too much for her to handle, and Mr. Poles soon had to guide her out of the classroom.
Ironically, my classmates (and I) went back to our tests as nothing had happened.
For as long as I could remember, there was always a story about some seniors who either had a heart attack or a panic attack halfway through a test. The only way I believe the story is by asking Eric, who’s in five A.P. classes. It would usually take two class periods before rumors spread like wildfire.
Already on the third page (out of seven), I was praying this was going well. But what if all you knew was wrong? My brain continued to ask. It wouldn’t be the first time for you, Gatley. I bit down on my lip, hard, going back to the first page and checking my answers again.
Mr. Poles was known for placing the most stress on his students. Instead of the entire class period, like what our principal orders, Mr. Poles gives twenty-five minutes for students to finish the finals, and then he’s walking around, his bony hand outstretched for the test.
I glanced up at the clock. Already, ten minutes had passed.
As I turned to the fifth page, which was an open response, my mind came back into the picture again. Go ahead, it said. Answer how you know the formation of atoms and the difference between them and cells. I know you don’t. You should know we’re going to fail. In perfect timing, my pencil broke, and I dug my nails into my arm. I hadn’t had time to cut my nails in almost a month, so they pointed into my arm like a bee sting. Controlling my breathing, I pulled out a mechanical pencil instead.
But the writing was different. The mechanical pencil caused such a lighter contrast on the page than the pencil had, mixing horribly. I took my hand away from my arm, which was reddened now, running fingers through my greasy hair. This is going horribly, I thought.
“Five minutes,” Mr. Poles announced, watching as a guy from the football team, Sam, began silently hitting his head on the desk. “I suggest you begin rushing things, students.” I bit down on my teeth, listening to the odd sound in my head. Although I was on the last page, I wouldn’t have any time to revise my open response, and there won’t be a chance I can check to see if the periodic table is written neatly.
Just another disappointment, I heard.
I calculated what would happen if I missed two answers. Out of the fifty questions, that would leave me with a ninety-six, bringing down the ninety-nine I worked so hard to get. If I missed one, it still would change my grade. A ninety-eight. I couldn’t even comprehend missing more than two questions.
Either way, the only grade I needed was perfection.
“Gatley,” I heard somebody call. Startled, I looked up to see Mr. Poles standing over me, his bald head shiny from the light above. His aging face was twisted into annoyance, and I almost threw my test at him on accident. As he was walking away, he muttered something about my attitude, but it didn’t matter.
I was positive he’d grade my test with his heart.
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