Testing Under Pressure

The thin piece of freshly printed paper glares back at me with its rigid lines and vile black font text. My hands take the sheet and flip it over to see that it bears an ugly, disjointed twin on its backside as well. Skimming over the nonsensical words that conjure the mental visage of a witch in a “Karen” haircut inscribing their list of ingredients for a spell to hypnotize their husbands into being their slave. Incapable of criticism, shunned from happiness, scolded for their boldness at expressing themselves freely from the guidelines that shackle men to earth. Even the minuscule paper cut on my thumb is a harbinger of doom after an extra flip to the front side. No matter how many times its analyzed, this paper answers back with a devilish whisper.

“Why bother trying? You never studied this the whole week.”

Forty minutes left.

The time is 2:10 from the outdated black and white analog clock on top of the exit.

“The little hand is the hour, the big hand is the minutes. I think.”

I hear the student next to me whisper that information. One advantage of the back row in a classroom is that the teacher cannot eavesdrop on quiet conversations or exchanges of wisdom (unless its Ricardo or Junes, they get out of hand too fast).

“Paragraph…paragraph….was that the fifteenth one or the second one? I forgot.”

You forget all the time Houston! This class period that mean balding teacher Mr. Bickel said in no tricky terms that it was the second one! The sentence in the second one is about fishing and the paragraph wants for the reader to think of how the activity can become a metaphor for different aspects of life.

Houston is a tiny red-haired kid that has a Jerry curl and freckles. He has a hard time keeping up with printed black text on paper yet can recite every single issue of Spider-man that is good or bad. Come to think of it, the kid did tell me about how easy the tests are if you just read through all the texts first. Then, do the easy questions because they tell you about how to answer the harder questions later on because the answers are going to be less obvious than the easy ones!

Twenty-five minutes left.

“Man, every question hard. I’m bout’ to quit.” Another student says that next to me as tears are starting to tiptoe from my eyelids. This is horrible. Only eight questions answered on a twenty-five-question quiz, it doesn’t make a difference to our parents! The belt is coming loose and it not going to be from weight loss if every answer feels like a plunge further into the depths of a sewage system. The urge to turn give in and just focus on guessing multiple choice questions is too strong (even if that is what is going on at this minute). Days spent gamb-uh, pontificating the possible winners and losers of pivotal matches have given me enough experience to surmount the odds and grab the correct answers with this unwieldy Ticonderoga pencil.

“Hey, bro. Hey!”

I smell this thick scent of cocoa butter lotion and lavender scented body wash recently applied after taking on a dare to barrel roll around the nearby dog park during recess. My fellow genius Samuel is straining the mental energies to concentrate this week’s collective fortune into this quiz.

“What? I’m trying not to fail this quiz.”

“You’re going to fail anyways, there’s something I got to tell you.”

What do you have to tell me? If only your mind is a sharp as your hairline. Going for the Flattop haircut after witnessing a soldier on a movie with the same haircut beat up a dictator is ludicrous. But…maybe that soldier’s seriousness impressed a critical change to his attitude. Even the way he’s looking at me is stern and his brown eyes are sharp with furrowed brows. Under the pale glow of fluorescent lights, the shadows over his eyes made him resemble a very young yet bright Lawrence Fishburne. At least from the movies my father forced me to see after attending the cookouts.

“You owe us $200 or a copy of GTA 6. We can wait for the money if you get the game for everyone.”

“You think I’m stupid! A game for everyone would be about $600!”

“Tch!”

Fifteen minutes left.

No luck. No money. No women. Few answers. All crying.

Holding the thick yellow pencil as it hovers listlessly over the blank fill-in-the-box question is a great workout. The hand grips the angular shaft of the pencil as hard as it can, exercising in addition to grip strength, the arm’s muscles (I think, I’m spit balling knowledge from a manga) to remain held in one place. Further testing the mental control a person should have over their body. In fact, this question about, “Consider what the passage speaks of when it concerns the virtue of patience?”, should be about how having the patience and diligence to accomplish a goal despite the peril.

Why the hell aren’t I rewarded for filling in my name? Most people don’t get the chance to have a name before tragedy strikes. Even the date should count for points on a test since some kids barely recognize what day of the week it is let alone the month. We should be awarded for taking in the refreshing afternoon breeze as the invigorating warm natural hues from sun cast a blessed array of colors across the sky.

Scattering hues of orange, red, and yellow in a natural cascade of warmth that belies a wonder granted for all beings in this world to experience. Fisherman who wait patiently for their ploy to catch their quarry to succeed witness this perennial yet fleeting sensation as the sun descends, marking a critical point in the passage of the day.

Whatever sounds intellectual from this mind-rambling cacophony of nonsense, is what I have to put down on the paper. The sounds of my pencil writing on the sheet raise my anxiety, its as if its knocking on wood repeatedly with every letter and circle it writes.

“Houston”. Samuel boldly whispers across me from the left.

“What?” Houston whispers from my right.

“He got none of the answers right.”

Samuel has the entire sheet filled with failed attempts at legible or readable attempts a bizarre cross between English and Japanese handwriting. Figuring out what he wrote would require a linguist and Mr. Bickel may have time due to being single, but he would rather use that time watching risqué show than decipher a high-schoolers handwriting.

I pause writing.

“Your answers are like bronze coins painted gold, too little and worth little.”.

Samuel is unfazed at my remark.

“True…but at least I don’t owe everybody GTA 6. And it better be the deluxe edition.”

“Houston has the money for that! I can get everybody GTA 6 easy if you already have GTA 5”.

“Did you say that because I’m Jewish, Michael?”

Everybody silently looks at one another. My expression is still the dismal serious look when the constipation kicks in before a book report. I look at Samuel, he looks at me, and we both nod.

In unison the both of us say, “Yeah”.

Ten Minutes Left.

The entire backside has another three paragraph passage about fishing, ten multiple choice questions, and three short essay responses to complete the literary gauntlet. A quick skim through the piles of text informs me that this concerns a similar topic to fishing yet is confusing to comprehend. I peek at the teacher to see that he’s typing away at his outdated black Dell laptop that is humming its numerous gasps of death to the ignorance of its operator.

Mr. Bickel has combed down black hair, blocky designer glasses from some terrifying outlet mall, big green eyes a flea can swim in, and a sizable Hawk nose that steals joy as well as air from us. His ears have a slight hook at their upper tip, making them resemble the ears of an elf from fantasy. What’s fantastical is his lame stubble despite being thirty years old. Its the type of stubble my brother in college has after downing several Blue Bulls, studying all night, and paid online for tickets to the club. A man of his years should have a far more grey and uneven stubble around his jawline and lips.

“MR. BICKEL!”

Shouting is effective at getting the attention of adults. Regardless of the time or place.

“WHAT!?”

I can already feel the grey hairs taking root in sprouting from the thunderous negative energies contained in every decibel of his cry.

“I have a question.”

Mr. Bickel sighs like always. My acquaintances chuckle like usual. The entire class groans as if on routine.

“Does this have to do with second passage?”

Is this man stupid? Of course!

“Yeah. Fishing I get. That’s something everybody is at least familiar with on some level. But this activity is just…is just….”

Words fail to describe what the hell that fossilizing old man is thinking.

“The activity of playing ROLE-PLAYING GAMES is similar in some cases! Think of the possibilities here kids! I have to put a spin on every quiz to keep you on your toes!”

“There is no spin here! You put on a roller coaster with no tracks and cliff. Its definitively a spin when we’re careening off the ledge of sanity!”

Houston and Samuel were peering at both of us. Smiling out of habit.

“Only people with back pain installed would talk about Baldur’s Gate and Ultima. My own old man rambles on and on about that.”

I know Houston said that to instigate us.

I have thirteen questions left to answer.

My brain is fizzling into fleshy useless paste.

Focus is burning out.

Desire to argue is rising.

The bait is ripe, rich with the succulent juices of vitality to quench a man of their dry throat after surviving a desert tundra.

“Comparing the two different topics should be a task that everybody can do this far into the semester. It could be worse.”

I gulp.

The moment Mr. Bickel said that, it was over.

As long as I can make this quick…there will be time to fill in question at least!

With time of the essence, I take a swift verbal snipe at Mr. Bickel. Knowing it would leave me entrenched in the throes and mercy of time.

“Worse than the time that woman switched up topics on you to brag about her six figure boyfriend on a date to turn your nerdy ass down!”

Three minutes left.

Three questions left.

No good answers left.

“Arguing wastes a lot of time, doesn’t it.” The entire class sighs at that audible thought slipping out from my mouth. We managed to keep the arguing down to a minimum of five minutes until Samuel tagged in for Mr. Bickel saying, “dating is like fishing, not every fish bears the quality its hunter wants”, then the girls of the class chirped in. And…. guessing the multiple-choice questions based on context clues…from the argument might be the right choice. Answering the first short essay question is easy, just recap the insults Mr. Bickel slung at me.

Answering the second short essay is easy too, just recap the insults the girls and I hurled at Mr. Bickel.

Come to think of it, this method is risky because-

One minute left.

It barely leaves time for the last question.

Dammit!

My pencil helplessly hovers over the last empty box of space on the back side of the quiz sheet. Dread freezes my hand in place as a torrent of ideas surges forth from the cataclysmic recesses of my tepid wit. The wellspring of knowledge, however shallow it may be, is finally dried up save for the scant puddles littering its arid limestone surface.

If could come up with that stupid analogy why can’t I answer this question?

Name a game that is comparable to fishing that connects back to question 12 and describe it as it relates to the passage’s main idea.

Forty seconds left.

Halfway through creating a paragraph a crisis strikes.

The light pressure of a note underneath my shoe greets me.

An old-fashioned sticky note sent from the brunette girl in front of me.

She has been silently working the whole time.

There’s not a second left to ponder the details.

I put down my pencil after a few more words and pick up the note.

Thirty seconds left.

“IS IT TRUE THAT MY VOICE IS ANNOYING?”

Nothing.

Words fail to come out or even be uttered.

When?

When over the course of this quiz did her voice ever become a subject of judgment or ridicule in this class? More people would vote my deafening trail-park voice as annoying. Not Chelsea’s nice voice that reminds me of Dolly Patton recordings my family used to listen to, a voice that sweetens dull weekends of menial chores. If she felt this bad about her voice then is that why I never heard her speak often in class? Why me of all people? Is this her confessing some part of her feelings to me after that stray comment from Ashley about “silent mouths don’t get fed” during the argument.

Ten seconds left.

Maybe…just maybe…her feelings about me are purely happenstance. Timing and place are key factors to proposals in business or relationships. A issue that is inevitable concerning her plight is obvious. So obvious that I notice my posture on my wooden chair is that of a slouched, beaten and fatigued boxer who has no strength. My hands are off the desk, back leaning hard on the backrest, head tilted upward from the paper, eyes staring at the ceiling tiles.

“We don’t have time for this”.

The bell rings.

Students relax and chat.

Papers are handed up one after another to Mr.Bickel.

Everyone leaves the classroom.

“Hey.”

I fix my posture and straighten myself out as best I can.

Chelsea twirls a strand of her long brunette hair nervously as she stands in front of me. All packed up to leave like any other student. Under the autumn light with its warm reddish-yellow shade illuminates her cute button face, jovial faint dimples and pristine blue eyes that make her have an appeal that indescribable to me. There are a ton of irreverent, serious, and dumb questions to ask her.

But there’s no time for that.

No seconds wasted.

No time spent deliberating.

I answer clearly.

“Your voice is always nice to hear.”

For once I can finally say without a shred of regret,

that I chose the right answer.