Five more minutes, please!

The rustling of paper surrounds me. The smell of eraser dust mixes with it. I stare at the paper in front of me.

There is movement next to me, but I don’t dare to turn my head.

Don’t draw attention.

I focus on the paper again. The white of the paper hurts my eyes. It’s almost as if it was reflecting the ceiling lights. The thin blue lines blur. I blink. Several times. The lines don’t sharpen. My fingers wrap around the pencil. My only lifeline. My eyes water. I exhale. Then I close them.

The burning sensation eases slightly. The scratching sounds fill the new darkness. The sound fills my head. It fills my heart. It changes its rhythm and beats in unison with my surroundings. I take a deep breath. It’s my heart and army of pencils against the scattered thoughts in my head. My breath is supposed to support but it’s powerless. I fill my lungs again. Then I exhale and open my eyes.

I focus my gaze on the back in front of me. Blond hair in a pony tail. Back slumped forward. A T-shirt showing different shades of grey.

At least not fifty.

The corners of my lips twitch. I almost choke suppressing a chuckle.

“You have fifteen minutes left.”

The corners of my mouth drop immediately. The rustling around me intensifies. The back in front of me slumps even more. Vigorous movements of an elbow erasing mistakes.

Ah, so sweaty.

My pencil clatters on the table. The back in front of me flinches. I wipe my hands on my jeans. Then my eyes focus on my concept paper.

“Wealth

– pro: no worries; self …?

– con: worries; reality?”

With my pencil, I circle the first question mark. Over and over again. It bleeds into the other question mark. Almost cancelling reality.

Come on. Just the standard opening. You’ve practiced this!

I move my hand. The pencil finds its way on the other paper.

“In this essay I want to discuss the question of wealth.”

Wait. That’s not a question. I need a question.

I stare at the sentence. One sentence. My only sentence.

Come on. You’ve done this before. What is the question?

I pull out the paper with the instructions. My eyes scan the page.

“You have 90 minutes. You can work with one or both of the following quotes.”

I read the quotes without understanding a word. There are some notes at the side of each quote. I know my handwriting. The notes don’t make any sense. I stare at the thoughts of those famous dead men. They don’t give me any ideas. There are no questions hidden.

Doesn’t matter. Just write something. Enough to pass.

But my pencil doesn’t follow up on my desperate plea. Instead, it taps tiny grey dots on the paper. Soon it looks like a mountain of coins next to a question which is only a sentence.

A loud sigh comes from the grey shirt in front of me. I follow the movements. The sweatpatterns change their form with the sudden stretching of arms.

“Please keep your eyes on your paper.”

I flinch. So does the grey shirt. The back slumps forward again. I feel a surge of energy rush through me. Or desperation. My pencil decidedly turns my first sentence in a grey wasteland.

You got this!

“The separation between the wealthy and the poor has been an age-old dilemma. Whether it is the poor striving and fighting to gain more wealth and escape poverty or the wealthy worrying and fighting to keep their wealth safe and growing, the question of whether wealth makes you happy has been discussed by philosophers as well as researched by academics.”

I stare at the words, which now cover a quarter of the previously white page.

It’s not Shakespeare but it’ll do. I have a question!

My heartbeat separates from the scratching surrounding me. Instead, it speeds up. I feel excitement fill my chest. I managed the most difficult part. It’s a start.

I read the quotes again. This time, they make sense. My pencil adds the quotation marks to the page. My hand moves in a flurry. The thoughts are pouring out of me. I glance at the concept paper and smile after I finish the first key point.

“Another positive aspect of being wealthy is self-fulfillment. This means …”

My pencil stops again. My grip on its tip makes my fingernails turn white. The lead snaps. I almost let go of the pencil. The tiny grey piece flies through the air. It hits the neck of the grey shirt.

“Hey!”

The grey back straightens. A head snaps around.

“Eyes to the front. This is the last warning.”

There is no time for a stare, but the back now slumps in a different way.

Sorry, sorry, sorry.

My silent apology is wasted on the middle finger, pointing in my direction.

Asshat!

I wipe away the broken bits of the lead. They smudge my paragraphs.

I can’t hand it in like this.

In a rush I lift the papers on my desk. It can only hide there. Under the concept paper. Under the instructions. Under my essay. Nothing.

“You have five minutes left. If you …”

I freeze in my movements. No more scratching. No more coughing. No more breathing. The only noise I can hear is my heartbeat. It found its own tempo. My breathing wants to join.

No! Finish at least one point against wealth.

My blunt pencil leaves awkward letters on the paper. They’re big and bulky. They look like being drawn rather than written.

They might think I cheated.

The smudges accompany each word and I wince.

If it’s illegible, they won’t give me any points at all.

I raise my left hand. My right hand continues to write.

“Do you have a question?”

I look up, regretting to waste my precious time.

“Do you have a sharpener? I can’t …”

Pointing at my paper, my cheeks heat up. Wordlessly, the invigilator puts a sharpener on my desk. I focus on sharpening my tool while I force myself not to notice his glance.

“All right, last minute! Finish up!”

Lead meets paper. The race has started.