The Test

I am paralyzed. Like there's an invisible weight pressing me into my chair, forcing me to stay in place. I try to wiggle my fingers, but they're weak and cramped from the restless night before.

I was too busy studying and writing and cramming and drinking Red Bulls to sleep. There were a few times I started nodding off, but I quickly diffused that by way of the unfailing rubber band.

SNAP!

With great effort, I look up, shifting my gaze from the spot on my desk I've been staring at for the past five minutes to the teacher's ruler. The sound is piercing and lasts too long.

The teacher does this every time before a test, walking up and down the classroom, smacking every kid's desk with her signature metal ruler. Nobody knows why she does it. An act of intimidation, perhaps?

CRACK!

She hits it a second time, now only four desks away from me, and this time, I jerk upright in a motion that is so fast, it sends my head reeling.

I need to get a grip. I need to stay focused because this is The Test. The one that determines my grade in the class. If I don't ace it, my grade will drop to a B+. Which, while acceptable or even good for some, is a death sentence for me.

What seems like a whole migration of butterflies has fluttered into my stomach. Jumping around organs like my insides is a playground. It's then that I remember I didn't eat anything for breakfast. The butterflies start eating me from the inside out.

In and out. I remind myself. I have to breathe. I have to remember to breathe.

The teacher starts talking about something. Probably the test, and it takes everything in me to focus my attention on what shes saying. The teacher finishes her instructions (they're the same as every other pretest speech). As she heads to her desk to pick up The Test, the only thing I catch is "I hope all of you were paying attention because I will not be repeating myself."

I hold my breath as she passes the papers down. The Test lands on my desk, and my vision goes crosseyed. I try to write my name at the top of the paper, but my hand is shaking too much, and each letter comes out in an illegible scrawl. I choose to ignore the faulty handwork and move on to the first question, which, to my surprise, I understand. The answer is C. A small weight lifts off my chest, and I sit forward a little.

I know the answer to the second question, as well as the third one and the one after that.

B, B, D, A, C, A, C, D, D, B.

With each question answered, I relax a little bit more, losing some of the tension in my shoulders. Maybe all that cramming really did pay off? In fact, I don't even know why I was nervous to begin with. These questions are easy. There's no doubt I'll get an A now.

Then I make it to the final question, and I turn to stone. The rest of the questions were multiple choice; as long as you've memorized definitions and a few basic examples, they're easy to answer. And that's precisely what I had been doing for the past 19 questions. However, this one is different. It's not choosing between A, B, C, or D. It's a written response, worth quadruple the points of any other question, and I am completely unprepared.

Never before has the teacher asked a question like this on a test. She must have addressed it in her pretest speech. I realize. You idiot! Why didnt you listen!

A bead of sweat about the size of a small pearl glides down my nose and lands on the question as if mocking me that I don't have such an easy escape route.

I read the question again, hoping I'll be able to find something in it that I know. Something that can help me understand how the hell I'm supposed to answer this question!

But it is hopeless. Just as I finish my second readthrough, the teacher calls out to the class, "Only three more minutes until I take the tests back."

I look up to see all the other kids finished with their tests and waiting for the bell to ring. My heart skips a beat, and I actually gasp out loud. Some of the kids look back at me, but most are too consumed by whatever posttest homework they're doing to pay me any attention.

I squeeze my brain trying to force out any information I may have picked up on at some point that might help me. Any whisper of a clue that could guide me towards an acceptable answer. But nothing comes.

I have no idea what to do, and it's then that I realize my eyes have started to blur. I try one final time to think of something before coming to a teary-eyed resolution that I am out of luck.

With whatever fleeting motivation I have left, I manage to scrape up a jumble of words for the back of my mind and print them on the page. I'm sure what I've written is wrong, but maybe the teacher can at least give me points for trying. Oh, who am I kidding? She would never do that.

With a complete lack of resignation, I push myself out of my chair. And now fully crying, bring The Test to the teacher for grading. For a second, I think about trying to pity my way to a good grade, flash some puppy dog eyes perhaps, but quickly scrap the idea.

I'm not getting an A on the test, and I'll have to deal with that. Somehow.

Three days later, the teacher passes The Test back. Although I don't feel much better about how I did, I have come to accept my grade and am therefore prepared for the impending disappointment.

The teacher strolls towards me, entirely careless, and hands me my copy of The Test. Face down.

I waste no time, flipping it over immediately to scan the pages for red marks. Just as I thought, all the multiple-choice questions are correct, but under the last question, the teacher has left a note reading meet me after class.

I am mortified. I knew I had gotten the answer wrong, but I didn't think I had written something so abhorrently incorrect as to be offensive. I don't even remember writing the answer. It was all just a blur.

The teacher comes back after a few minutes to pick up The Test, and I do my best to avoid eye contact. Then she neatly piles the papers on her desk and resumes teaching. All the papers but one. My test sits in a pile of its own.

The remaining time in class goes by with an excruciating slowness, but after what feels like an eternity, the bell rings, and kids run out in a frenzy of backpacks and lunchboxes. How I wish I were one of them.

The teacher motions me towards her desk, and I take a seat in a chair opposite her. It's the most uncomfortable chair I've ever sat in.

"I would like to talk to you about the answer you gave for the final question," she begins. I shake my head, "Your answer caught my attention because..."

Here it comes.

"Because it's like nothing I have ever read," my chin perks up, "your view of the question is truly unique. I have to say I'm quite impressed with your interpretation."

Impressed?

Impressed!

"Wha- what?" I stuttered out.

"Yes, I was wondering if you would be ok with me using this as an example for the class. It is the exact kind of critical thinking we want to see from our students."

"That-" I'm still in shock, trying my best to find the right words. Any words, "that would be great."

"Alright then," she finishes, "I will not hold you back any longer. Go ahead to your next class."

"Yeah- um- ok," I say, bumping into a trash can as I stumble towards the door, "uh- thank you."

Once I've closed the teacher's door, I slump to the floor and laugh.