The Test
The Test
By Jonathan Slimovitch
Williston Central School, Grade 8
I walked into the half filled classroom, passing under the teacher’s scrutinizing glare that seemed to stare straight into my soul. I blinked, reminding myself of the long ordeal ahead. There would be no time for hesitation or panic.
The classroom in front of me was filled with desks. Each desk was empty save for a yellow number 2 pencil and a thick packet of creamy, white paper. There were two large groups of shiny wooden desks, with a thin open space that ran down the middle. Most of the desks on the right side had already been taken by students. I strode confidently towards the group of desks on the left, determined not to let others see my fear. I finally chose a desk near the front of the room. A girl sat down in the seat next to me. She flashed me a nervous smile as her eyes darted to the clock above the blackboard. We were all nervous.
The door slammed shut, making each of us jump. The teacher walked carefully to the front of the room, her cold piercing stare making those who made eye contact shudder in their seats. She stopped at the front of the room, turning to face us. Her words rang strong and clear in the otherwise silent room.
“You may begin.”
I quickly flipped over my test, ignoring the big black letters S-A-T on the top of the packet. I signed my name quickly with the number 2 pencil in the space provided, my eyes already darting down to the first question.
‘Name 4 of the main themes involved in Mark Twain’s book, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.’ The question gave four possible answers; a, b, c, or d. I circled a, and moved onto the next problem. I moved through the first 10 pages of the test relatively easily, struggling slightly on the essay questions. We worked in silence for over an hour, scribbling away at our test packets under the teacher’s baleful glare.
I don’t know what it was that made me look at her. Perhaps it was intuition or a special sixth sense. As I was about to read Question 108, my eyes flashed to the girl next to me.
It was the girl who had smiled at me when we had first entered the classroom. Her long, brown hair was tied back in a ponytail that rested next to her head on the desk. Her eyes were closed, and her eyebrows rested in a relaxed position that was very different than the tight, knitted expressions several of our classmates wore on their faces. It took me a moment to realize the true meaning of what I had just seen. She was sleeping.
With a start, I realized I knew her. She and I had been in the same class in third grade. I remembered the way she used to raise her hand in class, and the way she smiled her peculiar, toothy grin. But one memory pushed its way to the front of my mind: the memory of the time she had helped me.
It had been a small matter, but one I remembered to this day. One day in third grade, I had received a phone call from my mother. The teacher had handed me the phone, a look of confusion on her face. I had listened in silence as my mother explained that my younger sister was in the hospital with appendicitis. At the time, I did not know what appendicitis was, but feared greatly for the life of my sister. When all of the other kids ran out to recess, it was only the girl who had stayed with the teacher as I related the conversation to them. It was only her and the teacher who had stayed by my side and who had offered me words of kindness. My sister turned out to be OK, but I had remembered the day ever since.
It took me a moment to realize that the girl’s life rested in my hands. If she failed the test, she would unable to retake it. She would probably get into a poor, low-ranked college, and might not get a good job. This was what would decide her life; a couple of hours that would make the choice between happiness and success, or failure and defeat for her in the years ahead. She had helped me when I had needed help. What are good friends for, if not to help each other in times of need? I realized, with a start, that I needed to help her, that it was time to repay the favor she had given me years ago.
But would the potential risk of discovery outweigh the chances of success? If I was caught, my test would be stripped away from me, and I would receive a 0 with no 1s in front of it. Should I risk my life to save hers?
I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes had passed since I had last gazed up at that silent, wooden face. The teacher’s cold look traveled across my face. As her stare passed onto the face of the girl next to me, I saw a look of sadness and compassion appear on her otherwise rigid features. The look lasted for no more than a second on her face, but in that second, I realized what I needed to do. I needed to help my friend.
I waited until the teacher’s eyes were scanning a row of desks on the other side of the room before making my move. I let out a convincing cough, hitting one of the legs of the girl’s desk softly with my foot. The teacher’s eyes instantly flashed back to me, but my head was already bent over my test paper as I pretended to read the next question. After a few moments, I chanced a glance up. The girl was awake, and started to blink as if to clear the last remains of fatigue from her eyes. She glanced at the clock and then at me, as she realized the true meaning of her situation. My eyes met hers for her brief second. I stared into her blue eyes, giving her a small nod and a quick wink. Her face told me she had realized instantly what I had done.
A beautiful smile lit up her face as she gave me a small nod back. That small little nod and that warm grateful smile were all I needed to know that I had done the right thing. It was all the thanks I needed, I realized, as I bent my head over my test and began to read the next question.
