A thousand panicky students sat sweating in metal folding chairs in the gymnasium, waiting for their test packets to be passed out. Silence hung in the air. A banner took up the front wall, saying “DO NOT TALK.” There was a blood red LED timer on the wall, which was usually used by the physical education staff at Southern Valley High School to check on the sorry amount of time it takes their students to run a mile. It was now flickering down the seconds until it was time to begin the test at exactly 7:45 AM. It was now 7:36, nine minutes to go.
Melissa Meijer sat at the edge of one of the flimsy plastic desks, twiddling her thumbs and feeling in her shorts pocket for her phone, forgetting that she had put it in her locker a half hour prior. Damn. 7:37, eight minutes to go.
She pulled her ID out of her leather purse and cringed. Her photo from last year showed her with braces and dark blue hair. Though her hair changed colors and her teeth were slightly straighter, her eyes retained a tinge of sadness that affected discomfort in some of the people that were closest to her. Melissa slid her ID towards the top left corner of the table so the testing agent dressed in black military fatigues could examine it. The brown haired girl looked toward the entrance of the gym, two “NO CELL PHONE” signs bolted into each door. Underneath the signs were placards stating how students could be expelled from the exam, with varying levels of corporal punishment.
What will the english section be on? Her friends complained that they didn’t have enough time to answer all the questions after the tedious essays, but Melissa grew up with her parents who read to her all the time. She was confused as to how anyone could be bored by an excerpt from classic literature, let alone unable to answer simple questions about it. She never spoke up, though, she liked having friends. Wasn’t one of them supposed to sit next to her?
Terry Planton was sitting at the opposite end of the gym. He was cute, and she used to brush into him between test practice periods. One time, in a fit of bravado, she even tripped in front of him so he could help her up. He picked her up, and butterflies fluttered through her stomach for the rest of the day. Kennedy Ingram sat three rows behind Melissa, and though she turned around and made eye contact with her and smiled, they weren’t close enough friends to risk any more movement to attract attention from the guards. Don’t I have any other friends here?
A student stood up to go to the restroom without asking, and was promptly shot in the kneecap by one of the guards. Murmurs mingled with Patricia Clark’s moans of agony, apologizing to her family and the school board for failing them. One of the testing officers screamed for silence, and the students meekly complied.
Years ago students were told that it was best to take your mind off of the testing material on Fate Day. Instead, in order to prevent any outbursts, imagine you and your friends living the comfortable lives success on the exam invariably brings. Hand holding prior to the test was encouraged as an act of communal prayer for good fortune, but no sudden movements. That could be construed as cheating, and cheating had dire consequences. If all else fails, it was encouraged to find something pleasant to look at as the clock ticked down.
At least the ceiling was interesting. There were some inflated condoms from the senior prank lazily hanging out in the rafters, and a mural of the mascot, the Golden Stallion, with the glorious founder of standardized testing, Robert Yerkes, riding it, watching the students through a pair of binoculars. They’ve started including him in the history books around 2029, the year of the great standardized testing takeover of the educational syst--
“Student 713097! Melissa Meijer!” Barked one of the proctors. He loomed over her, spittle flying out upon pronouncing “student.” She looked up at the large man and nodded. Her heart raced at the sight of his pistol holstered next to his bulletproof vest. Three minutes to go.
“You don’t look like her,” He said, “Explain yourself. You have permission to speak.”
“I dyed my hair last year, and I had braces, if you look closely, my eyes are the same.” She had anticipated this, but the only time she could get a new ID was during her practice sessions. She trembled, and the guard sneered. Two minutes and thirty seconds to go.
“And you didn’t get a new identification card? You’re a fool, Miss ‘Meijer’.” He made bunny ears with his fingers at “Meijer.”
“Stay in your seat, I’m going to run this through the scanner.” This was not good. She had planned out every minute of the examination, and one second of lost time could cost her at least two points. One minute and thirty seconds until test time.
The guard fumbled with the controls of the scanner placed in the farthest corner of the room, cursing as he pounded on the touch screen that pulled up Melissa’s most recent information: her parents, their marriage status, (divorced after her brother got placed in the 85th percentile of testers) her siblings, their occupations, (they all worked the labor sites now) and so on. She considered what would happen should she not make the 90th percentile. Abject poverty, no leisure, intense manual labor, that’s what they told her would become of failing to meet these standards. Her lips trembled, and she stifled a bout of vomit. Twenty seconds to go and counting.
On the cover of the practice packets the teachers handed out three years ago, there is a quote from the president of the standardized educational coalition. “Life isn’t always fair.” This rang true as it dawned on Melissa that she may not actually place in the top group of testers. The guard slithered over to her.
“You’re cleared for testing, please note that any perceived inconvenience of an officer will result in a five percent deduction of your overall score.”
His gun was in plain sight. A five percent deduction? I’m finished. The clock buzzed; Melissa had no time to weep. She had no time for anything anymore. No future to speak of, not within this system, anyway. She considered the lives of all of the great soldiers that had grown out of the Academic Challenge Trainees, the group of students that were at or above the 90th percentile of test takers. Then, she considered how many were probably truly happy.
She had read enough to know that the people that had the best lives were those who were on the fringe of the system. The outcasts, the losers, the tramps, the “failures.” Buddha left the highest ranks of his society, and Jesus was one of the littlest people when you considered him in comparison to the Roman Empire.
She was part of their ranks, now. she could do whatever is was she wanted. She was going to speak her mind once and for all about this filthy exam and its artificial manipulations of the people's learning. Starting right now, she was going to hoist the student body from their knees, rebel, and save the entire school system in one fell swoop! She stood up, kicked her chair over, and glared at one of the guards, who promptly pulled out his pistol and trained it at her throat.
“Re... Requesting permission to, uh,” Melissa looked down at the ground, ashamed.
“Requesting permission to sharpen my pencil, sir.”
“Permission granted, major disruption, five percentage points deducted.”
Melissa skulked over to the pencil sharpener and drilled away at the already nubby yellow stick. She walked back to her section of the table, propped her chair up, and plopped back down.
Well, I suppose I had better finish this test, then.