The classroom was enveloped in an eerie silence the following day, a palpable tension hanging in the air as we found ourselves unexpectedly plunged into an impromptu test.
The home system had once again roused us from our beds with relentless precision, and due to the late hours we'd spent awake, many of us were mentally adrift, unprepared for the challenges that lay ahead.
It felt as though Crown had orchestrated this all on purpose, an unsettling thought that clung to my mind.
As I settled into my seat, a groggy haze clouded my vision, and my eyes struggled to focus on the question paper sprawled before me. I had studied history rigorously, convinced I would conquer the subject with ease.
Yet now, uncertainty gnawed at me, as if the sleepless night had drained my brain of all the information I'd painstakingly memorized.
I stole a glance to my right, where Mr. Roman, tall and stoic, surveyed the room with an air of authority, his brow slightly furrowed. Mr. Wyatt was also present, stationed at the front of the room, his piercing gaze scanning the students as if he could strip away our secrets with a single glance.
"Come out here!" His voice broke the stillness like a clap of thunder. My heart lurched, and I glanced around, bewildered, as my classmates shifted uneasily in their seats, mirroring my confusion.
"You know yourself," Mr. Wyatt shot a glare that could freeze flames. Moments later, a boy hesitantly stood up, anguish etched across his face, and walked to the front of the class.
"Thanks for failing the course," Mr. Wyatt said coldly, a sardonic smile twisting his lips as he grabbed the boy's paper and shredded it with deliberate slowness. The boy's expression crumbled, tears brimming in his eyes as he snatched up his bag from the doorway and fled the room, a storm of emotion trailing in his wake.
"If any of you think you can cheat and not get caught, that'll be your fate," Mr. Wyatt called after him, a warning that echoed in the hushed room. Was that what had happened? My thoughts spiraled as I turned my focus back to my paper. I had managed to write two answers, but uncertainty gnawed at me; I felt utterly defeated. My pen was malfunctioning, the ink stubbornly refusing to flow, a cruel reminder of my chaotic night.
"Two minutes more!" Mr. Roman's voice rang out, and dread pooled in my stomach. I glanced around; the other students were hastily submitting their papers, each departure a reminder of my misfortune. I bit my tongue in frustration, wishing someone might lend me a pen, yet they brushed by me, deaf to my unspoken pleas.
As despair tightened its grip, I bit down on the insides of my cheeks and squeezed my pen, determined to scrawl whatever remnants of knowledge I could salvage. Just as my frustration peaked, I gasped as the ink finally began to flow. I scribbled furiously, my thoughts churning—anything was better than leaving it blank.
"Pens up!" My heart raced at the sound. Mr. Wyatt had left the room, leaving just Mr. Roman with us. I watched him move to the corner of the classroom, collecting the papers. If I could just... A sense of urgency propelled me as I jotted down everything that flickered in my mind, my hand moving with frantic speed.
Finally, I was done. I raised my hand, trying to appear composed, even though panic bubbled beneath the surface. Mr. Roman approached my row, each step inducing a flutter of anxiety in my chest. My heart beat louder, fear surging high as he casually walked past me without collecting my paper.
I blinked in disbelief.
I stood frozen, unable to react as he moved on, gathering papers from the remaining students. As minutes passed, the room emptied, leaving only six of us behind, a mounting dread filling the space.
Mr. Roman eventually turned to leave the classroom, unperturbed, and I jolted from my seat, chasing after him as my classmates followed suit. We trailed him through the halls, our footsteps echoing loudly against the walls, desperation spurring us on.
"Sir, why didn't you collect my paper?"
"I'm done with them; just keep it,"
Our voices melded into a chorus of pleading as we begged him not to dismiss us so readily, until he spun around, anger flaring in his eyes, causing us to halt abruptly, breathless and wide-eyed.
"I gave you an instruction: keep your pens up. You defied my order. I will not take that paper," he declared, annoyance lacing his tone before he turned and walked away once more. Reluctantly, we trailed behind him, anxiety clawing at our insides as we faced the very real threat of failure.
We arrived at his office as he closed the door, the sound echoing in the silent hallway, leaving us standing outside, uncertain of what would come next.
After an agonizing fifteen minutes, Mr. Roman still had not emerged from the cold confines of his office, leaving us stranded outside, gripped by a wave of panic. My drowsy expression now transformed into one of acute alertness, eyes wide and heart racing as I anxiously awaited his appearance. Guilt gnawed at me; had I simply followed his instructions, perhaps I wouldn't be caught in this predicament.
"Are you not our leader? Why not plead for our forgiveness?" A voice broke through the tension, and I turned sharply, glaring at the speaker with the tip of my pen clenched between my teeth.
He quickly averted his gaze, retreating into silence. Pressed against the wall, my eyes darted to the ground as I silently prayed for a reprieve.
Yet, I couldn't shake the nagging question: why was Mr. Roman always so irritable? Why had kindness eluded him throughout his life, I pondered.
Suddenly, the authoritative voice from inside his office resonated, "If any of you is ready, come in." We exchanged hopeful glances before dashing toward the door, our adrenaline surging as we hurried inside, fearful of him changing his mind.
"Discard the papers in your hands," he instructed, his focus still fixed elsewhere.
We hesitated, exchanging bewildered looks. Was this yet another of his cryptic games, demanding the destruction of our hard work? The earlier act of defiance played on our minds, prompting a reluctant obedience. With a heavy heart, I approached the iron steel bin beside me, crumpling my paper before releasing it into the abyss.
"Now, retrieve the fresh papers from the table," he commanded, and we obediently moved forward, gathering the pristine sheets that lay ready for our use.
At last, he turned his gaze upon us, his expression unreadable, an air of boredom enveloping him. "Spread yourselves around the office," he ordered, and we scrambled to fill every nook and cranny. My feet gravitated toward his desk, and I inched closer, taking position. I sensed the intensity of his stare, almost as if he were assessing my daring choice to stand so close.
He presented us with a series of ten questions, allocating a tight twenty minutes for our answers. Once again, we transformed into scribes, furiously inked thoughts racing across the paper. Frustration surged within me as my pen betrayed me, refusing to release its ink. A wave of anger washed over me for not having borrowed one during my time outside. The pressure loomed heavily; he wouldn't grant us another chance.
My eyes were drawn to the pen holder on his desk, its alluring presence a promise of hope. Biting my lower lip in determination, I cautiously extended my hand towards it. In that moments, he paused, fingers hovering above his keyboard as a dangerous glint flickered in his eyes, sending a shiver down my spine.
A palpable tension filled the air; I could feel the weight of stares bearing down on me. My resolve wavered, but I refused to withdraw my hand. The heat of his gaze pressed against my skin, a palpable reminder of my audacity. Sweat began to form, my fingers trembled, and before I knew it, the pen slipped from my grasp, clattering to the floor.
"Fifteen minutes more," Mr. Roman stated matter-of-factly, returning his attention to the glowing screen of his computer.
I took a deep, shaky breath and reached for the fallen pen, determined to salvage the time left to me. I resumed writing, the clock ticking ominously as my heart raced alongside my thoughts.
As the fifteen minutes ticked away, a palpable tension filled the air. When the timer finally buzzed, we submitted our papers and stepped out of the office, the heavy door closing behind us with a soft thud.
"Those questions weren't nearly as tough as the last set," one of my classmates remarked, a hint of relief in their voice.
"Thankfully, I chose to disobey him the first time," I thought, recalling the uncertainty that had plagued me back then. My mind drifted back to the myriad of doubts that had crossed my mind during that earlier test.
The students around me buzzed with animated chatter, voices rising and falling like the tide as we made our way out of the staff quarters. I paused for a moment, turning back to gaze at the office I had just exited. My fingers instinctively found the chain around my neck, and I rubbed it gently, a soothing gesture that eased my lingering nerves. I couldn't shake the feeling of relief washing over me, grateful that nothing had gone astray.
With a final glance back, I set my sights on the sports center. It was a bright day to be on the field and the anticipation of practice quickened my step.