I decided to take the train to quicken the usual gloomy journey I've been stuck in for the past two months of my life. Disembarking, I swiped my card and prepared to cross when I noticed a woman — a mother of two — struggling with her kids. The older one, as expected, was being as unreasonable as it gets, pushing his mom roughly, probably because she wouldn't agree to his ridiculous demand, while the other was in the baby carrier.
I walked over — yes, I'm a goody-two-shoes (as if) — but it seemed like she needed help, and I was already pissed, so I figured I could help while giving the older kid a gentle pinch to get him to behave.
"Hello, ma'am. Do you need help?" I asked.
She looked up, confused, probably wondering if I was some kind of kidnapper or worse. Then her eyes landed on the emblem of my school on my breast pocket, and she nodded in approval. Her apparent decision was probably fueled by the older kid's increasing violence (yeah, I was going to pinch this guy so hard he'd forget his own gender) and the prestige my school indicated. Yes, my school is prestigious — surprised? No. That's what I get for my father being missing on duty.
I helped her cross the boundary, then worked briskly to my school, passing through the gates with the Phoenix engraving. Beyond it, you could see statues of past, well-known colonels and generals. I scanned my ID to let myself in, walking down the busy hall full of running students all heading to their classes. I was late, yes, but I had a reasonable excuse — and anyway, all I had to do was keep my head down appear gloomy; no one would talk about it as the teacher all know my circumstance.
I entered, looking up to see our prefect calling out names. She looked at me, her pretty face clouded with anger. Actually, there was one person who would or rather would'nt care, and that's this perfectionist. I sat down, ignoring her as she called my name. Then came the familiar "tap-tap."
Looking up, obviously not surprised, I said, "Hello, Margaret. Is there a problem?"
Her face clouded further. "You know there is. Look at my watch — your time in is ridiculous and will affect our class points. You're an hour late!"
"Only an hour?" I said, my tone pitched with mock annoyance. "Just report me to the teacher. I'm trying to rest here and can't be bothered to continue this conversation." I looked away.
She prepared to scream at me, but thankfully the teacher came in. I looked up, then smiled mockingly at her. She huffed and walked away.
"Settle down, please," he said.
The teacher, Mr. Venyer, was lean, built in the way of someone who had carried discipline longer than muscle. His shoulders still held a trace of strength, though age had carved lines into his face and thinned the color from his hair. It was cropped short, streaked with gray, more habit than style. He didn't tower, but his presence filled the room all the same — the kind of presence that made students sit straighter without realizing it. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried weight, shaped by years of command and expectation.
He looked around the class with stern, frightening eyes — the kind of stare that could iron out wrinkles in your uniform without a single word. Each time his gaze landed on a student, they snapped upright so fast it was a miracle no one pulled a muscle. Obviously, I didn't care one bit, so I sat up slowly to prove a point: I wasn't like these wimps.
I noticed he had stacks of papers in his arms, probably the mock exams we'd done last half-term.
"Good to see you all healthy and in one piece. Frankly, I half-expected a few of you to come crawling in on stretchers after last week." A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested it might have been a joke — though no one dared laugh. Laughing here would hint at severe mental disability, given his rules and how "humorous" the joke was.
He set a stack of papers on the desk with a thud. "Now, onto business. Your exams. Some of you wrote like you were trying to kill the paper rather than answer the questions." He tapped the pile once. "But these were only practice. In a month, you'll face the real exam — and compared to that, this little warm-up will feel like a stroll around the edges of the Scorched Barrens. Believe me when I say: you're not ready. Not yet."
"The exam," he continued, "will consist of ten papers: the three compulsory Science, Maths, Language — and your five choice subjects. Based on your average scores, I'd say some of you aren't even cut out for the military, though some might claim otherwise. The highest mark in this class was Margaret, as I expected, with a whopping 910 out of 1000. The lowest…" He glanced at me, sharp and unyielding. I looked down at my desk, finding it interesting, but it wasn't enough to distract me from the tingling born from the expected stares of my classmates ."The lowest was 353. The average was around 650, thanks to our ten high scorers. The rest… well, you heard what I said earlier."
He paused. "The papers should be passed on during lunch."
I looked up. Big mistake. His eyes landed on me.
"Mr. Sebastian, you know where to be during lunch."
Then he turned briskly and walked away from the class.