The room becomes quiet except for the ticking clock on the wall and the sound of my breathing.
I flip the test over.
The questions stare back at me, black ink on white paper, and for a second, that old panic starts to take hold. The one that tells me I’m too stupid for this, that I’m wasting my time, and that I should just walk out now to avoid the embarrassment of failing again.
But then I think about Bells. About the way she looks at me when we’re studying together, her eyes bright and patient and so fucking sure that I can do this. All the times she smiled when I got something right. She believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself.
I pick up my pen and begin reading.
I stare at the question, my mind immediately drifting back to the night Bells and I studied this. We were sitting on my bed, her legs tucked under her, with the textbook open between us. She read this poem aloud, looked at me, and said, “It’s about choices, Jace. About how the decisions we make shape who we become.”
I remember thinking about my own roads. The ones I’ve chosen and the ones I didn’t. The decision to stay with Bells instead of running. The choice to try instead of giving up.
I start writing, my handwriting messier than Bells but still legible. I talk about roads as life choices, about how the speaker reflects on a decision that changed everything. I mention the theme of individuality, taking the less traveled path, and how that has shaped the speaker’s identity.
It’s not perfect, but it’s something. It’s more than I would have written six months ago.
I keep working, question after question. Short answer, multiple choice, another essay about Shakespeare that makes me want to throw the test across the room. But I push through, remembering how Bells explained it all to me at two in the morning, her voice patient even though I kept getting it wrong.
By the time I’ve finished the test, my hand cramps so badly I can barely hold the pen, and my brain seems like it’s been put through a blender. But I did it. I answered every single question.
I stand, my chair scraping against the floor, and walk the test over to Miss Mallory. She takes it from me, her expression unreadable.
“Come back at lunch,” she says, setting the test aside. “I’ll have your results by then.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and leave. My heart is pounding harder than it should.
Lunch can’t come fast enough.
I spend the rest of the morning in a daze, barely paying attention in my other classes. My mind keeps drifting back to that damn test. To all the questions I answered, wondering whether I got them right or totally fucked it up.
Bells is waiting for me outside Miss Mallory’s classroom when the lunch bell rings, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest. She’s wearing jeans and a soft gray sweater that makes her eyes look lighter, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She looks nervous, chewing on her bottom lip in that way she does when she’s anxious.
“Hey,” I say, sliding my hand into hers.
“Hey.” She squeezes my hand tight. “You ready?”
“No.”
She laughs softly, but it sounds strained. “You’re going to be fine. You studied so hard, Jace.”
“Yeah, well, studying and passing the test are two different things.”
“You passed,” she says with a confidence I don’t feel. “I know you did.”
I want to believe her. I want to believe that all those late nights and early mornings really paid off. That the hours we spent reviewing notes and practicing essay structures weren’t a complete waste of time. But I’ve never been good at this. I’ve never cared enough to be good at it.
Until now.
We walk into the classroom together, and Miss Mallory is sitting at her desk with my test in front of her, a red pen in her hand. She looks up when we enter, and I still can’t read her expression.
My stomach drops.
This is it. This is where she tells me I failed, that I’m not cut out for this, that I should drop out and stop wasting everyone’s time.
“Sit,” she says, gesturing to the desks in front of her.
Bells and I sit side by side, and I can sense the tension radiating off her. She’s as nervous as I am, perhaps more. Her hand finds mine under the desk, our fingers lacing together, and I hold on like she’s the only thing keeping me from drowning.
