The Test

Asten Clarke Assignment 3 28/04/2017

The Test

I hate writing by hand. I hate my handwriting and my hand hurts.

You'd think, with all this modern technology, that we'd be able to take exams electronically or something. But nope. Here I am, sitting at the back of the room, pen in hand, and I'm starting to get cramps. I've been writing for nearly an hour. Some of the question in this English test really put you on the spot. I've never really been a brilliant creative writer. It takes me ages to think of just the first sentence, and then I always go back and change it later. That's probably why I'm taking so long.

I can hear the clock ticking on the wall, and the scratching of pens and pencils from the other students around me. Everyone else seems to be getting done before I am.

The test ends in ten minutes. There's only five of us left in the room. I've still got one question to go. Please write a spontaneous piece of about 750 words, it says. Spontaneous? How can anyone write something that's spontaneous? And against the clock, too. I'm starting to sweat a little. I know I'm going to fail anyway, so what's the point? Why is it so easy for everyone else?

I remember a conversation I had with my friend Ashley before the exam. "Just write," she told me. "Don't think too much. Just write whatever comes into your head."

"What if nothing comes into my head?" I asked.

She laughed. "You can't just not have anything in your head. You have to be thinking of something."

One by one, the other students finish the test and hand in their papers. I sigh. This is hopeless.

I imagine sitting in this room for the rest of my life, staring at the question in front of me. My parents will wonder where I am and probably do one of those missing person appeals you see on the news. I'll probably grow old and die staring at this test paper. In fifty years they''ll have to carry my skeleton out of the classroom, and probably bury me in the school grounds or something.

I put my pen down momentarily and do some little hand stretches to avoid it getting too cramped. While I'm trying to come up with my flash of brilliance (like that's ever gonna happen), I go back and check over the rest of the exam for spelling mistakes. I'm so used to talking to my mates online that sometimes I actually write in text slang at school. So I check over the test for that kind of stuff. Luckily I haven't made any mistakes this time.

I've been so lost in my own thoughts that I haven't even noticed I'm the last student in the room. The teacher, Mr Smith, snaps me out of my daydream.

"Emma, are you going to be much longer?" he asks, staring at his watch.

"I-I don't know," I reply. "Just give me a minute."

So I get my head down and start writing. It's surprisingly easy once you get started. I end up writing a piece about spontaneous writing, and not being able to write, and what I can see and hear while I'm sitting at my desk.

Finally, after another half an hour, I hand my paper in.

"You can go home now," I joke to Mr Smith. "I'm sorry."

"You're not the worst I've had," he replies.

"Really?"

"About a couple of years ago, I had a boy who couldn't even finish the first sentence. Needless to say, he didn't pass."

I laugh. "How do you think I did?"

He smiles. "I think you're going to do just fine."