Dark As Ink

Tick, tick, tick …the relentless clicking of the second hand needled my brain as I tried again to focus on the paper in front of me.

I watched as the tip of my pen dipped, its point pressing into a circle on the answer sheet. I slid my eyes to my right, then left, but everyone was intent on their own test. Mr. Stein sat at his desk in the front of the class, the very embodiment of the numerous childhood nightmares he was responsible for, as his gaze roamed the room. I felt a prickle on the back of my neck as he zeroed in on me, lingering for a long moment. I quickly turned my attention back to the test, re-reading the question for the fifth time, but I just couldn’t seem to make sense of the words. It was like I was trying to read a completely foreign language. I looked again at my answer sheet, the pen still pressing its tip into ‘B’.

Sounded good to me. I relaxed my shoulders and watched the bubble fill in with ink.

Question two had the same effect. I had never experienced test anxiety like this before. I looked at the answer sheet and noticed it had sixty spaces. Sixty questions and I was falling apart on question two. I glanced up at the clock again. Already five minutes into the test - I was never going to finish at this rate. I closed my eyes, recalled the information I had studied. Took a deep breath, then another. I could do this. Just focus.

I felt my hand drift ever so slightly to the right. When I opened my eyes and looked down, the tip of the pen was centered directly in the middle of the ‘D’ bubble. I looked back at the question, but the words remained an unreadable jumble.

Maybe this anxiety would fade once I got a few questions into the test and I was able to settle into some sort of rhythm. I just needed to get through these first few questions, then I would relax. I watched my hand fill in the bubble while my brain was performing its little pep rally, clearly not waiting for me to catch up.

I turned to question three. No good. My gaze skipped down to question four, then five, but the same jumbled tangle of words taunted me. Sweat began to bead on my forehead, despite the coolness of the room. I tried to lift my hand to wipe the sweat away when I noticed I had bubbled in three more answers on the answer sheet.

Was I running a fever? I had to be. This wasn’t normal.

I tried to raise my hand to go to the bathroom, but my pen had anchored itself to bubble ‘A’ and was busy filling it in, ignoring my intentions. My hand then stopped, hovering in the air over the answer sheet, waiting. I realized the last bubble filled in was for question eight, at the bottom of the page. I cautiously turned the page of the test packet and watched in horror as the pen completed the next bubble. I hadn’t even attempted to read the question. I was going to fail this test, and it wasn’t even my fault.

I tried to set the pen down, suddenly very afraid, but my fingers held fast. Instead the errant pen simply went on, filling in bubbles, waiting on me to turn the test pages. I tried to force it to move to another bubble, scratch an answer out, doodle on the edge of the test, anything to break the steady bubble-filling it was industriously intent on, but it remained focused and unwavering.

All too soon, the last bubble was inked and the pen laid down on top of the answer sheet.

I had heard other people describe the moment they experienced test anxiety—when they opened a test and couldn’t remember anything. I was sympathetic, but in a “that would never happen to me” way. I was the student who was always prepared, always knew the answer, always the first to finish. I was confident in myself, had studied all the right material and was completely prepared for this test. Could this be test anxiety? There was no other logical answer, but it just didn’t seem right. Test anxiety caused you to freeze, didn’t it? Not answer questions that you didn’t even read. What was going on?

I scrutinized the sheet of completed bubbles for a subconscious pattern, like a tree or a staircase or even a checkered flag. Nothing. Just random bubbles, one per line.

My armpits were damp now, along with my palms. I scrubbed my palms on my thighs to dry them before flapping at the neckline of my shirt, trying desperately to cool down. I looked around at the other students, but no one else seemed distressed in the slightest.

I raised my hand to ask for a bathroom break, but the teacher announced time was up and to bring the test and answer sheet up to the front of the room.

I gathered my backpack and test papers, shoving the pen deep into the backpack main compartment. As I approached the desk, another student asked when the grades would be posted. This brought a fresh wave of nausea and I considered the consequences of not handing the test in at all. As I was contemplating my options, Mr. Stein plucked the test and answer sheet out of my hands and set it aside on his desk.

“Have a good afternoon, Myra,” he said in a pleasant voice.

Not likely.

I slowly trudged out of the classroom and down the hall, my head and shoulders heavy with guilt, doubt, shame. Exiting through the double glass doors, I picked up speed, anxiety hot on my trail. Walking quickly, I turned toward my dorm and by the time I hurled myself inside, I was in a full run, panic and horror breathing down my neck. I burst through the door, slamming it behind me before launching my backpack onto my bed like a live hand grenade, flinging myself on the floor and covering my ears, my eyes squeezed shut.

“Myra!” my roommate squealed in a tinny high-pitched tone that signaled her annoyance. “What’s your problem? I’m working here!”

I opened one eye and saw her arm stretched protectively over the mountain of papers and books scattered around her like dead leaves in autumn. My eye flicked over to my backpack, lying perfectly still and unassuming on my neatly made bed and back to her. I warily opened the other eye, then unwound my arms from my head. I cautiously sat up, scooting backwards until my back was propped against the closet door, legs splayed in front of me and sighed loudly.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” she arched one eyebrow, knowing that drove me crazy because I couldn’t make my brows do that, no matter how hard I tried.

“I can’t,” I groaned. “I think I bombed the test. I totally blanked. Couldn’t even read the words. It was awful!”

“Quit being so dramatic,” Lucy chirped, dismissively. “God, if you would just put all that drama to work for you, you would earn a fortune as an actor…or a writer,” she winked. “You did fine, you always do. Now, please show a little respect and let me finish this paper that is due tonight or I really will fail!”

Tonight. That word brought a fresh wave of unease as I contemplated what my grade would mean to my future. How was I supposed to survive until then?

I suddenly realized I just wanted to be alone. No, I was desperate to be alone. I scrambled up from the floor and told Lucy I was going to the library, and hurriedly left the room. I almost made it down the hall before she trotted up behind me with my backpack, calling my name.

“You can’t study without this!” she declared, thrusting my book bag at me before turning back to the room.

“I don’t need it, I don’t want it,” I objected, but she just ignored me. Truthfully, this bag had been such an ever-present part of my daily uniform that it had felt odd to be without it. I felt somehow exposed. I sighed, shouldering the familiar weight and moved forward to the library.

I curled up in my favorite reading nook, my backpack at my feet, diving headfirst into a reality that I wasn’t somehow responsible for. I craved words like a drowning man craved air. Books were my life-preserver when I was drowning, had always been, as far back as I could remember. I loved all types of stories, but my favorite was fantasy. Light or dark, magic or mayhem, any world that wasn’t this one was my favorite place to be. On any other day, I would sell my soul to be a part of something so magical. But today, I just couldn’t focus. The characters felt flat, the world uninspired, the story line dull. I put that book back and tried another. I was clearly restless. The second book was worse than the first. I forced myself to keep reading.

My phone pinged. One single ping. A school email. I slammed the book closed much too loudly as I jumped to my feet like an agitated cat. This thought reminded me of the familiar in the book I had just closed. If I had fur and a tail, I’m sure it would be sticking straight out. I drew the line at hissing, though, especially in a library.

I was holding my phone in front of me, my finger poised over the email icon, ready to press it to open the app when a text came in, displaying over the bottom part of the screen.

“Myra, Please come to my office. Immediately.” It wasn’t signed, but I knew who it was. Who else could it be?

I swiped the text away and opened the email. The grades were posted, and I scrolled anxiously down the list down to my name. I held my breath and slid my finger over to the grade column…100%. Wait, that couldn’t be right. Back to the left, double check the name, to the right, check the grade, still 100%.

I sat abruptly. How did I even pass the test, let alone ace it? And what did Mr. Stein want if I aced the test? What if he had questions?

I sat for a few moments, deciding how I felt about getting a 100% on a test I didn’t actually take. It felt wrong…it was wrong…but how could I make it right? I hadn’t cheated. It was my hand that held that pen. But it still felt somehow wrong to accept that grade when I knew it wasn’t mine. But I couldn’t tell Mr. Stein what really happened. He wouldn’t believe me. I wasn’t sure I believed me. And what if he thought I was cheating? It wasn’t cheating, not really. Was it?

I actually groaned out loud. A sharp “Shhh,” cut through the stacks in rebuke. I looked around in guilt, then slipped the book back into its spot on the shelves and left the library, heading toward the building where Mr. Stein kept his office. I had three minutes to come up with some answers, and it wasn’t looking good.

“Myra, how nice to see you,” he greeted, as he held the door open. I gave a cautious smile. He indicated a chair in front of his desk and I perched on the edge, backpack held in front of me on my lap like a shield.

“Before we get started,” he murmured absently, “have you seen my pen?” He was searching through papers scattered over his desk. It was a fantastically messy desk.

“Your…pen?” I croaked out. I swallowed, my mouth suddenly arid and scratchy.

He stopped searching and looked up at me, giving me a quizzical look. “Yes, Myra. My pen. A cylindrical object made of metal that makes marks on paper in ink. A pen. This one has…sentimental value…to me and I really need to find it.”

“Um, what does it look like?” I asked cautiously, trying to stall. My mind raced back to earlier today. Where had that pen that I took the test with come from? I couldn’t recall seeing it before the test. I had simply reached into my backpack and pulled it out. I remembered thinking that it was a pretty pen, but in the way one notices a normal, everyday pen. We all have pens laying around that we don’t know exactly where they came from. I mean, there is an entire promotional product industry geared toward this very phenomenon. Maybe I had picked it up at the library, or in a different class, or maybe it belonged to Lucy, who knew? It was just a pen. Except…it wasn’t. I knew it wasn’t. And now I was beginning to think he knew it wasn’t.

Should I show him the pen? I didn’t remember ever picking up a pen from his desk in class, but it wasn’t completely out of the question. My hands shook as they wound around my backpack strap, clenching into fists so he wouldn’t notice. Was this a test?

My eyes circled the crowded bookshelves behind his desk, searching for answers. Bookshelves that mirrored my own childhood compendium, mostly colorful dust jackets with dripping titles, cataloging his most secret literary fantasies. No help to be found, there. I shifted my attention back to him.

“Well, anyway,” he sat back in his chair, giving up on searching his desk for the moment. “Great job on the test. That was a hard one, I’ve never had anyone get a perfect score,” he began. I shrank back in my chair, flinching slightly.

“That’s what made me call you into the office. I wanted to ask you a question. A very serious question, one that might change your life,” he went on, shifting to a serious tone.

This. Was. It. The moment I was found out. I was going to lose my scholarship, be kicked out. My career was over before it had even started. And it wasn’t even my fault!

He paused, waiting, but I was truly frozen in horror. He continued.

“See, I was in your position about thirty years ago. I know the pressure, and the potential. I know that at this level of schooling, every decision can make or break you. I am trusting that you, like me, will make the right decision.” He indicated the bookshelves behind him in an offhanded manner, as if exposing a secret he couldn’t quite put into words.

“There is an externship program, very exclusive, invitation only, that most students aren’t even aware of. It’s not advertised, and the counselors won’t tell you about it. It is invitation only,” he repeated, “one student every year. And I believe you would be perfect for this spot. The fact that you scored a perfect score just reinforces this. It’s a lot of work, on top of your normal studies, but it will open up doors for you that you’ve never imagined. I sat in that very chair that you are sitting in now, and I accepted this same opportunity. It has led me to some fantastical places, accomplishing things I never thought possible in my wildest dreams.”

I was having trouble following his conversation. I wasn’t in trouble? I was being offered a prestigious opportunity? This was such a sudden paradigm shift that it took me a moment to collect my thoughts.

Absolutely! Yes, a million times yes, I wanted to scream. I would do anything for such an opportunity. Anything. Instead, I nodded sagely, not wanting to look too eager.

“Beautiful,” he beamed. “I just have a form here for you to sign. Where is it?” he resumed his search through the scattered papers, holding it up triumphantly before sliding it across to me.

“It seems I don’t have a pen to offer you, but you will need to read this and sign here,” he indicated the blank line.

I hesitated for the briefest moment. This was a crossroads, a point of no return. My backpack began to vibrate—just a jiggle at first, then a full tremor the longer I remained immobile. Finally, I locked eyes with Mr. Stein and reached into my backpack. The pen jumped into my hand. Slowly, painfully slowly, I pulled it free, my eyes never leaving his. I tried to lay the pen on the contract but once again it remained rooted to my fingers. I could feel my heart pound against my breastbone as my signature bled across the page, my eyes still locked on his. Wordlessly, his eyes dropped to the pen, holding there for a long moment before he breathed a soul-deep sound of surprise, horror and resignation, all three emotions morphing seamlessly from one to the other in that single long sound. There was no agony in his voice, but it was there in his eyes.

“Well, Myra,” he finally said, closing his eyes. “I see you more suited for this position than I realized.” He opened his eyes, his features slack as he said, “I welcome you to the Writer’s Den.”

I watched as his hand reached out beseechingly, then dropped onto the desktop as the pen, still in my hand, slid soundlessly back into my backpack. I wondered if I had just sealed my future in wonder…or horror. And if it would be worth the cost.

The ink still tingled on my fingers long after the pen had disappeared from view.