The Great Test

Sun rays beamed from the wide windows of the Grade Four class and on Shawn’s messy hair. He sat in the back and ate his chocolate, which he sneaked in, as Karen stick out her pointed nose in envy.

“So, Shawn, did you prepare the test?” asked Karen.

“Wait, we had a test?”

“It’ll probably be oral,” said David, and he sat on the seat to his left.

“No, it’ll be an exam,” said Karen.

“We had an exam?” Shawn said. “Why did nobody tell me this?”

“No, it’ll be like an exam,” she said. “Written.”

Written echoed his mind, and the world swirled. The question paper crashed on his table, and he trembled. Sweat poured from his broad forehead. He looked back at David as Sir John, The Separater of Brothers, moved him and Karen into the first row. 

“Help! Someone please!” he shouted, yet the words feared to leave his mouth.

“Shawn,” said Karen, and she pointed her sharp fingers. “Do your test?”

“I don’t know anything,” he said, leaning right onto her. “Wait, why haven’t you written anything?”

“Shawn,” said Sir John, and he leaned back. 

He narrowed his round eyes. “You were only trying to flex on me.”

“I only remembered this morning.”

“Ah, what the— what do we do now?”

“It is to be duly noted that the uses of the smartphone….” whispered Paul,and Shawn leaned to his left. Paul wrote his hundredth word. Shawn's eyes skated over his paper. 

“Do you want to die, Shawn?” Paul’s voice hammered on his heart. 

“Nope, thank you very much.”

“This test’s marks will be entered in your exams,” said Sir John, The Vulture of the West. 

“What?” said the class.

“Yes, now hurry up. Only thirty-five minutes left.”

What does he mean thirty-five? This is an hour-long test. It should end at twelve. He turned to his right, and the clock above the door ticked Eleven twenty-five. Ah, what the hell?

“Son, if you fail your exams again,” his mother’s words echoed in his mind. “I’ll kick you out of the house.” Well, that isn’t so bad. “Also I’ll ban video games and snacks.” Now, that is bad. He looked at his blank paper. It’s just write my name, first. His pencil touched the paper, but its tip broke. It slipped from his hand, and he slammed his hand on the table. But it rolled and fell. 

“Twenty-five minutes left,” said Sir John, the Angel of Death.

He picked it up and took out his sharpener.

“Twenty minutes,” said Sir John, the Precursor of the oppressed.

He wrote his name with a trembling hand and cleaned his sweat. A paper bullet hit his head, and he looked back. David leaned back on his table with a red rubber ring in his right hand. He stretched it and hit Karen on the back of the head.

“Dude,” said Shawn. “How are you so chill?”

“Man, it's about smartphones. Write anything.”

Shawn turned back and took a deep breath. His hand stabilized, and he started writing. 

The next day, the sun bloomed on the class, then darkness silenced all. Sir John, the Eater of the Innocent, walked in with a five-foot pile of papers. He slammed them on the table and announced Shawn’s name. Grins curved every face and revealed their crooked teeth. Their eyes pierced into his soul and ravaged it. He gulped as he took the paper.

“You got twenty marks,” said Sir John, The Messenger of Calamity.

A laugh polluted the class, and everyone, sick in their minds, could not help but smirk.

“And they are the highest in the class.” Sir John, The Messiah of the Outcasts, switched everyone off.

“May I … better than everybody?”

“Except Paul.”

“Well, almost.”