The faint , but familar click of the locker tells me it is now open. I open my backpack as I start to transfer items to my locker. My backpack isnt a actual backpack. Its just a paper bag with a old leather belt attached to it so it an go over my shoulder. My dad cant really afford a suitabale bag so this is what I work with.
As I walk to my class , I notice the guards watching me a bit more than usual. Their faces hdden by the blue tech uniforms stare at me. The door clicks shut as I walk in and sit down. All of our seats are places around the white bare walls. This will be my 4th time taking the test. Everyone starts school at 3 years old. So mostly this is everyones 4th time. My hearts beat hurts my ears as the C.C teacher Mr. Zarif repeats the pre-typed instructions on how to tak the test. A whole lot of stuff we already know. That doesnt apply to Jolane Pineilli. She just got here at the beginning of this school term. She is a transfer from The Italian Republic. In Italy , Romania and Spain you do not have to take the Apititude Test.
When the thick packet touches my desk , I wish I lived in Italy. This test has many tricks and puzzles to it. But I've done this 3 times. Theres nothing I should be worrying about right?
My whole body fills with relief when I reach the final question:
Who are you?
Uh oh. There are many ways to answer this and wish I knew which one was correct. I sat there pondering over this question for what seemed and hour.
" 2 more minutes." Mr. Zarif's raspy voice says.
I quickly but carefully , write all the possible answers. Who am I?
"Ten more seconds." He says again as he starts to count. I think I did a good job. But wait, It wasnt about correct answers. It was about who they thought I was. For the first time I am realizing that.
