The Boy Who Broke Mirrors

17

One hour to go. I chew my lip and tap my fingers against the table. I can't do this. I'm going to fail. I'm going to screw everything up, fail, and never get into university. I'll leave education at eighteen, never move out, buy a cat and an annual prescription to Knitting Weekly until I'm eighty-years-old, where I'll die alone in my sleep with nothing but the crumbling carcass of the cat I adopted sixty-two years ago. I finally look up from the mock exam paper in my hands.

'Eleven...?'

Preston clicks his fingers, and flashes me a smile. 'See, you'll be fine!'

'No I won't,' I mutter. 'It's not fair, I don't even like cats.'

'Huh?'

'Nothing.' I sit up straight. 'I can do the questions you give me, but it'll be different in the actual exam.'

'Believe it or not, Euphemia, I have actually been teaching you the syllabus. I wouldn't put you through this torture as some elaborate joke, as tempting as that may be.'

'Mia,' I stab back.

Preston throws an eraser at my face, which I narrowly dodge, then hands me another question. My maths resit is in under an hour, and I am bricking it. I really need to pass this. I'm still yet to see the relevance of the subject in my life. If the syllabus was all about paying mortgages and managing bank accounts, then fair enough, but instead we're required to know how to measure the angle of a triangle.

Next time I look at the clock, there's only fifteen minutes to go. Crap, now I'm nervous. Preston must be able to tell, as he always seems to, because he suggests we call it quits and relax for a bit. It turns out he does know what he's doing when it comes to teaching mathematics: the guy had eleven A*'s and one A in his last round of exams, which astounds me considering I've never seen him do any school work, ever. He can't possibly do as well in his final exams, which he'll be taking a year later than most due to his Zack-induced exploits. I shake my head. Why am I thinking about Preston's educational performance? I'm about to take an exam in--I glance at the clock--just over five minutes. Shit.

Before I know it, I'm making my way into the exam hall. Preston says something before I go in, but it doesn't process in my mind. The doors shut behind me, and I find my assigned seat. There's a slip of paper with my college photo on it for me to sign on my desk. I sign it. The large hall is silent, with the occasional disruption of a cough or a sneeze, and every single one makes me jump. The examining officer announces the usual rules: no talking, phones to the front, hand up to use the toilet, blah, blah, blah.

We're handed our exam papers. I stare at them. I bounce my leg underneath the desk. Five minutes until we start. Someone coughs. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Another cough. Two minutes. I trace my finger along the front of the paper, and then click my knuckles. Thirty seconds. Shit.

'You may begin.' The examiner's voice booms and echoes around the room, and as I open my exam paper, I think I might be sick for a few seconds.

Here goes nothing.