I join in with the throngs of other fifteen-year-old boys and girls heading for the Examination Hall. There's so many of us, police officers need to help corral us towards the building. I feel slightly claustrophobic with all these bodies pressed up against me, suffocating me with their body heat.

When I finally enter the air-conditioned building, I'm directed down the hall to one of the many cavernous rooms that will be used to test all of the people here. There are adult volunteers in there, assigning people seats.

"You go that seat in the front there, you, behind him, you, in that empty seat over there--no, I will not seat you next to your friend, go sit where you're told! And you," a frazzled looking woman says to me as I reach the front of the line. "See that empty seat near the center? Go sit there, and NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO BE SWITCHING SEATS! SIT DOWN!" she suddenly bellows. I jump back, startled, and realize she is talking to a couple kids who are up and obviously trying to negotiate with other kids to switch their spots.

Clutching my pencil case tightly in my hand, I make my way to my spot. The wooden desk is clearly very old, with pieces of the edges missing and pencil marks all over it. I sit down in the rickety chair and wait. I'm starting to feel stressed again, and try to press down the sensation of wanting to vomit.

It takes nearly three quarters of an hour to get everyone seated and even longer to get everyone to be quiet. When all of the talking has finally stopped, an old, balding man steps to the front and begins to speak into a microphone, describing the test and how it works. I can barely hear him over the incessant pounding in my head. That doesn't matter. I've already memorized the information he's saying, seeing as my teachers have been reciting it and reiterating it and explaining it all year.

"This test consists of thirteen sections which are each scored separately..."

Yes, I know. I've had my eye on the art section for years.

"Overall performance does not factor in nearly as much as performance in each individual section. A mediocre score in all thirteen sections will result in a much lower overall score than a fail in eleven sections and stellar results in the other two..."

Art, reading, writing, and music. Those are the four I have the best chances in. But art is my top priority.

"Even a top score in only one section can set you on an extremely successful career path..."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see that the volunteers have started walking around with gigantic stacks of paper in their arms. The tests. I bite my lip, my hands shaking. My leg starts bouncing up and down uncontrollably. 

"Do not waste too much time on one question..."

Inability to focus. This is the thing that could quite possibly be the reason I fail this test, the thing that could impact my score much more than my knowledge of the material.

I barely notice when a huge packet of paper is slapped down in front of me. "Do not open your packet until we give you the instruction to do so," the man at the front of the room repeats over and over again.

I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself down. Being stressed is not going to help me. Get your shit together, I tell myself.

"You will have four hours to complete this test. You will receive a warning when you have two hours, one hour, half an hour, ten minutes, two minutes, and fifteen seconds left. Any questions about the content of this test will not be answered. If you need to go to the bathroom or would like a drink of water, raise your hand, and you will be escorted out by a volunteer. You will not be compensated for the time you lose. There is to be no talking. Any word that you speak can be counted as a testing violation, which will result in your score will being eliminated, giving you an automatic fail. Are there any questions about these instructions?"

Dead silence. Everyone here has been preparing for this test for ages. No way would anyone have questions.

"Then we will begin the test. Your time starts... now."

His words don't register in my head until I hear the sound of papers rustling as dozens of packets are frantically flipped open at the same time, and I suddenly realize that the clock has started ticking. A tiny squeak escapes me as I scramble to open my own packet. Then I slap my hands over my mouth, terrified that the sound was a testing violation. Calm down. Take deep breaths. You can do this.

I turn all the way to Section 12, art. And I have to stop myself from heaving a sigh of relief when I see the first question. It isn't even that hard--in fact, it could almost be considered easy. Feeling as if a ten ton weight has been lifted from my back, I bend over my paper and start writing. Maybe I'll do okay after all.

***

"You have ten minutes remaining."

At the sound of those words, I scribble faster, trying to finish an answer to one of the questions. My hand started cramping hours ago and my whole body feels stiff from sitting so long. My throat is parched too, but I haven't dared to ask for water for fear of losing too much time.

Finally finishing the answer, I drop my pencil and flip the page over. Nothing. I've reached the end of the section. I'm about to throw a mental celebration when I remember that I skipped a few questions in the middle that I had gotten stuck on.

I had finished the four sections I was determined to do well on within the first three hours, leaving me one more hour to spare. I decided to tackle math, because, to be honest, doing well in math practically guarantees a good career. But that section turned out to be harder than I expected, so I eventually just started skipping questions I was spending too long on, using that time on ones I actually knew the answer too. With the number of questions I skipped, though, I think the chances of me passing are closer to fifty-fifty than I would like. I frantically start flipping through the pages, wishing I had the foresight to bookmark the ones I skipped. I can't possibly have spent all that time on this section only to fail it.

The clock keeps ticking as I tear through the packet, making up answers for questions I really have no clue how to tackle. I can feel my frustration building as I have to do this for several things I know we discussed in school, but I am currently blanking on. I reach my tipping point when I read a question similar to one I remember reviewing in my notes just yesterday, and the answer is right on the tip of my tongue, but I just can't recall it.

"You have two minutes remaining."

I clutch at my hair, biting my lower lip to stop myself from screaming. It's the stress. The stress is getting to me and I'm blanking out. Dad told me this morning that I can't let this frustration and stress build up inside me, because it will make me mess up. He also told me to imagine setting my paper on fire if I got frustrated... considering that ripping my hair out or biting my lip until it bleeds won't do much in the way of helping me, I decide to try his technique, as ridiculous as it sounds.

I glare at that one stupid question as hard as I can, channeling my frustration. In my mind, I picture a flame appearing right where that question is, spreading across the whole packet, burning the whole thing to ashes. After my imaginary test has been destroyed, I'm surprised to find that I do, in fact, feel a little better.

And then I smell the smoke.

Real smoke.

A quick glance at my paper confirms my fear. It has literally gone up in flames.

I hear a piercing scream, as if from a distance, and then realize it's me. I'm screaming. Why wouldn't I be? My entire packet just caught on fire for no perceivable reason!

People's heads turn towards me, and when they see the problem, they start screaming too. I can't hear myself think over the din, and everybody around me is clambering away, trying to distance themselves from the growing flames. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one girl faint.

I'm frozen in my seat as the fire spreads from the paper to the wooden desk. All I can see is the dancing orange flames, eating away at my test. I've stopped shrieking, not because I'm not scared anymore, but because I am too frozen in my fear. Not just fear, but confusion too. How did this even happen?

After what seems like hours later but was probably less than two minutes (the test is over, isn't it?), an adult comes racing towards me with a big red fire extinguisher clutched in his arms. Being the only person within a five foot radius of the flames, I end up soaking wet as he shoots a jet of water at my packet. The screams fade as people realize that the situation is now under control. Soon, the room is utterly silent once more.

And then the questions start. Will we need to redo the entire test? Do we get a little bit of extra time to finish it right now? What if the fire extinguisher got our packet wet?

I don't bother to join in. My test is a lost cause. Obviously no one will be grading the charred, soggy mess.

The clamoring voices are so loud, I don't hear the woman calling me until she puts her lips right next to my ear. "Miss. Miss, you need to come with me. I've been instructed to escort you from the room."

At those words, I panic. I didn't set that thing on fire! How could I? I didn't even have matches with me! Why would I be getting in trouble? Was I in trouble? What would my punishment be?

I don't realize I'm hyperventilating until the woman shouts in my ear again. "Miss. You are not necessarily in trouble, you just need to answer a few questions. Please come with me. I assure you, nobody is assuming that this is your fault."

I allow her to pull me out of the room through the masses of shouting kids. The hallway outside is blissfully quiet, and I silently thank my lucky stars that the room is soundproof.

I follow the woman to an office I figure belongs to whoever is in charge of organizing the Examination. There are a couple chairs there, and she instructs me to sit there and wait. Before I can ask any questions, she briskly exits the room. Sighing, I slump down in one of the chairs. I guess there's nothing I can do now but be patient.

I keep replaying what happened in my mind. I was frustrated with the question, so I did what Dad was talking about earlier and imagined setting it on fire. But, somehow, my paper actually caught on fire. How the hell did that happen? I didn't have any materials with me that could start a fire. No one around me did either. Things don't just catch on fire for no reason, there has to be some cause of it. Unless...

I shake my head. It's ridiculous to think that I somehow set it on fire with my mind. That's magic, and magic isn't real. There's probably some crazy scientific explanation, I tell myself. There has to be. It's probably something I'd never be able to understand in a million years.

The door swings open, bringing me out of my thoughts. I look up and see a middle aged man stride in with a steaming mug of some hot drink in his hand. Sighing, he sits down in the chair behind his desk and sets the mug down in front of him. He adjusts his glasses with one hand, then looks at me. I squirm, feeling uncomfortable.

"I think you know what we're here to discuss, Miss...?" he says.

"Woodson," I squeak. "Elayne Woodson."

He nods. "Miss Elayne Woodson. You can call me Dr. Sanders. I'm just going to ask you a few questions and I want you to answer them honestly, okay?"

And so it begins. He grills me for details on what happened, and I answer his questions to the best of my ability. No, I did not have matches on me. No, I do not think anyone else did either. No, I have no idea how the fire could have started. Yes, I would like to retake the test, if that is possible.

Finally, some time later, the man stands up and offers his hand for me to shake. "Thank you for your time, Miss Woodson. I do hope you will receive the opportunity to retake the test. You seem like a very nice young lady. I will let you know when the matter has been decided. Until then, you might want to call your parents and head home."

My parents.

I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. How will Mom and Dad react to this news? They won't be home now, since they both have work. But I am dreading telling them what happened.

I plaster a fake smile on my face and exit the office as quickly as I can, feeling downright miserable. Other students are exiting their testing rooms too, and I blend right in with the crowd.

Dr. Sanders said he hopes I will be able to retake the test. As in, there is a fairly decent, possibly high, chance I won't. The very thought makes me want to throw up.

The memory of the flames appearing out of nowhere replays in my mind once more. I shove it away.

Despite how I keep insisting to both other people and myself that I have no idea how that fire started, deep down, I'm sure it was me. It's no coincidence that my paper caught on fire just when I was imagining that in my mind. Somehow, I must have been responsible.

But how?