Exam nerves

“Turn over your papers now.”

My palms are sweaty as I reach for the bundle of pages in front of me. The butterflies in my stomach seemed to have turned into dragons, breathing fire. I stare at the text but it could be written in Egyptian for all the sense it makes. I squeeze my eyes tight shut hoping that when I open them all will become clear. A deep breath, then open.

For a moment I’m blinded by light, then as my eyes adjust I can see the exam paper but it’s moving away from me. I stretch out but the papers and the desk they’re on recede from my touch. Then I realise it’s not them that’s moving, it’s me. I’m drifting upwards. Below me are the rows of desks and students. No one seems to have noticed what’s happening to me. I call out but there is no response. I look for my desk but there are no empty places. Is that me down there? I’ve never seen the top of my head before. There’s no doubt it’s me though - mousey-brown hair tied back in a ponytail and lime green fingernails. Is this an out-of-body experience? How about that?

I bump gently into the ceiling like a loose helium balloon. The people below me look small and still, a regimented army doing battle with GCSE English. On the floor beneath them are the lines and patterns of different sports - green for netball, blue for badminton and tennis, yellow for indoor footy. At this level I can see through the high gymnasium windows out onto the sports field. There’s a game of hockey in motion, white-shirted players moving swiftly from one side of the pitch to the other, their sticks outstretched. Mr Potts, the P.E. teacher places his whistle in his mouth and points at a player. I can’t hear anything though. It’s silent in here apart from the whisper of pages being turned and the occasional muffled cough.

I push against the ceiling and begin to drift downwards. It’s a bit like swimming. I approximate a front crawl motion and find I can control the direction and speed of travel. I float over to where Mr Jennings is sat facing the pupils. He’s supposed to be invigilating but appears to be engrossed in a book. I lower myself to just above his head. I can see the shine of his bald spot and flakes of dandruff on his shoulders. What’s he reading? The cover says Pride and Prejudice but the contents don’t look like anything Jane Austen would write. It’s more like Shades of Grey. Mr Jennings! Who knew you were such a perv?

A thought occurs. If I can read the teacher’s book over his shoulder then maybe …? I do a sort of breaststroke and swim away from Mr Jennings towards the middle of the room. Here she is. Amanda, head bowed, pen moving at speed across the page. She’s such a goody-goody. First to put her hand up, first with an A*. She might just be my saviour. I peer down at her writing, words streaming out behind her pen. It’s like a blue ribbon, a swirl of letters and words, as meaningless as the hieroglyphics on my exam papers. Then I notice a similar swirl of ink on the palm of her other hand and on her wrist and disappearing under her sleeve. Amanda Phillips, you dirty cheat!

Mr Jennings is on the move. He walks down the central aisle towards me. I mean towards the actual me, sitting at my desk with my eyes closed. I watch from above. He leans over my desk and says in an exaggerated whisper, "Time to wake up, young lady. Clock’s ticking." I open my eyes and I’m there sat at my desk looking at Mr Jennings in the face, his stale cigarette breath filling my nostrils. He frowns, stabs his finger at the paper before me as if I’ve forgotten what we’re here for. Then he straightens and walks away.

I look down at the first question on the paper, and heave a sigh of relief as the letters and words resolve themselves into legibility. I read it carefully.

‘Describe how Jane Austen uses bird’s eye view narration to reveal unexpected insights into the characters in Pride and Prejudice.’

You’ve gotta be kidding me.