Stretched taut

A Psychology professor once told me (well, not me specifically, because that would have been weird) that he had an enhanced ability to smell fear, and that the smell?  Nauseated him.

And so?  When it came time to administer exams, he would hand out the test materials and then flee the room.  Our test-taking anxiety stench offended him.

We cheated a lot in that class.  Duh.

Also?  It turned out that he was sleeping with his teaching assistant, so looking back?  I am not at all sure whether he was fleeing our scent or seeking out some other lovely aroma.

There was a lot of cheating going on.

Plus?  He would always buy a huge bag of candy and toss it out on a middle table.  For us to snack on during the exam.

Who sings that song?  I Smell Sex and Candy. That’s right . . . Marcy Playground.

Awesome song.

Anyway. I got an excellent grade in that class, because . . . duh.

Before that?

There was high school.  More tests.  I am awesome at tests.

But high school?  I sucked at high school.  Especially after we moved to San Diego.

I was a junior and I was completely fucking lost.  The school was enormous.  More people than I had ever seen, but no one to see me.  I was accustomed to feeling small, but now?

I was invisible.

Only at school, though.  For every step of the almost two-mile walk from our house to school and then back again?  I was a glowing target.

So many people with nothing better to do than torture me.

I had no idea what to do with torturers who were not related to me.

I tried to make myself smaller, but somehow?  Smaller made me an easier target.

They seemed to be able to smell my fear.

Good times.

Plus also?  If you are ever in the habit of stopping by a small liquor store to buy a bit of candy on your walk through cat-calling hell?  It is unwise to buy a lollipop.

Just saying.

OK, so about one month into the school year, I heard someone talking about a test you could take.  And if you passed this test?  You never had to go to high school again!

Are you fucking kidding me?  I signed up that same day.

And then?  I studied my ass off.

I couldn’t find a book written to help me prepare for this particular test, so I just prepared as though I was going to take the SAT test and hoped for the best. If I was ready to take the test to get into college? Surely I would also be ready to take the test to leave high school, right? It had to be pretty much the same thing.

For the next several weeks, I was insane.  I wrote out essays late into the night.  I took endless practice exams.  I pored through the enormous paperback test-prep book and obsessed about the things I didn’t understand.

Trigonometry?  What the fuck?

And then came the day of the test.  A Saturday.

I got up early and walked to school, my stomach stressed and knotted.  Turned out on Saturdays?  It was a reasonably pleasant walk.  Assholes sleep in on Saturdays, apparently.  I walked quickly because I didn’t want to be late, my admission ticket tucked carefully into my backpack.

It took me a while to find the test-taking room.  I had expected there to be crowds of people, but there were no crowds.  I followed small hand-lettered signs through the empty campus to a smallish room with a single round table in the center.

There were only three of us taking the test that day.

There was me.  And there were two other girls, both of them more pregnant than seemed humanly possible.  Just . . . stretched . . . taut.

And both of them?  Were sucking lollipops.

Not even kidding.  One of them offered me one, but I declined.

The other one asked me how far along I was.

I explained that I was not pregnant, that I was thinking I might be able to go to college early if I took this test.

Blank stares.

And then there was the test.  I opened the booklet and stared at the first question.

That question has stayed with me all these years.

1) You are preparing a batch of cookies to bring to a friend’s house.  You are concerned that the recipe will not make enough cookies.  You decide to double the recipe.  If the original recipe calls for ½ cup of milk, how much milk will you need to use?

a. ¾ cup
b. 1 cup
c. 2 cups
d. ½ cup

I finished reading the question and looked up.  Was this a joke?

The two other girls’ faces were screwed up in concentration.  The room was quiet except for the sound of their lollipops.  In an otherwise silent room?  Lollipop sucking is a noisy activity.

The smell of the candy filled the room and mingled with the scent of pregnancy and fear.

The fear dissipated.

Leaving me with just an awareness of sex and candy.

And triumph.

They gave me a little card.  A card that excused me from ever attending high school again.  So fucking awesome.

Me and the slutty girls, free to roam the city!

Not much that could go wrong with that genius plan.

Snort.

And yes, you’re right!

That does mean that I never officially graduated from high school.

Instead?

I am all proficient.