School of Secrets (The Perkins School for Self Improvement #1)

Chapter 22

Nothing has come of my meeting with Yumi by Monday, and I'm hoping I'll have time to formulate a plan before she tells someone who shouldn't know.

With my concerns about what Yumi will say, my worries about Tara's struggles with her ability, and my anxieties about what Marco's got planned, it's not surprising that the astronomy exam has slipped to last place on my list of major priorities in life.

"Are you ready for this?" I ask Derek, taking my seat behind him in third hour.

"Hell no," Derek declines, "but I don't have a choice do I?"

"Unfortunately, no." I sigh, digging around in my backpack for a pencil that doesn't either need new lead or require sharpening. Finding one in relatively acceptable condition, I face the front again as Professor Atwater strolls among the desks.

He looks way too serious, but he's also much too pale.

Another vision, I wonder, or is he just sleep-deprived like most of the rest of us?

"This exam should take you an hour or less," he says, glancing around at us, "and you will have the remaining fifteen minutes of class to talk quietly amongst yourselves. If I see that we're having issues maintaining quiet conversations, I have the right to revoke that privilege."

He walks between the desks, handing out exams as he goes. Derek, Creighton and I are among the first to be served with a test, and I have to suppress a groan at the set of fifty multiple choice questions in front of me.

This won't end well.

I focus on surviving the exam as Atwater retakes his seat at his desk.

I never have been a good test taker. I have pretty average study skills, but once I sit down every answer that I ever knew seems to escape my memory. It doesn't help that the constant scratching of pencils against paper makes me feel as though I'm under even more pressure than I actually am.

I sigh, circling the answers I'm pretty sure of and moving on to the more difficult questions.

I'm rejoicing in the fact that, if I'm right on all of those seemingly easy questions, I'll at least earn a twenty out of fifty.

What is that, I wonder, like a forty percent?

I continue circling answers until the sound of someone walking across the floor catches my attention.

I look up, being sure to keep one eye on my exam in case it's Atwater on the hunt for cheaters.

Creighton is the one on the move, on a steady course for our teacher's desk.

I watch, mildly surprised, as she deposits her exam on the edge of Atwater's desk.

He nods at her, as though he has students finish in half the expected time every day.

Atwater doesn't speak at first, going through one of his desk drawers. Creighton turns her back on him, and I'm about to go back to my test-taking when the professor finally opens his mouth.

"Miss Hastings," he speaks quietly, but I'm still just close enough to make out his words, "I need to speak with you."

If one of my teachers singled me out, I'd be scrambling for answers. Creighton, on the other hand, looks relatively unperturbed when she turns back to face Atwater.

The teacher pulls a piece of notebook paper from his desk drawer, promptly handing it over. He starts speaking again, but this time I can't make out a word he says. I'm forced to return my attention to the exam, reading the next question with a sigh.