April 25 – Thursday / St. Ivy High – Class 1-A
Pre-Bell Static
The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above the heads of Class 1-A, nearly drowned by the rustle of papers, the soft click of pens, and the heavy shuffle of pre-exam dread.
Emma Sinclair sat in her usual seat—second row from the front, right side of the room. Her notebook was open; margin scribbled with arrows and revision notes. Her hair was tied neatly, uniform crisp, posture perfect. But her fingers kept twitching—subtle, rhythmic taps against the edge of her desk.
History.
Of all subjects, this was the one she wanted.
Not to pass. She always passed.
To win.
To outscore Jay Markov.
To be the best at something—finally.
She glanced back once, over her shoulder. Jay was at his usual spot, last row, far left by the window. He sat like the world couldn't touch him—elbows on the desk, gaze tilted slightly outside, lips pressed together in a line of quiet confidence. He wasn't reviewing notes. He never reviewed notes. He just... existed in stillness.
Emma turned quickly back to her desk and gripped her pen tighter.
Steady Hand
Amaya Nicole sat behind Emma. Her exam papers were stacked perfectly, her pen already uncapped, and her eyes focused on the single slip of paper tucked in her bag: a faded newspaper clipping her father had once given her about her grandfather's role in post-war food rationing.
History, to her, wasn't just facts.
It was memory.
Legacy.
People.
Her hands didn't tremble. But her chest felt heavy—not from nerves, but from wanting to honor what those stories meant. Not just to the world, but to her family.
Tyler leaned across the aisle, whispering, "If this test has a question about ancient cereal brands, I'm set."
She giggled once, and it loosened something in her throat.
Jay caught the sound.
And smiled faintly.
The Test Begins
Mr. Brooks strolled into class like a man holding everyone's GPA hostage. His blazer was pressed today. Slightly.
"Today's final," he said, dropping the stack on the desk, "will test your knowledge of everything from the fall of empires to the rise of modern propaganda. In other words: all the things your favourite influencers will ignore in five years."
Half the class groaned.
"Two Hours. No talking. No whispering. And if you so much as try to answer in meme format, I will personally drag you back to the 1700s."
A pause. Then the sound of papers being passed.
Jay didn't flinch as his arrived. He flipped it once, let his eyes glide across the first page, and picked up his pen.
Emma inhaled.
Amaya closed her eyes for one second, thought of her father, then looked up and began.
Emma – Fire in Her Veins
The first question was on the rise and fall of the League of Nations.
Easy. She'd studied this in both classes and mock debates.
But her eyes darted ahead. There was a timeline interpretation question on page three, a document source analysis on page four, and an essay prompt at the end:
"To what extent is history shaped by individual ambition versus collective circumstance?"
Her heart skipped.
She started scribbling.
Paragraph after paragraph, her thoughts racing ahead of her hand.
Jay still hadn't turned his page.
She resisted the urge to look again.
This wasn't about him.
This was about her.
And yet… her strokes got sharper the more she imagined him ahead.
She could feel the ache in her wrist by the midpoint of the long essay—but she refused to slow.
If he finished early again, if he turned in a perfect paper and walked out with that calm smirk—
She'd scream.
Quietly.
With dignity.
Amaya – Echoes and Ink
Amaya reached the same essay prompt around the same time.
Her hand didn't speed up.
It steadied.
She thought of her grandfather's story—how he stood in ration lines during shortages, how her mother once donated her own schoolbooks to help a neighbour's daughter learn. These weren't events in textbooks.
They were echoes in her bones.
She wrote:
"History isn't just written by victors. It's carried by the quiet choices of people who never ask to be remembered."
Line after line, she let her thoughts spill—not with fire, but with weight. Her pen curved like her voice would have: soft, patient, thoughtful.
Jay reached the essay section with twenty minutes to spare.
He didn't race.
He didn't dawdle.
He simply wrote—clean, surgical thoughts that cut to the core of the question. Names, dates, quotes—all filed in the back of his mind like a perfect library. He referenced Churchill's contradictions. Beson's quiet rebellion. Clara's political manipulations.
He almost smiled at that one.
He finished the last sentence of his essay, set the pen down, and rested his fingers against the side of the paper.
Then he waited.
He could've turned it in early. But that would only draw attention.
So he waited.
And watched.
Emma—still furiously writing, biting the corner of her lip.
Amaya—calm, immersed, her eyes moving across the page like she was reading someone else's story.
He admired them both.
In very different ways.
Time's Up
Brooks' voice rang out. "Pens down. Paper forward."
The collective sigh that followed was almost spiritual.
Emma leaned back, stretching her wrist like she'd just run a marathon.
Amaya capped her pen, then gathered her papers with quiet precision.
Jay slid his forward with one hand and leaned back in his chair, gaze returning to the window.
As the stack was passed forward, he heard Sofia hiss, "If I fail this, I'm blaming colonialism."
Miles muttered, "If you fail this, it's because you quoted The Hunger Games."
Tyler, meanwhile, whispered to Jay, "I left a third of it blank on purpose. It's called artistic expression."
Jay chuckled under his breath.
Outside the classroom, the hallway buzzed.
Emma walked ahead, her books clutched to her chest. She didn't speak to anyone. Not yet.
Jay caught up beside her.
She didn't look up.
"You write a novel back there?" he asked casually.
"Wouldn't you like to know," she shot back, a little too sharp.
He didn't push. "You did good."
That stopped her.
She looked at him—really looked at him—and asked, "How would you know?"
He met her gaze. "Because I watched."
She flushed. "Creepy."
Jay grinned. "Accurate."
Emma shook her head and walked off—but her steps were lighter.
Amaya sat alone on the back garden bench, half-watching the trees sway.
Jay passed by and paused. "Everything okay?"
She nodded. "I think I actually… liked that exam."
Jay raised a brow. "That's a first."
"It reminded me why I care about people," she said. "And why I want to do something with that someday."
Jay smiled. "Then I'd say you aced it. No matter the grade."
She met his eyes, grateful.