Pay Attention by Mariam Fuzail
Drawing
Test Prep by April Wu
Fiction
~oÕo~
Just Starting
(Student: A. Wu, 14 hours logged)
~oÕo~
I remember her being one of the older kids, one of the senior high schoolers that went in for college essay help. I liked her, the way every younger kid sees the cool sneakers and slim laptop and smart-looking textbooks and thinks: I want to be like that.
I liked the way her backpack had five zippers and two places for pencils and oh, how great it must feel to be that prepared. I liked how she had a planner and a journal and colorful pens and everything, how organized it all seemed, how productive.
She asks me something one day, while I’m doing my vocabulary problems. She’s looking at my paper, at the article I’m reading. It’s something dry and boring, some informative piece on bicycles and city transportation.
“How old are you?” She sounds concerned, tentative, like something’s wrong. Sounds the way people sound when they are waiting for an answer they don’t quite want to hear.
“I’m 12.”
I see something darken in her eyes. “You really shouldn’t be here.” She’s looking at the book, at the SAT Test Prep across the top and now I’m looking too, like there’s something there I should be seeing.
“You shouldn’t be doing this.” I’m watching her watch me, and she looks angry at first. “This isn’t something you should be worried about. You—you’re in, in what, 6th grade? You shouldn’t even be thinking about the SAT.”
I hear familiar words, hear old concerns and previous remarks, so I echo familiar sentiments. “It’s always better to be ahead.” I repeat, shrugging.
Her face falls. “There’s… there’s so much more you could be doing though. Don’t you have hobbies? Friends? Interests?” There’s a pause, and she gets this faraway look in her eyes. Like she’s seeing something in the distance.
When she speaks again, it’s soft, almost sad. “You… you don’t want this. Trust me. You’re working your summers away for a high school test that no one will remember ten years later. And you’ll have lost so much time doing it.”
There’s some kind of emotion in her voice I can’t recognize, some terribly sad expression on her face, and all of a sudden it doesn’t seem like she’s talking about me anymore.
It’s times like these, moments like these, that I’m reminded of the price we pay for living. The things we sacrifice to be alive, the parts of us that come with being human.
With the students, there’s still something left in their hearts, some belief that they’ll find something better. That they’ll leave one world for the next, and that the next will be better than what they have. I wonder sometimes, if they’ll ever find it.
They say, it’s a mistake, they say, you should be doing normal kid things, and they say, you’ll regret wasting your time.
There’s something unspoken about that last one, that unsaid I did it too, but I shouldn’t have. An undertone of, I made a mistake, and you’re about to make it too
~oÕo~
Test Scores
(Student: A. Wu, 45 hours logged)
~oÕo~
When you look at me, what do you see?
I don’t suppose I have an answer to my own question. I’m still unsure, in my place and my opinions and my identity. When I look, I see a collection of memories, of feelings and ideas. Ask who I am, and all I can do is point. Point and say, this seemed important. This seemed right. This seemed like me.
And when I look down, I see hands, hands that have never held anything larger than a textbook. I see shoes, worn and tattered and ready to take me home. I see arms that reach, that lift and embrace, and have never felt the pain of a weight too heavy to bear.
When you look at me, what do you see?
I ask in English, but she answers in numbers. I don’t understand, so she points. Numbers and numbers in ro s and columns. Her mouth is moving, but they all sound wrong. She sees: 38. 47. 34. 29.
My name is there. Top and center, bold and printed in crisp, clean letters. Writing. Reading. Math. Scores and percentages and grades. They stack on each other, climbing and clambering, trying to become bigger than what they are. Together, they form something.
When you look at me, is this what you see?
I speak again, and the words feel clunky in my mouth, feel odd and misshapen in the face of her numbers. I want to ask, did I succeed? I want to ask, did I do good? I want to ask, am I better now?
43. She answers. Up by 43.
And I’m thinking of these past two months. I’m thinking of minutes of hours of days of weeks, of sharpened pencils and sheets of papers and pages upon pages of work. 43.
Something hurts. There’s a pit deep inside of me and I’m falling. Something bubbles up inside. Wait. Wait wait wait. I’ve learned so much more than you see. But how can I explain? How can I explain the way that I have taught myself to think, the way I have taught myself to ask, to wonder and think and question. What did that all amount to?
43.
And I’m swallowing back what feels an awful lot like hurt. It burns on the way down, like something ugly, trying to claw its way back up. It feels like something that should see the light of day, but I am too afraid. So I stay silent.
She’s speaking again, in those numbers I’m supposed to understand. But how can I? I can’t. I’m not listening. I’m looking behind her, looking through her. Two eyes gaze back, reflected in the glass.
When I look at myself, what should I see?
~oÕo~
Test Taking Strategies
(Student: A. Wu, 68 hours logged)
~oÕo~
I never knew your name.
But I see you. And I think, you are everything I should and shouldn’t be. Dark sweaters and maroon sneakers, red lipstick and lined eyebrows. You are sharp laughter and harsh words, quick to think, quick to speak. Dry highlighters and inkless pens, 10% battery and half empty coffee cups.
You hold yourself like the moon, so cold and distant in the night sky. I wonder, how dull and insignificant we must seem, so complacent in our earthbound bodies. Starlit girl with the blinding brilliance, tell me how to shine like you do.
You are too bright, too fast. And one day, they asked you slow down. Of course, of course you wouldn’t give in so easily.
“I’m right, and I know it. This article is outdated, they disproved this assertion months ago.”
But our tutor is tired, tired, tired, he’s sighing and its only a comprehension question and he’s over it already and they don’t pay him nearly enough. “Look, you’re probably right, and yes, yes this is old but it doesn’t matter.”
“How does it not matter? This is false information.” You stand your ground, insistent and frustrated and oh, how quickly I would have crumbled had I been in your position.
“I know it seems counterintuitive, but you have to remember that the SAT doesn’t measure right or wrong. If they say that it’s this way, that's correct, and that’s what you have to put down.”
You don’t answer, but I can see it on your face; you understand. You know they are right, but you don’t bend so easily. Why would you? The moon has never changed its course for the sake of earthen creatures.
“Just… correct it and we can go on to the next passage.”
He turns away, finished, and expecting you to concede. He doesn’t see when something wild blazes in your eyes.
And then I remember. I remember that the moon shines not with soft radiance, not with a gentle glow. I remember that the moon reflects the fire of the sun and all the fury of all the burning stars in the sky. And I remember, each crater upon her scarred surface is a reminder that no meteor has ever succeeded in dimming her light.
But you are human, here and now. You are not allowed such displays of defiance. So you are quiet. So you do not change your truth to theirs. So you do not make even so much as an adjustment.
And you turn the page.
~oÕo~
Just Starting
(Student: A. Wu, 14 hours logged)
~oÕo~
I remember her being one of the older kids, one of the senior high schoolers that went in for college essay help. I liked her, the way every younger kid sees the cool sneakers and slim laptop and smart-looking textbooks and thinks: I want to be like that.
I liked the way her backpack had five zippers and two places for pencils and oh, how great it must feel to be that prepared. I liked how she had a planner and a journal and colorful pens and everything, how organized it all seemed, how productive.
She asks me something one day, while I’m doing my vocabulary problems. She’s looking at my paper, at the article I’m reading. It’s something dry and boring, some informative piece on bicycles and city transportation.
“How old are you?” She sounds concerned, tentative, like something’s wrong. Sounds the way people sound when they are waiting for an answer they don’t quite want to hear.
“I’m 12.”
I see something darken in her eyes. “You really shouldn’t be here.” She’s looking at the book, at the SAT Test Prep across the top and now I’m looking too, like there’s something there I should be seeing.
“You shouldn’t be doing this.” I’m watching her watch me, and she looks angry at first. “This isn’t something you should be worried about. You—you’re in, in what, 6th grade? You shouldn’t even be thinking about the SAT.”
I hear familiar words, hear old concerns and previous remarks, so I echo familiar sentiments. “It’s always better to be ahead.” I repeat, shrugging.
Her face falls. “There’s… there’s so much more you could be doing though. Don’t you have hobbies? Friends? Interests?” There’s a pause, and she gets this faraway look in her eyes. Like she’s seeing something in the distance.
When she speaks again, it’s soft, almost sad. “You… you don’t want this. Trust me. You’re working your summers away for a high school test that no one will remember ten years later. And you’ll have lost so much time doing it.”
There’s some kind of emotion in her voice I can’t recognize, some terribly sad expression on her face, and all of a sudden it doesn’t seem like she’s talking about me anymore.
It’s times like these, moments like these, that I’m reminded of the price we pay for living. The things we sacrifice to be alive, the parts of us that come with being human.
With the students, there’s still something left in their hearts, some belief that they’ll find something better. That they’ll leave one world for the next, and that the next will be better than what they have. I wonder sometimes, if they’ll ever find it.
They say, it’s a mistake, they say, you should be doing normal kid things, and they say, you’ll regret wasting your time.
There’s something unspoken about that last one, that unsaid I did it too, but I shouldn’t have. An undertone of, I made a mistake, and you’re about to make it too
~oÕo~
Test Scores
(Student: A. Wu, 45 hours logged)
~oÕo~
When you look at me, what do you see?
I don’t suppose I have an answer to my own question. I’m still unsure, in my place and my opinions and my identity. When I look, I see a collection of memories, of feelings and ideas. Ask who I am, and all I can do is point. Point and say, this seemed important. This seemed right. This seemed like me.
And when I look down, I see hands, hands that have never held anything larger than a textbook. I see shoes, worn and tattered and ready to take me home. I see arms that reach, that lift and embrace, and have never felt the pain of a weight too heavy to bear.
When you look at me, what do you see?
I ask in English, but she answers in numbers. I don’t understand, so she points. Numbers and numbers in ro s and columns. Her mouth is moving, but they all sound wrong. She sees: 38. 47. 34. 29.
My name is there. Top and center, bold and printed in crisp, clean letters. Writing. Reading. Math. Scores and percentages and grades. They stack on each other, climbing and clambering, trying to become bigger than what they are. Together, they form something.
When you look at me, is this what you see?
I speak again, and the words feel clunky in my mouth, feel odd and misshapen in the face of her numbers. I want to ask, did I succeed? I want to ask, did I do good? I want to ask, am I better now?
43. She answers. Up by 43.
And I’m thinking of these past two months. I’m thinking of minutes of hours of days of weeks, of sharpened pencils and sheets of papers and pages upon pages of work. 43.
Something hurts. There’s a pit deep inside of me and I’m falling. Something bubbles up inside. Wait. Wait wait wait. I’ve learned so much more than you see. But how can I explain? How can I explain the way that I have taught myself to think, the way I have taught myself to ask, to wonder and think and question. What did that all amount to?
43.
And I’m swallowing back what feels an awful lot like hurt. It burns on the way down, like something ugly, trying to claw its way back up. It feels like something that should see the light of day, but I am too afraid. So I stay silent.
She’s speaking again, in those numbers I’m supposed to understand. But how can I? I can’t. I’m not listening. I’m looking behind her, looking through her. Two eyes gaze back, reflected in the glass.
When I look at myself, what should I see?
~oÕo~
Test Taking Strategies
(Student: A. Wu, 68 hours logged)
~oÕo~
I never knew your name.
But I see you. And I think, you are everything I should and shouldn’t be. Dark sweaters and maroon sneakers, red lipstick and lined eyebrows. You are sharp laughter and harsh words, quick to think, quick to speak. Dry highlighters and inkless pens, 10% battery and half empty coffee cups.
You hold yourself like the moon, so cold and distant in the night sky. I wonder, how dull and insignificant we must seem, so complacent in our earthbound bodies. Starlit girl with the blinding brilliance, tell me how to shine like you do.
You are too bright, too fast. And one day, they asked you slow down. Of course, of course you wouldn’t give in so easily.
“I’m right, and I know it. This article is outdated, they disproved this assertion months ago.”
But our tutor is tired, tired, tired, he’s sighing and its only a comprehension question and he’s over it already and they don’t pay him nearly enough. “Look, you’re probably right, and yes, yes this is old but it doesn’t matter.”
“How does it not matter? This is false information.” You stand your ground, insistent and frustrated and oh, how quickly I would have crumbled had I been in your position.
“I know it seems counterintuitive, but you have to remember that the SAT doesn’t measure right or wrong. If they say that it’s this way, that's correct, and that’s what you have to put down.”
You don’t answer, but I can see it on your face; you understand. You know they are right, but you don’t bend so easily. Why would you? The moon has never changed its course for the sake of earthen creatures.
“Just… correct it and we can go on to the next passage.”
He turns away, finished, and expecting you to concede. He doesn’t see when something wild blazes in your eyes.
And then I remember. I remember that the moon shines not with soft radiance, not with a gentle glow. I remember that the moon reflects the fire of the sun and all the fury of all the burning stars in the sky. And I remember, each crater upon her scarred surface is a reminder that no meteor has ever succeeded in dimming her light.
But you are human, here and now. You are not allowed such displays of defiance. So you are quiet. So you do not change your truth to theirs. So you do not make even so much as an adjustment.
And you turn the page.
~oÕo~